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Twinkle Jan 2017
He was late.  He rushed forward.  All he could see was a crowd of people standing near a lady.  Her sister he guessed.  Dark sunglasses adorned a cherubic face.  Her red nose was a clear give away, that she had been weeping.  They had closed the grave. He was late. He didn't get a chance to see her one last time.

How could it be possible?  She had met him a few months ago!  She looked fine. He received a message from her sister.  She was dead. It was her funeral.  He could hardly believe it. How did life change in a mere few months?

Her sister was speaking to a group of young women, her friends, he gathered.  They were speaking with her sister. He overheard them say "But she never told us! She called us and said we should go camping and planned the whole trip at such a short notice.  We had so much fun! But she never told us."  

Her sister replied, "She was informed 4 months ago, somewhere at the end of Jan, that she had a few months to live.  She had developed a lung complication and it had taken a turn for the worse. The medication had stopped working. She didn't want any more doctor visits and stuff. She refused to get treated. She decided then she would have fun and live the last few months of her life, memorably.  Surprise friends, meet people she never made time for before. Make happy memories.  She lived her last days simply wanting to be happy.  She met most of the people on her wish list. Except a few who were away."  

Hearing that, his heart sank.  He was one of those she paid a surprise visit to. He remembered that day. He had been avoiding her. He recalled the surprise visit to his house. He was home that day. It caught him off guard.  He was in a spot and didn't expect that she should drop in unannounced. How upset he was! He recalled those words.  Angry words, he had lashed out at her. Then he didn't hear anything from her afterwards. Now it sank in him.  She met him at the end of Jan.  She didn't have time.  Why didn't she tell him that?  She hardly said anything at all.   He was angry with her, again, even now.  Why? Why? Why?  He approached her sister and introduced himself.  "Hi! I am John".  At that his sister interrupted him, "Oh! I have a note for you", With that she took out an envelope from her pocket and handed it over to him.

He was dazed. His sister turned her attention away.  He held the envelope in his hands, shock, disbelief, he couldn't explain what engulfed him at that moment.  He had always, avoided her.  She was irritating, a pain, he thought. She had issues.  Unresolved issues.  He remembered the time, she whispered to him, that she was in love with him.  But he ignored her.  Pretended that he never heard it. She wasn't his type. He opened the note.  It read.  

"Dear John, By the time you receive this note, I will not be physically present in this world. I am sorry for dropping in unannounced at your place, that day. I am really sorry. I realized you were upset, but believe me upsetting you was the last thing I had in mind.  

You see, I had been having issues with breathing for quite some time.  My sickness made me depressed.  A lung infection I caught on, turned into a complication. I was hoping to get better.  I never thought, that it would be the end of me.  But when the doc told me I had a few months to live.  I was shocked.  I asked myself.  What is the only thing you would regret leaving behind. And then I saw your face. You my dear friend, are the 1st person I will regret leaving behind. Not having spent time with you. And not spending time with people who have loved me irrespective of my so called "issues", these are the ones I will regret leaving behind.

So I decided to let the end of my life, albeit a few months, be the happiest days of my life.  And for once let me control what I choose to do with my days, rather than living a schedule of must do things and tasks and priorities.  You see, we have a choice, yet we choose to focus on the priorities that don't add any value or meaning to our lives.  Day and months pass by in meaningless pursuits.  We miss the opportunity to love and share our love with others.

You were in no doubt that I loved you, but I respected your decision. I don't resent it. I chose to give freely and to grow every day by being richer in the experience of just giving for the sake of it. I stopped worrying about how my actions will be interpreted by people around me.  Seriously, they have no clue about my journey and what it has taken me to keep myself alive.  

Having decided this for myself, I've spent the best days of my life in the last few months.  I am truly, happy and satisfied.  The only regret I have is that I didn't get to create a happy memory with you that day.  I also understand completely the reasons you gave me. But it doesn't matter now, does it?  I cannot create any more memories from my grave.  

