"cemetry" poems
I can hear the song of the trees
It floats from high above my head
Whispering through the rippling leaves
Being also heard by the birds perched
As they begin to dance from branch to branch
And then the birds also join in the song
Listen to the story of the ancient Oak
You shelter in the branches to hear it told
Of a long time ago when fields grew wild
Of the changing centuries that have passed on by
How the Oak has lived through long forgotten battles
It is a story shrouded in a history of hidden lore
Changing colours as the very leaves start to paint
How many artists have these trees always inspired
The Mountain Ash and the Cedar so royal
The tears unseen from the Weeping Willow
The solitude of the lonesome Pine
Gothic secrets in a cemetry of the Yew
I planted a tree to remember those gone by
Knowing as it grows, so their legend lives again
How they changed my life by their own
So now I hope that their song will be sung
Even when I am gone and long forgotten
And like that very tree, I know they will live on
copyright Chris Smith December 12th 2009
Dec 24, 2009
Dec 24, 2009 at 6:22 AM UTC
returning from a night outbusting for a peedescretion of a grave yarddark cold cemetry bloddwyn used her pantiesmegan used a wreathto wipe away the dripperssighing with relief early sunday morningworried husbands chatmy bloddwyn had no pants on,my megans worse than that she had a card stuck up her bumand a white carnationsaying....always be remembered....from the firemen down the station
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
i am terribly sorry for this horrifying sight you see, for the caretaker has recently joined the residents and the grass has almost no manners at all. i am also terribly sorry for this deafening silence you hear, for everyone is either lonely or sad and no one bothers to speak or sing. everything here has been reduced to dust, and just let this be at the back of your mind―everywhere you step there is someone underneath. repeat after me: This Is Not A Pun. i remember telling you about how no one ever noticed me or gave me attention but you silenced me with a withering glare and a no-one-cares-about-you lecture. it’s kind of funny each time i think about it, because i still stay by your side desperately inhaling all your methane filled words. if you’re looking for warmth and happiness then you’ve knocked the wrong door, because over here i have seen more regrets than in prisons; more tears than in hospitals; more bruises than in kindergartens. the stars in the night skies here hang limply on their hinges and there is nothing romantic in the way someone appears holding a bouquet of flowers. here is a girl with cherry blossom veins on her wrists, and there is a man with breath like the stinging October wind. everyone is a puzzle piece except that there is no picture to form, and we are all connected by intangible threads. in the most poetic way, everyone here is part of a poem, some rhyming, some free verse, except that there is no end to this poem―new additions. every month, a new spot. under the tree; next to the bench; these are the souls of people who scrape their knees in the empty forest but want to be helped up, an- OH, by the way, if you hear whispers and see movement from under the leaves, it’s not a hallucination. What? Didn’t I tell you?
Welcome to The Cemetery.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
Four ghosts came meeting
Gave each other a greeting
Always met at this cemetry
They were all related, you see
Great grandfather fought World War One
Until that day he was shot and then gone
He died at the age of being thirty two
Never got to the change of things to do
Grandfather was who died in World War Two
Shot dead, out of the blue
He died aged only twenty one
He never got to hold his new baby son
The Grandson fell as the years past
Killed in Desert Storm, explosive blast
His poor child was raised by his Dad
The rain fell on a day so sad
Afghanistan is where the son was shot dead
A ****** put a bullet in his head
So there are four graves next to each other
They hope there will not be another
So these four ghosts meet and salute now
The only way that they could, somehow
If you listen, you hear them sing out loud
Four War Heroes that fell doing their country proud
Aug 6, 2010
Aug 6, 2010 at 5:00 PM UTC
Oh crucified Messiah!
You walk along
The Messi street
Here in Kozhikode playgrounds,
Alone,
Head hung.
You used to write poetry
With your foot
In the green field.
Green pens of press rooms.
How swiftly did they
Turn to red underlines.
—————
I am writing to you
From this land
Where poets will
Always get red card in
Playgrounds of poetry.
You should get down at Kozhikode one day.
I shall introduce you to
MoyduVanimel,
A journalist as old as Kozhikode.
We should roam all around Kozhikode
With him.
We should listen to Vanimel tales,
Sipping hot tea,
At Malapparambu, Puthiyara and Kallayi,
Everywhere that remained under
The spell of your foot.
—————
There is a mosque cemetry
Full of Meezan stones
By the beach.
Tombs
Tattooed with
Foot poetry
By many souls
Who died
Many deaths
In the playground.
You can see,
From your flight itself,
Those Henna trees
That lean towards these tombs
And nod lazily in drizzle.
