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Eric Dec 2013
Disney
Like America
Looks awesome in the brochure
But feels faded and slightly forced
A bit of a letdown after the buildup

Still
Wild eyed zealots
Sacrifice their year’s savings at the altar of the mouse
A western Hajj eulogized by matching Toy Story t shirts

I really feel
I missed an important moment of cultural indoctrination
That left me insensitive
To the draw of this place.

A surprise comes though,
As instead of the expected moral superiority
I feel a sense
Of loneliness
And societal exclusion
As I watch
An old man with a silhouette of Mickey Mouse tattooed on his forearm  
Happily
Buy a Bud Light for $5.95
i given nothing
i abandoned
i adopted
i dropout
i garage
i Apple
i NeXT
i Pixar
i Apple

i pilfered i
i invented i
i produced i
i market i
i retail i
i am i
i am
i

i tech beauty
i consumer fetish
i whom you love
i sleekest widgets
i Toy Story
i Macintosh
i macbook
i Lisa
iTunes
iPod
iPhone
iPad
i more

i rebel
i genius
i visionary
i entrepreneur
i world changer
i exceptionalism
i capital market hero
i bigger then business
i cool capitalism

i myth
i "the man"
i worker
i employer
i boss
i thief
i savior
i billionaire
i venerated
i vanity

i Buddhist
i prophet
i redeemed
i 1 in 300 million
i America
i sing the pathos
i am the creed
i define the ethos
i  Steve Jobs

i amassed riches
i accolade crowned
i ingratiate world

i virtue
i success
i creativity
i favored
i Midas
i bedeviled
i tested
i afflicted
i retire

i human
i mortal
i succumb

i eulogized
i leave legacy of i
i am an MBA case study
i employed workers
i peddled intrepid product cycles
i subject of amusing anecdotes
i am heroic corporate folklore
i grew pods full of music
i incite kids to thumb phones
i captivate consumer imagination
i built rock solid balance sheet
i erected toxic Chinese factories
i enriched investors
i am the cool corporate brand
i inspired a million unused i apps
i hipster capitalism
i imposed my will
i insisted
i am that i am

i cannot take it with me
i leave blue jeans
i leave NB sneakers
i leave black collarless shirt

i will be asked what
i did with the time
i was given?
i did the best i could
i played the hand dealt
i parlayed it into a royal flush
i filled it up with i

i ask why
i am no more?
i leave the world
i am no more

Godspeed Beloved
Steven Paul "Steve" Jobs
(February 24, 1955 – October 5, 2011)

jbm
Oakland
10/6/11
Cyril Blythe Oct 2012
Tonight my gums ache
Because of the sin of 2:41 am
And the cigarettes I stole from you
After we drank the red wine
Your father exclaimed was royal
And originally drank by Paraguay princes.

I returned home dizzy with fatigue
And empty of joy and sorrow
Apathetic because I am not engaged
So I thumb my phone book to find
Anyone who will talk or kiss
Me numb, tonight.

I can't sleep after because the box fan is purring
And the October air is not
Devoid of Magnolia scent and hope
So I lay in my bed with crumbs
Sticking to my stretch marked hips
Taunting me even beneath the barracks of my sheets.

I saw no sky-moon when you left
So I smoked another Camel Crush
On the back porch watching you leave
Once our lips sanded the sin permanent
Into our raw faces and pulsing fingers
Smacking "joyful joyful-be filled! Filled!"

I barricade pillows against the concrete headrest
That my inherited mattress sleeps on
So the cold has to try harder, tonight
Even though your lips felt dry
and your sighs left ghosts exhaling
In my mind and neck and *****.

This is how I justify sleep tonight:
An attempt to evade sins damnation
And my nature that, by Tuesday,
Will be able to paint over
The deep white lies you tongue
Painted across my prickled body.

