"deathday" poems - Hello Poetry

in this happy-deathday, I serve you a bowl of soup, because it’s really you clay bowl, kidney-beans, vegetables, all thickened with dreary cream; there is an opened-eyes fish, but definitely can’t cry they all would float and spread out the smell of awry the soup has its hot steam, but it is not wandering to ceiling, it is coming to my neck, ******* my guilty, which I have none seeing this soup makes me twisting my hair; complicated I was a loner clown living in the wardrobe—then you gave me one unicycle you took me out from the pile of clothes away from cockroach which peeing my head gleefully til I was starving: yes, I am starving sardonically I glare the flame of your sincerity which flies away somewhere I lost my fingers in the soup while bacteria just sitting cross-legged on the left side the soup remains sour and I need something to add—to drag my tasty life again exactly in this happy-deathday, I reinvite you, my honey mixing a handful fine-ashes with this soup: because it’s really you so, how does it taste? dive deeper and fine how delicious your beyond no more illness, no more madness, no more confusion of my demeanor

0

Aug 6, 2016

Aug 6, 2016 at 1:03 AM UTC

hcluthfie

A Bowl of Ashes Soup

in this happy-deathday, I serve you a bowl of soup, because it’s really you clay bowl, kidney-beans, vegetables, all thickened with dreary cream; there is an opened-eyes fish, but definitely can’t cry they all would float and spread out the smell of awry the soup has its hot steam, but it is not wandering to ceiling, it is coming to my neck, ******* my guilty, which I have none seeing this soup makes me twisting my hair; complicated I was a loner clown living in the wardrobe—then you gave me one unicycle you took me out from the pile of clothes away from cockroach which peeing my head gleefully til I was starving: yes, I am starving sardonically I glare the flame of your sincerity which flies away somewhere I lost my fingers in the soup while bacteria just sitting cross-legged on the left side the soup remains sour and I need something to add—to drag my tasty life again exactly in this happy-deathday, I reinvite you, my honey mixing a handful fine-ashes with this soup: because it’s really you so, how does it taste? dive deeper and fine how delicious your beyond no more illness, no more madness, no more confusion of my demeanor

21

If I should die before I wake I'd like for you to bake a cake

0

Oct 21, 2012

Oct 21, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC

auroleus

Deathday Cake

If I should die before I wake I'd like for you to bake a cake

2

I miss you and I wish you were here so I could hug you I haven't forgotten your face or the way you laugh but I struggle to remember your voice I see you in the rain or when horses run so wild and free I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me to be your friend I was so scared back then I have to live without you but there are things I won't forget your middle name your favorite color what you wanted to name your kids or how much you struggled or your victory when you proved them wrong I'll never forget your birthday or your deathday I miss you my friend my sister I miss you

0

Nov 30, 2011

Nov 30, 2011 at 4:19 AM UTC

jayme-m-yaroch

Royal Blue

I miss you and I wish you were here so I could hug you I haven't forgotten your face or the way you laugh but I struggle to remember your voice I see you in the rain or when horses run so wild and free I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me to be your friend I was so scared back then I have to live without you but there are things I won't forget your middle name your favorite color what you wanted to name your kids or how much you struggled or your victory when you proved them wrong I'll never forget your birthday or your deathday I miss you my friend my sister I miss you

25

Curiously, I thought of Frank O’Hara the day after the day I did not get run over by a truck on Franklin Avenue. I guess it’s just that story—how he did get run over and did die. Out on Fire Island. How he wrote, *You just go on your nerve… You don’t turn around and shout, ‘Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.’* Or maybe it’s because Frank and my father were the same age, and today is the day my father died five years ago. Imagine if you could go through life celebrating the day you were born and the day you were going to die, that you knew. I’m sixty-three today. Happy Birthday! And I’m going to live X more years. Happy Deathday! (No, I’m not going to fill in the blank on that X. We don’t tempt those gods.) Poor Carol. I’m going to her funeral today. I can’t even say I let her down. She was my neighbor. I can say this, though. If someone’s chasing you down the block, you just run, Carol. Just run. That would be Frank’s advice anyway if he was still alive.

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Aug 3, 2010

Aug 3, 2010 at 5:10 PM UTC

jim-kleinhenz

Birthday Boy

Curiously, I thought of Frank O’Hara the day after the day I did not get run over by a truck on Franklin Avenue. I guess it’s just that story—how he did get run over and did die. Out on Fire Island. How he wrote, *You just go on your nerve… You don’t turn around and shout, ‘Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.’* Or maybe it’s because Frank and my father were the same age, and today is the day my father died five years ago. Imagine if you could go through life celebrating the day you were born and the day you were going to die, that you knew. I’m sixty-three today. Happy Birthday! And I’m going to live X more years. Happy Deathday! (No, I’m not going to fill in the blank on that X. We don’t tempt those gods.) Poor Carol. I’m going to her funeral today. I can’t even say I let her down. She was my neighbor. I can say this, though. If someone’s chasing you down the block, you just run, Carol. Just run. That would be Frank’s advice anyway if he was still alive.

27

Luminescent skin, spiralling layers pressed From inside the curling dagger pollen; Violin strings draw forth the butterflies Towards their fate, cerberus lips clasp Wings of dafodil— spotty mossy green Outcrosses the budded red drooping dead; Akashic run, like that of a waterfall Whence rippling pendulums row,caught infinitely. Glowing stem— seperating to laughing claws and mandalas paused along fully harmonious crease; All falls back to fungal soil underground For which all life is magnetically supported: Prestine exoskeleton, flaming bones that weavith skyward with ancestral ghost softly chasing, having foundated their creator. Blonde hair binding split petals via waves Of furious vibrations, snapped calm and quiet. Mature flesh and bone, whom let the pencil Move over pale canvas— 'I picture a clock that's arms spin fire Outward. ' Poor woman, legless two years Prior to her deathday— wonderous harbinger Who once, overwhelmed by the menial day to day, let pencil fall,skim and form and reform Beautifying the world -- lonely, bold and brave Her mind image caught, fished through the haze And etched for the rest of time to forget.