Love ya always "

He closed the note. Yes, he realized no more memories, no more sorry.  You can't create memories from the grave.
Another attempt at a story.  Food for thought. Do we have time? Can we fool ourselves forever? How long can we put off things?  Think twice.
Waleed Khalidi Apr 2014
I know of a land
where none but I have been
Not a land between seas
but a land of within
The familiar becomes fear
A home becomes a stage
The room whispers empty
I yell back in rage
The walls have me captive
Outside is but lore
For the clouds upon the ceiling
send floods through my door
A plea sent through the waves
for mere grace to stay afloat
But the sound heard in the gap
are the thoughts inside my throat
Like running from a bee
when you become aim of its sting
The past will pierce you again
with the daggers that it brings
The moon sings the stars' ode
My soul beside me it lays
for no one else would
I bid goodnight from the grave
Cerebral Fallacy Jan 2014
It came upon the good doctor to clutch it in his palms
An object so sharp that blood oozes over its tip
Touching and clutching it he weeps tears of excess
Excess of the desire from where emerges life

Nothingness is the very excess that flows beyond being
Beyond the infinitesimal horizons of cosmic pleasure
The devil at play beyond the confines of the mind
Language the immanent trap that infinitely failed

Moving beyond the pale meditation of holy dignity
Gods emerge from the midst of haunting madness
The excess of the gods, divine excrement turn into dust
The sweet aura of the banished god- the scavenger

The very life of the gods contained with death and play
They danced across spaces, traversed beyond scope
Their bodies decay as stars while their excess reaches within
Within every marked desert of intoxication that grasps infinite depth

Weeping in the midst of the great gulf, the gods fade as the night
They emerge as beasts and flowers amidst the deep of the sea
The fall into madness, excess, passion and excrement
Perfume is but the odour of man turning into dust

Even the glory of the gods reflected divine excrement
Every entity an extension of another, the cosmic essence
That binds and destroys life as movement unfolds beyond reason
The essence beyond the shared catastrophe that binds life to itself

The good doctor watches the blood ooze from the body
Blood being the testimony of immanent frailty which traumatizes being
His tears dilute his blood as trauma sustains life
It falls into the ground and the divine fruit is born

The essence of goodness contained within the germ of madness
Madness that tantalizes the notion which shames reason
The realm of divinity where infinite wisdom dwells
It dwells in the midst of bliss- Ananda !

The God of Bliss awakens as the stench of being enters the heavens
The creator weeps as he watches the excess of heavens multiply
The object that the good doctor possesses drives him into oblivion
Never more is the world haunted by the gods !

Bliss even the bliss that is found in the mountaintop
Where the last god lay and washed his feet with perfume
And the milk of the divine yak nourished the heavenly nymphs
Charged with ****** excess, paradise lay in the midst of hell

The good doctor returns to the womb from whence he came
Beyond the confines of trauma, desire and being
Every creature watched as he lay the world bare and nacked
Never again will the gods return to plague the world

Then lie the bodies, cold, writing in pain and pleasure, leaning on love
Bodies that desire the gods of old to sustain trauma and jouissance
Where is the good doctor now? Whence will he return my love?
And there in her eyes, the beauty of the world lay

I looked at her and in an instant her eyes transformed reality
Oceans swept the depth of the horizons, stars became angels
Time turned into eternity and the darkness ebbed into nothingness
Trauma was rent apart and life was bound by divine love

I kissed her lips and as I wept I beheld the good doctor
He lay dying in the depth of the traumatic vengeance
His organs lay in the excrement of totality
His eyes gauged out, his ears rent apart and his mouth torn asunder

His limbs were scattered and his intestines emptied
The years of his life at an end and his body dismembered
Disseminated, the stench of the lifeless corpse filled the universe
I looked at her and it was the stench of love

I looked into the heart of darkness and I wept
The sound of my anguish filled the halls of time and space
The pillars of paradise was torn asunder and rent Hades apart
Eternal sorrow that sustains our love

And then as I beheld the futility of existence I kissed her lips again
I closed my eyes and I experienced the touch of the heavens in her mouth
And in the infirmary  his body lay among the dead
His organs burned as a sacrifice to atone for existence

Existence, trauma and excrement echo the cry of divine justice
And here the body lay without its organs and we were too sorrowful was beyond measure
We then buried his cold body under the stars in the heaven
We saw the scars from where his organs were rent asunder

A corpse contains the testimony of death as he gather everything to himself
But a corpse without organs? What does it contain?
Must it not contain death and trauma itself?
And here his hollow body lay, and death the parasite

A parasite's life lies in the life of the organs within the body
When the organs cease of give life, the enemy perishes
And death lay dying in the grave he decayed
The good doctor lay in the realm of darkness forever !