Come, rest and restore my soul
To its belief that words are sharp
Though the imprints of your nails
And the burgundy couch fabric
Left on my body and on my soul
Are eulogized by the alarm clock set for 702am.
Rama Krsna Aug 2019
warped,
weird,
whirling,
wonder-filled,
a garland of words
eulogized by occidental cosmologists today
to deify the milky way

for five millennia,
in clandestine chambers of
the temple of the lord with a lotus navel,
oriental sages, finely tuned into
ultimate mantras of the cosmos,
initiated ‘twice born’ namboodris of kerala
into a mellifluous sanskrit verse....

a potent heart melting hymn
where our star-studded galaxy,
milky in complexion,
is seen as a spinning jagged-edged discus,
worn as an ornamental ring
around vishnu’s slender index finger,
from whose whirling lotus navel
originate the birth of inseparable twins:
warped space intertwined with flowing time

now this is a garland of exquisite beauty!


© 2019
vishnu: the all pervading one
namboodris: a sect of brahmins from kerala
L B Jan 2019
For Henrietta Swan Leavitt—

Henrietta
dark-eyed darling of the night sky--

A Swan
who sails
the heavens
deaf with lights
that pulse across your mind
In photographic plates
that number
many thousands
You see the differences in light
You swim the curves that grace the arch of heaven
between the cloud and pinwheel galaxies
You measure
their exquisite wakes of distance--
Become the glittering timepiece of the farthest stars--

Bestowed forever in your hands
the clock and keys of all existence
You know the bends of ages
You heard the voices of the light
of the angels
and of man

I hope you've found true happiness
gathered to your love
forgetful of the pond of space and time
and all that hopeless pain and counting
of perfection
and of loneliness
to which you were assigned

that in your hands unravel all....
The secrets of the universe
white and gray in motion...
brilliant beyond all measure
by which you were forgotten
and unvalued by design

Eulogized only--
as loving God
and as being kind
_

*copyright Liz Balise 2019,  Use only by permission.


Her colleague Solon I. Bailey wrote in her obituary that "she had the happy faculty of appreciating all that was worthy and lovable in others, and was possessed of a nature so full of sunshine that, to her, all of life became beautiful and full of meaning.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HenriettaSwanLeavitt
I used to teach research to the seventh grade. Rather than argue plagiarism or whether Beyonce was a worthy topic for " American Women's History," I created my own little library of articles on 35 acceptable people so I could control their work and learning of the process.  They were all mad copiers-- literally taught to be that way.  I told them they would not fail for grammar struggles or poor technique-- only for copying and lack of citations.  I told them I wanted to hear THEIR VOICES and what THEY HAD LEARNED, except for actual quotes.  I was all over cross-checking sources, summary, paraphrase, and direct quotes.  You would not believe how hard it is to unteach wrong teaching and wrong learning.  

My little library offered such women as Rachel Carson, Georgia O'Keefe, Mary Fields (Stagecoach Mary), Elizabeth Blackwell, and Henrietta Swan Leavitt.

Hope ya like it.  Took all day.  I post no poem before its time.  Time now for wine and wood fire.
jeffrey robin Nov 2013
He passed away

By the time they stopped eulogizing him

He was dead!

Eulogized to death!

••

As if the Sacred is not Real

••

(NOTHING IS SACRED!)

••



Sittin around mutilating ourselves

For we cannot mutilate the world

••

World war three
World war three

**** us all and set us free!

••

I was reading about the anxiety felt by a transgender in school

Choosing which bathroom to use

••

I did

(Really)

••

I wonder what BUKOWSKI

Would have thought

••

THERE'S A LOT OF SUFFERING OUT THERE

••

Maybe I should cut myself or something

That seems like it would do the trick

••

If not ww3

Maybe Fukushima will **** us all

••

I'd hate to actually have to bleed to death

••

Oh well

Heaven into hell and then the Super Bowl Game
brian odongo Oct 2016
What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?

