"cremated" poems
When I die,
I don't want to be buried.
I don't want a casket.
I don't want a tombstone.
I don't really want much of a funeral.
I simply want whomever desires
To say something about me
To do so
(Whether it's good, bad, or funny).
I want to be burned
In a cardboard box,
And as I'm being cremated,
I want someone
To read a poem that I have written
For that very occasion.
When I'm all turned to ashes,
I want them to put me
In a cheap little container
And throw my ashes into the wind.
Maybe over a field, a forest, or the ocean--
Whatever, so long as it's windy there.
Mostly,
I don't want my loved ones to have a
Specific place to visit me
Because
I want to be the one
Who visits my loved ones
So I can give them kisses
When the wind
Brushes their cheeks.
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 11:21 AM UTC
Your caress is silky and creamy like butter
And my darling, I'm afraid that your lingering touch will give me diabetes
Your heart crumbles like flour when I press mine against it
And beads of sugar hang like dew upon your lashes
Maybe if I blended you up into cookie dough
And baked you at 350 for 15 minutes until you were golden brown
Then I wouldn't be afraid to stroke your resplendent face
Perhaps I wouldn't wince at the thought of pressing my ear against your chest
Just to hear your confectionary heart quiver
And there wouldn't be the slightest trepidation when I kissed your intoxicating tears
But I'm afraid that I'll leave you in for too long
And your saccharine core will harden and reek of soot
And with the slightest touch, you'll be reduced to ash
And your cremated remains will get frightened at the accusatory wail of the smoke detector
And they'll seek refuge in my oven's crevices
Never to be seen again
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
SCARED
SCARED of losing your place, SCARED of being pushed back.
SCARED of missing the bus, SCARED of getting the sack.
SCARED of your colleagues, SCARED of your boss.
SCARED of being late again, SCARED of losing your job.
SCARED of feeling the fool, SCARED of being a joke.
SCARED of being a loser, SCARED of what you just smoked.
SCARED of what was in it, SCARED of what you were given.
SCARED of what they gave you, SCARED of no longer living.
SCARED of not knowing;
SCARED of knowing too much.
SCARED of commitment;
SCARED of being able to trust.
SCARED of a horror movie, SCARED of spiders.
SCARED of not being beautiful, SCARED of what's inside us.
SCARED of being thought ugly, SCARED of being thought plain.
SCARED of being thought stupid, SCARED of trusting your brain.
SCARED of telling her, SCARED of her knowing.
SCARED of your feelings, SCARED of them showing.
SCARED of pain, SCARED of hurt.
SCARED of her, dishing the dirt.
SCARED of showing emotion, SCARED of crying.
SCARED of showing weakness, SCARED of dying.
SCARED of losing a pet, SCARED of losing a child.
SCARED of losing a loved one, SCARED of being too wild.
SCARED of the consequences, SCARED of what you might do.
SCARED of who you may harm, SCARED of them harming you.
SCARED of being a father, SCARED of being a mother.
SCARED of being cheated on, by your lover.
SCARED of being threatened, SCARED of being hit.
SCARED of pressing charges, SCARED no-one gives a ****
SCARED of their reaction, SCARED of what they may do.
SCARED of them? Or SCARED of you?
SCARED of forgetting, SCARED of a lie.
SCARED of the judge, not being on your side.
SCARED of accusations, SCARED of being called a liar.
SCARED of them not being punished;
SCARED of getting any higher.
SCARED of being too happy, SCARED of always being sad.
SCARED of being optimistic, SCARED of feeling so bad.
SCARED of depression, SCARED of sadness.
SCARED of joy, SCARED of happiness.
SCARED of being so happy, you feel you can fly.
SCARED of losing your wings, SCARED of falling from the sky.
SCARED of being another Icarus,
SCARED of being another Moses.
SCARED of lying in a coffin, covered with roses.
SCARED of lying in the ground, SCARED of being buried alive.
SCARED to be like the stories, too SCARED to try.
SCARED of not being strong, SCARED of not being right.
SCARED of being proven wrong, SCARED of losing the fight.
SCARED of getting it wrong, SCARED of failing the exam.