0

Nov 6, 2019

Nov 6, 2019 at 12:38 PM UTC

LilRimbaud99

Anna Zemánková

Luminescent skin, spiralling layers pressed From inside the curling dagger pollen; Violin strings draw forth the butterflies Towards their fate, cerberus lips clasp Wings of dafodil— spotty mossy green Outcrosses the budded red drooping dead; Akashic run, like that of a waterfall Whence rippling pendulums row,caught infinitely. Glowing stem— seperating to laughing claws and mandalas paused along fully harmonious crease; All falls back to fungal soil underground For which all life is magnetically supported: Prestine exoskeleton, flaming bones that weavith skyward with ancestral ghost softly chasing, having foundated their creator. Blonde hair binding split petals via waves Of furious vibrations, snapped calm and quiet. Mature flesh and bone, whom let the pencil Move over pale canvas— 'I picture a clock that's arms spin fire Outward. ' Poor woman, legless two years Prior to her deathday— wonderous harbinger Who once, overwhelmed by the menial day to day, let pencil fall,skim and form and reform Beautifying the world -- lonely, bold and brave Her mind image caught, fished through the haze And etched for the rest of time to forget.

29

Ready to pummel that head in the way Altering and destroying every decision that is made The ultimate backfire that won’t let up This brain is failing me and I’m more than fed up Loss of major motor skills Walking like the dead Lights are flickering, in and out from the faulty wirings in my head Hearing loud noises and smelling sweet scents But on grass of a lawn, body is forward bent Face first in a pile of dog **** Such a strong feeling of confusion and can’t get rid of it I get up and start to walk In my mind I am sitting and smoking Blind to the reality of my body choking Hoping for a simple escape These drugs never wear off when I’m in this state Free, these chains of steel Repelled any real emotion I can ever feel There out to get me I know it’s real In the world where you know my body is limp Grasping for air but brain once again fails it Merely seven more minutes of brain activity left, I am still trapped Memories of things that never happened Feelings of regret and relief are more than gapping I take a slice of that deathday cake Never ever knowing that I’m not even awake Fake

0

Feb 15, 2014

Feb 15, 2014 at 1:32 AM UTC

christopher-victor-coia

Fake

Ready to pummel that head in the way Altering and destroying every decision that is made The ultimate backfire that won’t let up This brain is failing me and I’m more than fed up Loss of major motor skills Walking like the dead Lights are flickering, in and out from the faulty wirings in my head Hearing loud noises and smelling sweet scents But on grass of a lawn, body is forward bent Face first in a pile of dog **** Such a strong feeling of confusion and can’t get rid of it I get up and start to walk In my mind I am sitting and smoking Blind to the reality of my body choking Hoping for a simple escape These drugs never wear off when I’m in this state Free, these chains of steel Repelled any real emotion I can ever feel There out to get me I know it’s real In the world where you know my body is limp Grasping for air but brain once again fails it Merely seven more minutes of brain activity left, I am still trapped Memories of things that never happened Feelings of regret and relief are more than gapping I take a slice of that deathday cake Never ever knowing that I’m not even awake Fake

27

there's nothing special about birthday.. It's just the day you first feel the pain when the doctor slapped you in the *** The day when you first feel the air, see the blurry light above, hear the noises of the world, the day you exist.. it's just a normal day. Nothing to celebrate about. I don't want to celebrate my step forward the staircase of age towards death and other bad scenario that will happen. I'm not happy about it. I just want to feel the day, enjoy everyday. Because birthday is the day when every people you know will greet you and pretend that they care and love you. The people who will be gone after your so called "special day". Every year we pass our birthday but the fact is we pass our deathday but we don't know.

0

Oct 11, 2017

Oct 11, 2017 at 11:16 PM UTC

vj-briones

Birthday

there's nothing special about birthday.. It's just the day you first feel the pain when the doctor slapped you in the *** The day when you first feel the air, see the blurry light above, hear the noises of the world, the day you exist.. it's just a normal day. Nothing to celebrate about. I don't want to celebrate my step forward the staircase of age towards death and other bad scenario that will happen. I'm not happy about it. I just want to feel the day, enjoy everyday. Because birthday is the day when every people you know will greet you and pretend that they care and love you. The people who will be gone after your so called "special day". Every year we pass our birthday but the fact is we pass our deathday but we don't know.

2

I wanna **** myself. its your birthday. maybe then i won't have to see you watch me **** myself on mine. i spread pictures of your past so you can watch. there are none of my own. they're kept in a vault called excommunicate. something that never was will disintegrate there. goodbye.

0

Oct 18, 2016

Oct 18, 2016 at 7:12 PM UTC

mike-1

deathday

I wanna **** myself. its your birthday. maybe then i won't have to see you watch me **** myself on mine. i spread pictures of your past so you can watch. there are none of my own. they're kept in a vault called excommunicate. something that never was will disintegrate there. goodbye.

14

i celebrate my deathday everyday, i don't know when it will become a blowing-out-the-candles day, and it's more exciting that way; no, not necessarily morbid, but necessarily: hello!?

0

Mar 22, 2016

Mar 22, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

opt outs

i celebrate my deathday everyday, i don't know when it will become a blowing-out-the-candles day, and it's more exciting that way; no, not necessarily morbid, but necessarily: hello!?

7