What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?
K Balachandran Aug 2012
Deceit is in the air, beware!
the stench of dead birds,
mysteriously perished,
is it caused by the weather change?*

I witness feathers change color
beyond recognition on many birds,
both young and old,
i usually used to see on my walk
now they don't smile,
or even send a casual look as before.

Monsoon clouds, expected
aren't dark, or fat, as usual
obscene white, like cotton wool,
Had it been in other times,
i would have eulogized,
"So white and pure"

Drought is predicted,
we are living in hard times
should one remind that often?
would you hold my hand?
we need to stick together,
now, more than ever.

Luscious looking grapes, but wait,
I've seen them bath those in
thick soup of insecticides,
death lurks in salacious and sweet garbs,
eschew that grapes, they are sore,
be like foxes , that are clever.

The apples? rotten to the core,
forbidden, though entice
polished by poisonous wax,
don't eat those rotten eggs,
dame salmonella displaying her bare *******,
would be ready to ******, don't budge.
soon you will be down with illness.

Don't walk alone,
guardian angels have fallen in to bad days,
their wings are fragile,
vampires with fangs long enough
to draw blood, till the last drop
have come out in the open,
from the legends, where they slept.

The piranha, in the water closet,
has been starving for a week,
butterfly with psychedelic painted wings,
really is an evil thought,
out to attack on a masquerade,

Inside the cupboard there is a masked raider,
have you heard the hungry tiger,
growling  in your cluttered backyard?
a bear is prowling in the garden,
searching for hidden honeycombs,
did I see a python, licking a girl's naked breast?

Keep all the doors closed tight,
remain quiet inside*
               )O(
“Ding!” my phone screen lit up.
A few seconds later… “Ding!”
Instagram notifications of the newest posts from my peers pop up incessantly.

It has become ubiquitous to see other teenage girls posting “glamorous” pictures of themselves online,
Dolling up with makeup, accessories, and fancy clothes revealing their bodyline
“Wow you look so pretty”, such comments are seen under these posts frequently,
I can’t help but sometimes wonder: Is it worth seeking this validation that they receive?

Some peers wish to pursue popularity from their physical appearances,
I admire their confidence but to me, this is quite foreign
In a constellation of stars, each star tries its best to stand out among the crowd,
Similarly, most people want their physical attractiveness to be eulogized out loud

“Am I weird for not following such trends?” is something I occasionally ponder about,
I tell myself to take a step back and reflect- should I be doing this just for clout?
Why am I so different from the rest- being pococurante about such “popularity”?
Is not seeking validation and recognition from others about our worth an aberrancy?

Personally, I just hope that people will see the true, realest me;
I am confident in my own skin and appearance- I don’t need others’ validation and decree
I am learning to not compel myself to fit into and follow what is “trendy”,
But instead, work towards being me and who God wants me to be

21/11/2021
Here is a reminder to be comfortable in your own skin, to not feel inferior to others nor give in to peer pressure just because you may think differently or act differently from the people around you! You are UNIQUE in YOUR OWN WAY so don't let what other people say bring you down! Ultimately, your true friends and lover should love you for who the real, original you-- without you putting on any facade! It's okay to be DiFfErEnT from others it doesn't mean you are wrong :)

Signing off, @poems.expressions.words.truth
Ja Jul 2016
Why
While we struggle on this earth
Not a word of praise is said
But
We so lovingly are eulogized
After, we are dead
WIZDUMBs BY JA 166
Xienab Jul 2014
Ya Allah.
Ya Allah.
May you grant all the oppressed triumph.
May you bestow upon them the strength to change the world

Palestinian children are the bravest children the world has ever seen.
Palestinian mothers are the strongest women to ever walk this earth.
Palestinian fathers are the most hard working men to start on their hands and knees.

3 Israeli teens were murdered and it suddenly makes headline news.
16 Palestinians, ages 8-21 were murdered within 2 weeks and their names were never eulogized.