SCARED of not getting in the army, SCARED of failing uncle Sam.
SCARED of being stabbed, SCARED of being shot.
SCARED of them taking, all that you've got.
SCARED of being held prisoner, SCARED of torture.
SCARED of dying in a war, SCARED of losing your only daughter.
SCARED of losing a sibling, SCARED of losing a friend.
SCARED of your parents, SCARED of them meeting their end.
SCARED of living forever, SCARED to death.
SCARED of the end, SCARED of taking your last breath.
SCARED of being a memory, SCARED of being forgot.
SCARED of nobody caring, SCARED of losing all you've got.
SCARED of losing your memory, SCARED of getting old.
SCARED of alzheimer’s, SCARED of being put in a home.
SCARED of being buried, SCARED of no one knowing your name.
SCARED of your wife dying, SCARED you'll forget her name.
SCARED of nobody being there, when you finally die.
SCARED of being cremated, SCARED of being burnt alive.
SCARED of being dissected, SCARED of being cut up.
SCARED of necrophilia, SCARED of that wooden box.
SCARED of being a fable, SCARED of being a myth.
SCARED of just being a story, SCARED you didn't exist.
SCARED of being made up, SCARED of not really being here.
SCARED of what you've been told;
SCARED of what you didn't hear.
SCARED of facing God, SCARED of having no answers.
SCARED of going to Hell, SCARED of having no more chances.
(C)2005 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 9:52 AM UTC
She wears dresses of calendar papers
Makeup of cremated ashes
Stilettoes of assassins' accurate daggers
Diamonds, tears of angels
Heart a ticking time bomb
Each swell of emotion, increased heart rate
Acceleration of expiration
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
unsuccessful potatoes & you found a tree in the ocean
i spent the afternoon digging, digging
my fingernails into my own fear of commitment
the fear of my own reputation
now the cat's in heat & richard nixon (the dog)
is teasing her with his trump card
she takes it
& squeezes it
very gently
then rips it open madly & snarls
& it oozes and drips out of her mouth
we all pick up a thousand pieces of a minute
i cremated my sister this morning & new spirits
arrived at my doorstep before noon
they sang to me of instinct,
whinnying about the antique zenith
up in cheyenne
"gimmie some secrets" she said
so i carved them
into my arm
into a minotaur's chest
into a giant looking glass
into a wooden boat
& i set sail for the sundial,
"there is no truth"
my eyes are wax & the ocean
means nasty filth
but everything is useless now
frogs carry high powered harmonicas
& walk into the spells of Poe
& into the hexagrams of Hamlet
i do not want to carry a pitchfork across
some godforsaken desert
i do not want to feel my own evaporation
while the real artists brood in the meantime
i want to waste away on a slushy evening
i will live in my armpit
& hate you
& never wear deodorant
"your mind is small--it is limited--why must you understand?"
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
I am never enough
In your scowling eyes,
Your voice is coarse and rough,
No care for how the blood dries.
No care for my welfare,
Just how it affects you.
Remember when you said 'she left you because of the drugs'?
Well **** you too.
And **** when you told me
'I never said that'
Where is your sympathy
You gas lighting rat.
Go ahead and press my buttons
To see me light up,
And when I do,
You play victim.
The meds I take
Are to deal with you.
Your care is fake,
You pretend you don't have a clue.
When I try and tell you
How I feel,
The words don't get through,
Responsibility not so quick on your heel.
You make dinner
For everyone but me,
My patience is growing thinner,
Your hate is like a tree
Taking root under my family,
And now I am the wretch,
The cans in my room, so pretty,
You self absorbed *****
Not big on self regulation,
Or object permanence,
Day on day commotion
Starts again, what a performance.
The rage I have for you,
You taught me well,
I am black all the way through,
And water does not quell.
Alcoholic,
Just like you taught,
This life is chaotic
K cider 7.5% store bought.
Why does Dad have to die of cancer
And you continue to breath?
You death dodging dancer,
Every sip is a seethe.
You shouldn't be allowed around children,
You dangerous psychopath,
A hateful haven,
Blood soaked epitaph.