The blood and his tears have now produced fruit !
It was its fragrance that brought life to darkness
In the darkness of the night my lover went into the grave
Fearing not what lay in the midst of the darkness

Wind is the master of time, she flies beyond the medium that she animates
The wind carried in her ***** the fruit of blood and tears
And then she saw that the keeper of the dead leave the confines of his realm
The wind blew beyond measure into the land of the living

And then I kissed her in the graveyard one last time
For she was too sore to live but her eyes spoke one last time
And there I saw the good doctor was not dead ! He smote his foe in the deep !!
His fruit was now beyond the grave where they lay him !

The hollow of his body is now the testimony of love and eternity !
And there I awoke from my dream and my heart skipped a beat !
My desire was water was now beyond measure and I looked into the river
In the sky I saw that love is the very excess that engulfs desire !
Simoné Feb 2018
It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west—
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in their sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?
The old man may weep for his tomorrow,
Which is lost in Long Ago;
The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost:
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy;
“Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary;
Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary—
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.”

“True,” say the children, “it may happen
That we die before our time.
Little Alice died last year—her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her:
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud by the kirk-chime.
It is good when it happens,” say the children,
“That we die before our time.”

Alas, alas, the children! They are seeking
Death in life, as best to have;
They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, “Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!

“For oh,” say the children, “we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap;
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping,
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow.
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground;
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.

“For all day the wheels are droning, turning;
Their wind comes in our faces,—
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning,
And the walls turn in their places:
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling,—
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.
And all day, the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
‘O ye wheels,’ (breaking out in a mad moaning)
‘Stop! be silent for today!’ ”

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth!
Let them touch each other’s hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals:
Let them prove their living souls against the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children’s souls, which God is calling sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,
To look up to Him and pray;
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, “Who is God that He should hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word.
And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,
Hears our weeping any more?

“Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,
And at midnight’s hour of harm,
‘Our Father,’ looking upward in the chamber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except ‘Our Father,’
And we think that, in some pause of angels’ song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather,
And hold both within His right hand which is strong.
‘Our Father!’ If He heard us, He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely,
‘Come and rest with me, my child.’

“But, no!” say the children, weeping faster,
“He is speechless as a stone:
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to!” say the children,—”up in heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving—
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.”
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God’s possible is taught by His world’s loving,
And the children doubt of each.

And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory
Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without its wisdom;
They sink in man’s despair, without its calm,—
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,—
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,—
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly
The harvest of its memories cannot reap,—
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.
Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high places,
With eyes turned on Deity;—
“How long,” they say, “how long, O cruel nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,—
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And its purple shows your path!
But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath.”
Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.
AuEcologica Dec 2018
Shelter me from a playground of indecisions
Bury my fear and grant me that my hope brings me visions

I am never whom I was
I am never these illusions  

The child in me still searching for absolution.

I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit
I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit
I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit
More than fire and rain
More than sticks and stones
A home

A castle of glass misguiding emotions that are born
Never growing younger the age outdoing the clock

Decisions growling
Decisions howling

The child in me still looking for a flower.

I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit
I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit
I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit
More than fire and rain
More than sticks and stones
A home

A home
A home
A home
A home

Welcome home to childhood dreams
Welcome home to a destiny
Welcome home to a fragile heart
Welcome home

I don’t want my youth to be a grave that I visit.
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
The past is buried in an unmarked grave

infinity x people lie amongst the mathematicians

the bankers, the capitalists, the communists,

nuns and priests from long forgotten orders

writers, poets, madmen

believers in Dostoevsky



politicians and soldiers lying side by side

Guevara and Kennedys

reeking of decomposed causes


their headstones inhabit this planet

struggles, dreams, poverty, indifference


Only the living remain to frighten young children

in gardens of festering weeds


Amongst the survivors walks the big ******* war

whose parentage dresses in many flags

holding hands with the spectres of illusion

in this calamitous circus of humanity


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

and still it is hunted

it's rotten body and brittle bones

clutching it's precious treasure


the future carrying a ***** and death still the scythe

eager for the digging

anxious to turn the soil


the past is buried in an unmarked grave

leave it alone

let it rest in peace
1

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2

O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!