When will Palestine be recognized as a ongoing genocide?
And if a tree falls in the forest and no ones around to hear it does it make a sound?

Yes.
and a blind eye is turned.
and earplugs are handed out on street corners.

#LongLivePalestine
-Z.H.
With a broken Hallelujah,
I sang you to sleep;
And at your wake,
Eulogized the many marathons
That you ran to find yourself,
Or scurried haphazardly,
After the self that you struggled to keep.

You know I waited for you,
Up on that mountain top?
While you searched tirelessly,
Almost desperately,
For that pin drop silence,
In the midst of all the cacophony.

By: Lulwama K. Mulalu
Here's to yet another sleepless night that has become one too many.
Trevor Blevins Oct 2016
I will spill every drop of my pagan blood in burning my world to ash.

There will not be mass calamity,
For I am unimportant, typical—

I'm planning to commit a ******.

What will they have to say about me,
Reduced to dust and only partially remembered?
///
I'm fixing to die,
Highest spire of Reims Cathedral.

I'll miss the girls who drink themselves into dehydration (if the dead miss at all),
Stuck like pin cushions with medical stickers and needles...

But don't miss me, it's a lonely endeavor
And one I cannot advise.
///
For the lonely soul who once spit venom at me in a dream,

Pick yourself up from the wreckage of the parking garage.

Keep laughing at the patriarchy's agents of the night,

And find fame, love, honest devotion, anything you could hope for.

All lost upon me.

Not worth the time to worry over.
///
There's nothing inside me worth saving, I've decided.

I am to throw myself at the Leviathan and into the pit,

Rolling in the abyss and into the bottom.

I'm not about to waste one moment's effort on repentance,

There's a great revelation that I'm troubled with: drugs only cloud your judgment.
///
My connection to God in Heaven, all narcotic illusion.

I mean to be eulogized by the poetess of beautiful sorrow,

That her melted caramel eyes would lead me to the grave.

Be my priestess one last time,

Then let me down to rot.
///
Who will care for Gothic Architecture when I stain the edifice and hit the pavement?

For no one cared that I struggled like Sisyphus with my demons,

But will love me when I hit the ground with tremendous velocity behind me...

Vibrant girl in colors vivid and bright,

Teach me how to stay afloat.
Amanda Stoddard Dec 2014
I try to speak through the silence
try to make a sonnet out of all the eulogized soliloquies
but all that I can seem to muster are endless apologies
and I keep asking myself what I could've done better
to make you want to stay longer
but I can't give myself an answer when I am choking
because the air in the room is being harnessed
by the elephant in the room
that's weighing on everyone's chest-
I want to say this is for the best
that those words you spoke to those you love
were just a cry for help and not an earth shattering insult-
I want to be sure
that the body you have made for yourself isn't empty
that you didn't spend your days trying to hollow yourself out
with full bottles that you made empty because they seemed like home
because you thought they resembled who you were
until they were all down the hatch and you realized
this is who you are now, empty empty empty.
******* why didn't I do something?
why didn't I wrap my hands around this insanity
and use all my strength and give it to you
because I would rather be empty
than have you laying helpless and alone
to where you feel like the wrists you possess
are your only logical way out of this ******* mess.
Please, don't leave me here.
Lord knows I have spent my days writing my own obituary
thinking about the things my mother would say about me
and maybe even my friends would write about me
when they were done hating me for leaving them
but I never thought the script would flip
and I would be sitting here writing this
and thank god this isn't your obituary
because we've all made mistakes
we live, and we learn from everything we do
and this has taught me what a precious gift life is.
How you can be hanging by a thread-
wishing in the dead of the night
you were dead like that night
and how it all comes full circle again.
My mother tried to **** herself once-
end her life like it was a shirt string you didn't care for anymore
but little did she know that string connect to a bigger picture
and when it was pulled everything else just fell apart..
You are a delicate piece of cloth
wash in cold water on the days you feel low
so you don't shrink yourself any lower.
There will be days when the spin cycles
you find yourself accustomed too
will become tornados and hurricanes-
but even at the coldest of times
you will find warmth again.
There will be warmth again.
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2014
As I entered the subway in the early morning spit and drizzle
My sleep rusted eyes saw bags, black plastic bags,
Bin bags, there were three, huddled at the far end,
Against the biting cold, the trinity of bags rustled,
Flipping, flapping, hugging, seeking warmth in the tunnel.