So here is wishing
You a swift death,
Or maybe go missing,
I don't want to hear another breath.
You won't get a funeral.
You are being cremated.
And I won't be there
To bring you back from the crematorium.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 4:20 PM UTC
Suited up as I try to maintain
In this ground cracking weather.
Heavy bags on my back
And artillery in my hands.
Goggles dusty
From the blistering sand
That slice my face like razors
With every gust of wind.
The scorching temperature
Is on hell and every breath
I take is so dry that my tongue's stiff.
One canteen, a few packs of food,
And a mission to complete.
My boots are laced,
With my feet feeling like people
Trapped in a burning building.
The further I go the more my body
Feels like it's being cremated.
I must reach my destination....
As helicopters pass through
Dropping explosives the size of a
Small child with the impact of
Several meteors hitting the earth.
Running like a track meet and
Maneuvering like a game of Dodgeball.
Gunfire, bodies, and thick smoke
As I bypass fallen aircrafts.
Approaching my target which
Will be my final destination.
BOOM! I found myself airborne to
Only hit the ground in unconsciousness.
BEEEEP! Is all I hear as I try to get
Up and regain consciousness.
Just a little over a hundred yards to
Go with a blurred vision
Feels like a lifetime.
As I'm reaching my target with
Bullets whistling pass my ears....
It's time. I set up my shot....
I hold my breath
Heart pounding with adrenaline
I'm studying
I'm focused
I'm ready....
POW! As my 50 caliber jerks
Back into my shoulder kicking
The dirt off the ground like a horse
At the Kentucky Derby.
MISSION COMPLETE!
As I'm going home with a bad case
Of paranoia and a Metal of honor...
I still have disastrous flashbacks
And ****** nightmares.
But....Nothing compares to that
STORM in the DESERT.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
I thought 4 gallons of petrol was just about right
To get my barbecue fully alight
On went the steak, the chops and some ribs
On went the corn and a couple of squid
Time to relax with a couple of beers
Glance round at my guests and wait for their cheers
But all I see is looks of dismay
As they blink and cough in the black smokey haze
The steaks are cremated the ribs are no more
The chops wont even be eaten by the old dog next door
As for the corn and the squid well they've gone up in smoke
Well its lucky I don't cook like that
I wrote this for a joke
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
I don't cry a lot, or at all for that matter.
I've fooled myself into thinking strength, isn't comforted by weakness.
Truth is, weakness is the builder of strength.
I find that so contradictory, because what breaks me, tears me up and what strengthens me, builds my character up.
No one decides, which is which.
We have feminists arguing on behalf of the woman, dictating and reasoning for emotional expressions, but society judges being make and falling.
Being a man, is a matter of endurance through hardships, breaking sweats, but never breaking a tear, because water works shouldn't work on male species, because feeling, isn't in our nature, says society.
So, we aimlessly tear through the jungle, hunting for what we don't know, looking for a next meal, never being content, because, contentment is not part of our nature, says society.
With private parts being made public, we move through the next with being hesitant, by the time she realizes, she's already been ******
Break hearts, play hearts and acting like we have hearts. That's society's perception of the male species.
Society never talks about, the clean up crew.
Society, never speaks about me.
Society never speaks about my ****** hands with cuts of your broken heart, and with missing body parts try to bring aid to your heart.
Society never speaks about trying to make you understand how I'm different, and with countless bouquets, it's never okay to let me in because you let him in, and from the ******* he left like you were nothing, and now that you have something, you won't let me in.
He penetrated your skin, and I'm not fascinated by it, I was see your soul unmasked to mine, so I explore your soul before your body, and these steps I take on hot coal, because he didn't care so much so that the cuts burn.
Your soul is almost like a morgue, I swear it's like your heart has been cremated, with an invite to your funeral, I hope you spread your ashes on my heart, so once again you can feel something whole, again.