3

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.

4

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat!
Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)

5

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

7

(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8

O western orb, sailing the heaven!
Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d,
As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9

Sing on, there in the swamp!
O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;
I hear—I come presently—I understand you;
But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me;
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.

10

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds, blown from east and west,
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,
I perfume the grave of him I love.

11

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

12

Lo! body and soul! this land!
Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;
The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.

Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;
The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;
The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;
The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;
The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13

Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid, and free, and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!
You only I hear……yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)
Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.

14

Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,
In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;
And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there,
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

15

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me;
The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three;
And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

DEATH CAROL.

16

Come, lovely and soothing Death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;
And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach, strong Deliveress!
When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;
And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night, in silence, under many a star;
The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!
Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;
Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!

17

To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.

18

I saw askant the armies;
And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;
Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and ******;
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;
But I saw they were not as was thought;
They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not;
The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,
And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,
And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

19

Passing the visions, passing the night;
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;
Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,
(Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,)
Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring,
I cease from my song for thee;
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.

20

Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,
With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;
With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands…and this for his dear sake;
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.
If only, my problems would leave.

I feel so dead - so desperate for peace.

If only, I could spend the rest of my life asleep.

I feel more alive in my dreams.

I'm at a stage of constant instability, ever-swaying to the weather as the water does in the sea.

I'm swimming through moods and completely alternating perceptions like personalities, depending on who I'm with - I siphon from their energies.

Like the chameleon, shades adapting to an ever-altering song, I'm a radio blasting rap, pretending I knew, this was a jazz club, and quickly forgetting, this realization fades away as I go on as if I'm at a 'freestyle' venue,
handling this constant changing self - I'm replaced by a substitute.

It's a challenge to sing with an unsteady beat, a dance of the tongue that can't be unsung - a game of musical chairs but the seats are personalities, arranged in their own angles to see the room - each seat has a different view - identities that I pick up walking through a cemetery - each sits with a different way of acting that's been buried.

For each name engraved, I am living.

For each grave, I am a body.

For each - I speak demands
directly, without the need of middle man.

They multiply, and my thoughts become so disorganized ~

Each time my mind warps.

I realize,

I'm just a lost soul carrying around a corpse.

For each name engraved, I am living.

For each grave, I am a body.



By: Ashton Conor Amstutz
Tilok Adnan Aug 2014
The little green specks died
When we opened our eyes,
And you made a grave for them

You looked at me and asked,
"Why?"

That day we both cried
Knowing that fireflies could only last so long
Inspired from the movie, of course.
Randy Johnson Apr 2015
What happened to me was unjust and unfair.
I was framed for ****** and I got the chair.
But I was able to return from the grave.
I had my revenge and it was depraved.

I've never been a forgiving person, I always hold a grudge.
First I killed the District Attorney and then I killed the judge.
Then I killed the people who found me guilty.
I slaughtered all twelve members of the jury.

Next, I went after the guilty party.
He became sorry that he framed me.
And finally, I killed the two Police Officers who brought me in.
Those seventeen people won't condemn an innocent man again.
Life is my grave
Yet I don't rest in peace
Dirt  clogs up my windpipe
Bugs  crawl into my ears
The blackness  engulfs my vision
And I gasp for breathe
As the *******  stab me
Relentlessly in the back
With cruel whispers and rumors
Predatory  glints in their eyes
Finally choking me
*With their hypocrisy
//Sad to say this is life. Trust is like handing your heart to a person along with a knife//
R Daniel Aug 2014
I can't fall asleep.
I keep thinking about the way you weep.
Crying in front of her grave.
With your hair down, you look just like her.
Letting those tears fall that you tried to save.
2 years since we've met have been a blur.
I think we were meant to meet.
To help each other to beat.
The demons and the monsters that creep.
Inside the crooks of our mind.
Together, we vow to take that leap.
To help each other find.
The life in the sunshine.
The life that we want to call mine.
Stay with me until I bleed.
Promise me this deed.
I never want you to be in front of my grave.
Or writing about the love that you crave.
Because love will always be there for you.
Those who care will always remain true.
When the time comes that I die: laugh, drink, and move on.
Leave my grave, I know you are sad, but don't cry for me, be strong.
My best friend wrote a sad poem about her mom. I wrote this to make her feel better, but it made her cry.
Hurry gravedigger

The ground is frozen solid, sir

And this sack is heavy, you cur!