And yet…

When my shoes slipped across the wet subway floor
And I got nearer to the ******* heap at the far end,
My eyes suddenly froze and my steps slowed,
Those bin bags were acting as a windbreaker,
A windbreaker for a body upon the concrete floor.

A man without a home…

Wind, shrieking a heartless hymn of obscene guilt,
It punched through my carefully guarded sense of humanity,
A man slept there, discarded and forgotten, head near the gutter,
Shoes curled, body curled, a man searching for a mother’s warmth,
The light above harsh, dank, and as lifeless and as merciless as a tomb.

Do not forsake him…

This man, he was the son of the morning, dreaming in lands unknown,
Sleeping in lands known, attacked by politicians, kicked by society,
Demonized by the press and bitten by the rabid media machine,
Knifed by the blade of youth, and eulogized by the church and elders,
Yet, through it all, we all knew, and we silently walked on our way.
Vernon Waring Jul 2015
For forty years he wrote thousands of
obituaries at his hometown newspaper.
This selfless solitary childless widower
never dwelled on shortcomings, never
mentioned flaws. Instead his writing was
fueled by the milk of human kindness,
nourished by a wellspring of compassion.
His reputation was built on shamelessly
deifying shady politicians, duplicitous
bankers, the occasional CPA with an
affinity for loopholes. Everyone - man
or woman - no matter what personal
failings they had, was elevated to near
sainthood by the time all caskets were
lowered, all tears shed.

And then the lonely newsman faced his
own grim diagnosis, his days numbered,
death imminent as it was for all of his
subjects. When they found him alone,
disheveled and deceased, in his tiny,
cluttered walk-up apartment, they found
a little handwritten poem stuffed in his
pajama pocket:
             "I praised and eulogized
              My less than perfect neighbors.
              To my successor I simply say:
              'Kindly return the favor.'"
Poetoftheway Jul 2020
someday it will be willed (have I told you lately that I love you?)

that the poetry ceases,
no more birthdays notated
calendar closed, the ***’s axed,
kitchen junk drawer, a consignment store,
no longer needed, the futility of saving
knickknacks, maximized, the no lasting
value proposition, realized, eulogized.

pictures of beautiful automobiles,
decorated with beautiful women,
will forever be last year’s models,
one calendar too far, not long enough

no more of

have I told you lately that I love you?

wrote you plenty love poems so, hereafter,
you won’t be bereft, left farklempt,
arranged one-a-day, on a timed delay,
so many more that will appear in your
inbox until you too, no longer choose open it.

no more “sirprising” I love you statements,
taped to the milk carton, it was so willed,
the daily counting, record keeping, who first,
how many, secretly added to a grocery list,
in stuff that was so beloved, exasperating,
making you just right amount of crazy, smiling....
someday it will be willed, so,


here’s the first of many more....
CE Green Nov 2016
Current as of late
Eulogized confederacy
Expunge and exude, you're halfway there.
The halfway dream, the imagination stampede.

Chamomile stasis, dot the I's
Date the wine bottles
Fir Green: come like you are now.

Get in bed with the frienemy
The curtain show invokes hubris
Endothermic and cunning.
Knut Kalmund Jul 2020
tedious tardy sleeps are the latest commodity
my advisor‘s eulogized,
though I have dealt with it
for as long as ever.

since I do that exceedingly well.
just once I’d wish to sink into bed,
shut my eyes for a shielded moment,
and find myself revived afterwards.

perhaps my life is
too cluttered with uncertainties,
so my bedlam body unlearned to be happy.

instead, a high demand of despondency
is expected to be appeased by
the insomniac stakeholders of my remains.
Thanks for reading.
David W Jones Oct 2013
Breathless words
Eulogized upon a
Stone.