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 12:50 PM UTC
August 4th, 1992
That night
My heart began beating
To the rhythm of
Two words
Samantha Shea
My baby girl
She was 9 pound 6 ounces
Of pure love and joy
Her mother’s eyes
My ears
But her smile
Was all her own
She seemed almost wise
Just staring blankly back
At me
Like she knew me
Better than I knew myself
I have never loved anyone
So much
I tried to give her all I could
Make her feel like a real princess
Make her feel safe
And loved
She grew up with things
Her mother and I
Only dreamed of as children
But she was never selfish
Never unkind
I never knew
How much she hated herself
Until I noticed that her arms
Made her look like war veteran
And her eyes
Like those of a ghost
A lost soul wandering around
Lost and Suffering
Could it be that hard
To be a teenage girl
Could it be that hard
To have everything
Handed to you
Everyone love you
That night I saw her as
Nothing but selfish and unkind
I mean how could she do this to us
To herself
I looked her in the eyes and asked
Why
With a single tear running down her face
Resembling a winter’s first snowflake
Or a desert’s first raindrop
She let out the words
“I wasn’t meant for this world”
No you were meant for me
You are my world
I wanted to wipe her tears
And heal her scars
Her years of fear and self-loathing
Was no match for my love
My compassion
My understanding
I spent the next two weeks
Helpless, lost, and confused
By the time we had found her
The bath water was as cold as my heart
The floor stained with drops of
Complete sadness
No note
I cried until I was
Red in my face and
Blue in my heart
A parent should never
Have to bury their child
So we had her cremated
We figured that
She spent 16 years
Stuck in her own box
She shouldn’t have to be
Buried in one
I’ve never loved anyone
So much
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
My mother, Sylvia Plath,
These days, I might laugh,
Electric oven, you know,
I was too young to know,
One way to go--
It was an electric stove!
I was too young to know,
I used to live in dread,
I learnt what blackmail meant,
She got cremated, you know,
I was too young to know,
These days, I might laugh,
My mother, Sylvia Plath.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
Tall tales of Death and misfortune
Appalachian nightmares of pearly rune
When the musics over and all is out of tune
Be sure to check out of the hotel
Before the clock strikes noon
Wear your plastic earrings and your shiny silk
Be careful when you open the fridge not to spill your milk
A heart shape tattoo in a burning building rises
No lover ever likes to see the other in ****** surprises
Touch the crystal fountain, but let not your hand waver
Horse tracks are aflame and no angel gives a favor
Green jade rests under clear rushing river savor
A father loses a son to a shot transformed to fever
After the vigils we cremated the afternoon in hand held pairs
The mourners pushed their thoughts out their minds and stared
Even the mountains and the trees and the wind made no sound - they did not dare
At peace a foreign thing for a family and friends who did so care
In time we are hurtling toward the end of life
Either to cease or to once again begin
All these theories of holy faith and sin
Falls to the wayside when a brother loses his kin
I give my thanks for the life that I feel around me
In my pores, my hair, my toes, my throat and eyes
Money, fame, power - these are material prizes
A friendship of love, respect, and trust is what binds me
We walk the trail
We read the signs
The road splits
There isn't much time
Do not fear to go alone
There will be others
Along this beaten road
Do not fear to venture forth
Into the foggy unknown
For all that will be sewn
Has been sewn before
You will always be you
Whoever that may be
Turn the coin,
The sapphire,
Mysteries laughter.
You will not be alone
Hear your own hearts tone
There will be many things
You'll wish to atone
Before you put down the phone
Head South, East,
North, West
You will know what is best
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 11:30 AM UTC
the astrologer within
has made a prediction....
this heart has about
a billion beats left
so dance Kali
dance
fully dressed
or naked
not in the amphitheaters of Rome
but over my corpse
in the ghats of Manikarnika
where my cremated ashes
will be dissolved
in that same river
you so heartlessly condemned me to
as you cut a rug in ecstasy
with bloodied eyes,
forget not that
this body of mine was your theater
my eyes, the showcase lights
my in and outgoing breath
the music of the orchestra,
my heartbeat
the tintinnabulation of your anklets
the candle of love
that i lit and housed
within me
kept your id and ego
in perfect balance
this candle is fast melting
but it’s my tears
which now run like a river
that will remain forever
this show is closer to its end....
the sound that you now hear
which fill the moribund skies
emanate from the cosmic drum
which beats louder and louder
©2019
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 11:20 AM UTC
It was the middle of December and you made sure to turn on your fan before you went to sleep.