There,
I shall kneel down
And repeat
The Liturgy for the Losers,
For You.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 1:35 AM UTC
I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries
Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire
Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
a badgers life was happy now its life is dull
farmers got together and decided on a cull
now they are in danger no longer can they roam
they will all be shot and the cemetry there home
they have roamed for years in our countryside
now the cull is on going nationwide
it is really sad it has to be this way
why cant they stop the killing let the badgers stay
they are a part of nature and are meant to be
not something that you **** on a killing spree
we must save the badger anyway we can
what would the people say if badgers killed a man
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
dead people understand me
i should visit a cemetry
'cause i think my time has run out on earth
i refuse to tip-toe through life to arrive safely at death
'cause all it takes is one shot
one syringe to induce a blood clot
i can see the needle from here, its quite appealing
or i could get up on the table and free fall from the ceiling
the pain will be temporary, permanent will be the horror
i hope my mom doesnt walk in on a corpse, i should warn her
its funny how the floor becomes a second home during rigormortis
the heart gives up, fingers tingling, this sight is gorgeous
no future in sight, look in my dead eyes, they're glistening
this should have never happend, pain is now an addiction
dead people understand me
i should visit a cemetry
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Here comfort is a pleasure
But comfortably we cuddle and manoeuvre under this thorny blanket
Belching fumes of hunger
Recalling sad stories of the dead
Humming to the tune of the machine gun
Trading foul breaths
But the soul shimmers with hope
For one day we shall plant bullets and ARVs in the cemetry and harvest our lost brothers and sisters
There shall be enough hope to fill our stomachs and cuddle again with the greiving orphan
The warmth of our smile is our spear
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 9:04 PM UTC
Last night
You killed a part of me
And i let you
Just like all the times before
**If loving me were a crime,
You'd not have to worry
You'd be an innocent
Not a single blot on your conscience**
Last night
I looked for you at the bottom of my drinks, the empty side of my bed and in every strangers' face
Just to find you in her arms
**If loving me were a dream,
You'd be the insomniac
Dont even bother closing your eyes now
I already slipped off your eyelids**
Last night, in vain,
I tried to find my way to our place
But all the houses on the street looked the same
Like the gravestones in the cemetry with the engravings washed away
**If loving me came
like the waves of our memories hitting you in the face
Not one inch of you would be drenched
You would be untouched and oblivious
Like a diamond in the distant sky*
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
Spielberg had his scary jaws
Hitchcock filmed his crows
Lucas serialised Star Wars
As rocky balboa came to blows
Tarrentino pulped his fiction
Oscar Schindler built his ark
hammer house scared us shitlees
pet cemetry had left its mark
Di caprio sailed with his lover
Gone with the wind,was just a sham
Titanic would never ever recover
633 squadron aimed to break a dam.
Eastwood never been unforgiven
et never did return back home
The long short and tall of it
Private Ryan was never alone.
exorcist the omen, scary movies two
hills have eyes,spit on your grave
Elvis Presley's film Hawaii blue
Aliens predators,King Kong on a tower
Papillon catching Hoffmans butterfly
As the triffids begin to flower,
****** and the ****** shower scene
the beauty and the beast
Snow White and Hannibal lector
Joining us for the annual feast
Having breakfast with Tiffany
Dancing on the African queen
Spartacus oh Spartacus with
Tom hanks brilliant mile green
John Wayne died at the Alamo
The film an all round total flop
Eddie Murphy made millions
as Beverly Hills finest cop.
Little shop of horrors
blues brothers darken pair of shades
My personal view is
Toy story was the best film ever made
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
It was 10 in the morning.
My eyes couldn't tell the difference it made,
as I walked down the aisle with daisies in my hands.
She was beautiful this summer,
like every other summers she's witnessed.
My prying little hands,
like the fallen leaves caressing
the Earth's dirt along the pathway
couldn't stay off her delicate body
as she was clothed in a foil like garment.
A thousand kind of silence
crushed the earth like that which occurs
before a Zen monk writes his last haiku
leaving a cryptic message to his loved ones.
The wind carried the aura
of death or what was left of it;
one of the thousand kinds of silence,
a wake of pain, sadnees and defeat,
like Mr Muzat whenever he trims
the garden placed beside the cemetry.
As I stood under the Cypress tree,
I placed my ears on her grave, waiting.
Waiting to hear her scold me one last time,
about my undone shoe laces,
unkept hair and improperly knotted tie.
But all she muttered was one
of the thousand kinds of silence,
one fitting of her,
one fitting the tear drizzled grass.
It's 10 in the morning,
my eyes still can't tell the difference;
just the silence it makes.
Apr 6, 2022
Apr 6, 2022 at 3:04 PM UTC
You are like the rain of the morning sky
I wish to bath till the end of my life
You are like a beautiful novel
And all its pages fill with love
You are like the smile of a born baby
You are like a flying butterfly
You are like the first ray of the rising sun
You are like a tongue who never lie
You are like the fragnent of a heart, comic of a child
You are the lyrics I listen in the midnight
When I go to sleep at night
I hold the pillow as possible as tight
As when I struggle with my dreams
I could feel You by my side
As the whole night I embrace the pillow close to my heart
When I wake up in the morning
I kisses it first
If tomorrow I go to cemetry
And see You never again
Left a pillow over my chest
As I could feel You even after I dead
Dont let the wind flew hard
As I am sleeping with my sweet heart
Dont let the rain comes down
Before my body gets burn
You are like the first monsoon of the season
You are like jagjit singh's last ghazal
You are like the internate pack that first comes to my mind
You are one of those star I watch at evry night
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 11:32 PM UTC