Flashes of light
Illuminating shadows
Undisturbed.

Emotions lost
Within the unrelenting
Downpour.

Her restless spirit,
Laying next to his
Broken body,

Feeling the cold
Sleep of a heartless
Dreamer.
Nigdaw Jul 2019
You make sense of words
that I cannot

you write phrases and synonyms
allegories and metaphors
that leave my heart empty
which makes you a poet
and I not

you are praised, applauded
eulogized, complemented
a voice of our times
though without rhyme
or reason in my eyes

you write to confuse me
to fool and bemuse me
but thats what makes you great
and I not.
George Washington and Abraham Lincoln
   mythologized commanders in chief
 epitomized supreme martial mien
   and vocalized special flair
talents summoned    

   from their native heart-land motif
 in Modus Operandi of bootstraps dare
acquired evanescent mythic reverence
   extant within bibliographic brief
   and closest role to God like air.

Said first and sixteenth president
   storied figurative bookends
   stood side by side
 honored on anniversary of their birth,

now renown across divers
   places far and wide
 over this one in a million (or billions)
   cosmic entities known as planet Earth

for courage and strength which forged
   that unique American sense and sensibility
   in tandem with prejudice pride
 forthwith esprit de corps touched,

   when above named
   epitomized, , eulogized,
   exemplified strapping youths
   vigorous lifestyle wrought washboard girth
   kindling psyches,

   and lit fires within homes and hearth.
These outsize personas held ephemeral dream
   where fledgling American state
   acquired sterling reputation

   wherein this country
   under aegis of Democracy
   became a winning team.
Among the legends and lore

 surrounding each of these great men 
 their stature grew more and more
 cult like benevolence these paternal figures
 United States can never ignore.
Onoma Jan 2017
At the peak of
presence imposed,
wet with rise and
fall...you eulogized
something that could
not escape us.
We grounded the sky,
we skied the ground...
the circumvented posts
of our eyes ran as blind milk.
James Floss Oct 2017
regressive country
past progressive

rights human
redefined denied

your civil right
to be uncivil

polemicized
ploiticized

you essay
your world

topsy-turvey—
orangey

eulogized
Mexico has greasy tacos & Charo, the prince of England has the royal Will (with a capitol W) that comes from being the son of the queen of England. Mexico needed a dose of English reality. The prince of England decided to visit Mexico in person as Mexican operative Spiro T. Lopez. The rain was hot & wet when “Spiro” burst into the president of Mexico's bedroom. “Who are you?!” The president demanded to know in Mexican. ~ “I'm the prince of England and I order your immediate surrender so that you can stand trial in England for war crimes against everybody!” Spiro answered. ~ “No way,” the president said as he committed suicide.
   The prince of England eulogized the president 3 days later: “Though as prince of England, the president & I had our disagreements, I know that he's looking down from heaven as an angel.” ~ The Mexican people voted the next day to give all their money to the queen & to the prince of England forever because it's what Jesus would do if He were alive today.
Stephen Turner Dec 2019
The Wrestler

Sleek and slender with
Aerodynamic curves.
The sweat and smells of defeat
And the rapid flutter of whistle
And the occasional strained
Pulled sprained dislocated
Disjointed daunted jaunted
Stunted jammed and jostled
Human thrown across
rubber and foam and plastic.

Hurt by death
Twisted and torn and stretched to pieces
Through giveaways and usurpations
And takeovers and dominion rights
Not knowing where ends the detriment.
Strung together by wires and
Ink pens and signature lines
Mapping out adolescence
In the rearview lies a trail
Of broken promises or promising
Nothingness, a quagmire.