It was the beginning of January and I suddenly understood why you kept your fan on as 'I love you' rolled out of your mouth like the smoke that loomed over Pompeii. You choking on your own words was a red flag. I guess the smoke was too thick for me to notice.
It was February and the lava began scorching my fingertips with each muffled 'I love you.’ Some people tried to run, I chose to melt to death.
It was March and I was hoping you were only cauterizing my wounds, protecting me from something more harmful. I was wrong. Nothing is more harmful than a natural disaster.
It was April and you had cremated me to ash. I realized your false ‘I love you’s were what caused the tectonic plates to shift.
It is May and I am still reminiscing on January.
In June I hope the fan in your room keeps you cool enough from the volcano that you are.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
Can the soul be cremated? Is she still with me?
A once alive body turned into smoldering remains in a matter of moments, residing now on a shelf for all to simultaneously acknowledge and ignore.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
"...from dust thou art..."
It was one peaceful evening we were having,
ruined by a message; distasteful and disturbing,
a misunderstanding? no, never had been..
.but it had always been the easy way out...
it was an overflow of misunderstood courage...
someone shouldn't have had the face,
but really had the chutzpah to reach out...
one that stood up to the last moment
to gird, to break, to wreck.....and won...
to be...to feel they belong,
this, could be allowed no longer...
this must...has got to stop...
here comes the CLOAK of non-acceptance,
it quickly spreads overhead,
but repugnance PERFORATES!
to be duped anew,
ah, brings back to life old hatred,
for those who think they know better,
but never again, to swim in bad blood...
feelings to be repeatedly exploited,
this, can no longer be allowed....
this...has got to stop...
ashes that were hidden,
ashes that were forbidden,
ashes i didn't feel like seeing
an urn of ashes i firmly refused to hold,
ashes i firmly refused to be anywhere near me.
and now, they suddenly ask,
where to take the forsaken urn?
they can just pollute the river
let the ashes flow with the current...
or, be indifferently blown by the wind
atop a mountain...
for God's sake, why not just buy a vault for the urn?
give the ashes the much-needed peace it longed for..
and let those who were once denied and deprived,
have their own share of much needed peace...
ashes may be carried away
by the sea or the wind---
but there's only one known place:
to the ground we all go,
cremated or otherwise...
so, why fuss on where the ashes should go?
"From dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return." *
Sally
Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Biblical quote, from Genesis 3:19'
"Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return."
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress
All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia
It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks
See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed
The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters
Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand
Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action
The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials
Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise
Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome
The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress
They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good ********
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 8:59 AM UTC
A general and statesman,
reformer and conquerer,
summoned to the senate,
and hastily issued a petition
of which to bring back a senators
banished brother.
The Dictator Waves him off,
and Cimber grasps his shoulder,
“Ista quidem vis est!”*1
Cascas dagger is drawn,
swiftly toward the neck it darts,
yet caesar nimbly catches such
attack,
“Casca you villain! What is this you do!?”
Casca fearing, cries “Adelphe, Boethei!”*2
Then like the wolves descending on
a lonely foe, they lunge and leap,
Brutus too…
Caesar at the sight of him,
averts his eyes and makes for the door,
unable to escape he falls upon the floor,
“Kai su, Teknon?”*3
The man who was harried,
crawled to the steps, and
saying nothing,
Caesar dies…
The Lower steps submerged in the
Emperors crimson blood,
the body cold, limp,
lifeless,
had at by the vultures,
armed with knives, and
stabbed times twenty-three.
The conspirators proud,
marched through the streets,
and announced to fear-struck
citizens,
“People of Rome! We are once again free!”