Screens which once shielded
Her modesties now rebuilt as
Hog troughs and kennels roofs
And tables for orangutans to perch,
A crow’s nest from which to
Target passer-bys with hurled
Feces.  Her modesty stolen yet
her Self continuously intact.

Mother

Without her presence
Random mosaic of life
Events and changes and shadows
Lifting the veil lifting the spirit
With guilt and wanton desire for
More time as if it really existed.
Answering the Siren’s song was
Unexplored by those of us
On this end, but by ink and memory
And glossy faded Polaroids.

She is idolized
Eulogized – leaving behind a beacon –
No stone nor seal nor
Piece of parchment could have
Created a more stunning
Masterpiece.  Tis no great
Rembrandt or Michelangelo
But this simple sinful woman
Created something so sublime.
No artisan would dare, no
Craftsman would be enough skilled,
No artist so bold or audacious-
But this naïve heralded an angel.

Victoria

Named for a great waterfall
Or a long standing monarch,
Her heart bled truth and
Her song wailed in agony
But her mouth, genteel and melancholy
Yet the story it told was a whisper
of something greater.  Her tongue
could speak of the sweetness and the
lightning and the immediacy of life.
And I fell into her eyes and she
Echoes in my heart.

I’ve wiped away her tears
And I’ve cradled her inabilities.
She bled on my sincerities and
Collapsed at my feet.  Solemnity
Awaits her every move, but most
Deserving of joy- something that
Evaded her for so long.

A toddler tiptoes back and forth
Moving merely inch by inch as
Balance is learned and gravity
Defied over months and years.
Passion has no such wait, yet
Happiness, the quest for the grail
Toddles toward some never ending
Oasis upon the horizon.
It is with the passing of years
That joy becomes ever more present
Long since suffered, long awaited joy.
Three poems for the price of one
John F McCullagh May 2018
Saint Hilary's day, the coldest of our year,
when snow and ice enshrouded London town,
was the day the Prince of Poets died.

His home in Ireland had been pillaged and torched.
His wife and young son murdered that same day.
The Irish were hot for English blood;
some said the O'Neil accepted Spanish pay.

He was not young, yet not particularly old,
when death arrived to place him under arrest.
His hostess found him lying on the ground.
His body cold; no sign of pulse nor breath.

His friend, the Earl of Essex, had decreed
The Prince of Poets be mourned by all his kind.
Edmund Spencer beside Chaucer would lie down.
and be eulogized by poets of renown.


Ben Jonson came ; the young John Donne as well.
Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman and sweet Will,
followed his hearse, then bore him to his tomb.

There in the nave, the poets did him homage.
Reciting there their hastily written lines.
Each man than dropped his poem into the grave
Each poet's pen dropped in the grave besides.
Edmund Spenser, author of"The Faerie Queen" and other works, was found dead on 01/13/1599. He had been driven out of Ireland by the Irish Rebellion, his home torched and his family murdered three weeks before he himself died.; Legend has it he was honored by his fellow writers&;but when the grave was opened much later there was no trace of either poems or pens.
Asyura Dec 2019
Am I writing for my passion,
or for the numbers and figures?
Do I write for the hidden emotions,
or anticipating for eulogized comments and opinions?
I used to write out the things I feel, but why am I concerned about what people think?
Skyler M Dec 2017
I’m falling asleep at the wheel,
‘Cause been going through this ordeal,
As the sky above fades to something surreal,
The ticking clock will make me fall to a kneel.

Feigning purpose,
Eating at my carcass,
Tugging to the surface.

The precipice seems closer to my eyes,
Watch my convoy as it’ll capsize,
Crashing down below so I’d be eulogized,
And beginning the over synthesized minds.

Feigning purpose,
Eating at my carcass,
Tugging to the surface.

Pull away the peel,
Holding on to an arm of steel,
As it bends and breaks against our deal,
I’d have better luck grasping a pinwheel.

— The End —