Yet, no one came out…
for now.
until, Three hours passed,
and only then,
was the fallen mans lifeless,
corpse drenched in blood,
collected and cremated.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
Bible
Cigarette
31 candles
Death Certificate
Eulogy
Memorial Service Program
Obituary
May 2012 letter from Erin
Two crocodiles
African Coffee
A Crucifix
Crucifix
Avett Brothers
Jade's love
Rob's love (a Lion's love)
Ashes
You and your favorites
So:
Go Ahead
Chuck tonight's stardust
Through the screen door
I don't mind my freckle's
Illuminati
Confirm:
Scar tissue's
a weaker skin
seal, yes?
Your ashes in my hand
Beneath a bag of
Japanese sand
Same fate:
Ocean
A USPS
Worker slapped
the "Cremated Remains"
Sticker on the box of
You
$25 and 8,000 miles
You in a box
I lay you on
Bob Marley's
Freedom Song
Item by item
I cry
A scar tissue
tear
and tears
I'll learn to dance with
A limp like
Anne Lamott does
I still crave much more
Of you than I need
But:
Who knew palm fronds
Are lined in metal too?
Memories that
Don't fade (illuminate)
Don't stale (crisp)
Don't mold (cleanse)
So
Attach a bag of dust
to a day dream's balloon
Send you off to my
fondest memories
To the sea
To the sea
To the sea
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
The smoke from our lungs
And incense that'd reduced to ashes
Drowned the room neck-high
With feathery, bleary tides.
My breathe stolen from
The pipe filled with cremated *****
Collapsed my lungs, forcing them
To shrivel up like raisins.
Perhaps if I were to swim up,
Emerge through the waves,
I'd inhale a gasp of air
Then bob gently on the surface.
I'd set sail on my back
And let the opaque waters
Cradle me, rock me tenderly
And whisper cajoleries in my ear.
But at this moment, I'm ******
And like a stone
On the ocean floor,
I'll stay submerged.
So instead, I'll just watch
The light fixture's radiance
Dance along the surface
Of these smokey seas.
As if the sun's rays
Could reach down
And bless this
Basement.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
William raked the leaves and dry pine needles in silence, a reverence that, to him, seemed simple and appropriate in the cemetery. Mother was close by arranging silk flowers to place on his grandparents' graves, a festive red splash of color in celebration of the Christmas season despite the unseasonal warmth and humidity in the air.
"Can you believe the weather," he calls out to his mother. "Grandma and Papa would have loved this."
"Yes, they would have," she replied. "I'm ready if you are. We still have some errands to run before it gets too much later."
William bent down and scooped the loose pile of nature's molt off the graves and placed it in an old plastic shopping bag. "I'll go throw this in the trash while you set up the flowers, that way we can get moving with the day."
Mother set to work on the bronze vase as William walked away to the trash can ten yards distant. He was grateful for her presence, not just for the help in maintaining the graves, but also because it reinforced to him that she was the best mom he could have ever asked for. The graves were not those of her parents, but belonged to his father's parents. William thought it was a great show of respect for her to help him. Father had passed a year before either of his parents. Not that it much mattered; William's father had seemingly forgotten both William and his own parents somewhere along the way. Father had given all his attention to his new wife for the last few years of his life.
"All done! Just let me pull these last few weeds before we go," Mother said. William nodded acknowledgement and absent-mindedly wandered the surrounding grave plots. Unknown faces of unfamiliar names blanketed the grounds nearby. He found himself suddenly wondering if he had even visited his father's grave. Feeling ashamed, he began searching in earnest for the site of his father's final resting place. He thought it was close at hand, perhaps in the vicinity of the small copse of trees a few dozen yards east of his grandparents.
After a ten minute search, William realized he could not find it on his own. Mom will know, I will ask her, he thought. "Hey Mom, I know this sounds weird, but I can't find Dad's grave...where is it?"
Mother cocked her head slightly, and after a brief pause says, "Will, your father was cremated, and your stepmother told us that she spread the ashes at sea, but we can't be sure that she really did."
"Oh. I forgot."
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
I know you play a lot, work a lot and proly can't tell it apart.
So after working games and playing work
you sat down wrote **** while smoking poetry.
Not aging with every hour that went by.
But by and by you grew high,
oh my 70years high as the **** withers old and is cremated white ash scattered in the sea of dust.
Wisdom is a ****
Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 6:43 AM UTC