I need a *****, a drill would do!

Dig, you slug or I’ll send you through and through...

The snow was deep, the graveyard barren

not a wreath on a stone. The dead were alone.

You should have brought her in a box, sir.

I laughed like a lunatic.

The ***** deserves no better than a sack

her cocktail dress a mess, alas.

Suddenly, her head rolled out.

My God, I said, Her lips are red.

My big concern was her corpse would

sprout in Spring…

Perhaps sir, beg your pardon,

it may be sooner than you think.

I blinked and blinked…

her cheeks looked rosy pink.

What did you give her sir?

Slow acting poison in green liqueur

Hum…she seems to be moving.

What a wicked smile.

A twisted thorn branch hit my side.

A red drop of blood hit the snow.

I tossed the branch aside.

This woman was destroying

my writer’s pride with ***.

She climbed out of the sack.

I took off my coat and wrapped

her tight. Divorce would have taken

all my money away.

Well darling, she said, attempted

****** is now on the list to rid me

of your writer’s fits.

I began to feel ghastly faint. My

stomach turned I vomited in pain.

Grave digger, she cooed,Keep digging.

A shallow grave will do. After the news,

the prodigal writer son will be shut away

in the family Museum.

The bewildered grave digger nodded

then watched his master fall to the ground

seemingly dead.

I don’t understand, the gravedigger said,

he claimed he killed you with slow acting cyanide.

Yes, in my favorite green liquor.

His rabid fondness for liquor obscured the switch.

He drank my drink.

Is this ******, madame?

How so, dear boy? he simply killed himself after his novel

fizzled. I simply took him quickly outside, buried

him shallowly and only for a while so the smell

would not offend the party inside.

la belle dam sans Merci

What did you say, old man?

The angel of death and all her wiles

leads men to death with her beautiful smile.

I should report these goings on…

I think your thinking days are done.

She picked up the *** and shoved it hard

into the old mans mouth. Blood dripped from his ears

and eyes. Then carefully cut his vocal chords.

The old man fell to the ground. He tried to speak

but not a sound. She kicked him down the hill with

her spiked heeled pumps. Picked up the coat

and wandered through the headstone maze.

She stopped. A headstone caught her eye.

A silver wreath hung ore the name, diamonds like

icycles  dripped their bracelets from the branches.

She was in disbelief. She pushed aside the wreath

to see the name. She stood up shuddering.

It read: For my Belle, I made you up now I

take you down. One hit by a club of steel.

She didn’t feel the blow. A trickle of blood at

the corner of her lush red mouth. The grave

was ready with head stone too. I tossed her in

and locked the lid  then dropped it all into the

pit. Tomorrow the grave diggers would do the rest.

I was mild proud of creating a character so

clever, No more. I was free. Free of my own creation.

Free of having to prove myself as a writer.

They will find the stone and believe I died a drunkard's

death, a second rate writer with an empty

bank account. What a New Year joy. The money in

Tahiti and so will I…writers can change their name.

What’s in a name anyway?
KM COLBY 2009 @
Chris Saitta Jun 2019
The desert is not the grave of the sea.

The heaving reign of pharaohed seas,
Rule in bloodline of palm wine and embalming fluid of brine.
The tides are their mummified lips,
Whispering the coming forth of spells eternally to the sky.  
All goddesses, like shawled Isis, in lamentations of hair
And past-wept somnolence for Egypt,
Lie across the heart-bound murmur of waters
From their dead kings and the kingly divine, Amun-Ra,
Whose bird-starred eyes fill the canopic jar of the cosmos.

The sea is the grave of the desert.
“Palm wine” and spices were used to rinse out the abdomen of the remains.

The Egyptian Book of the Dead was a phrase coined in the 19th century.  A more literal translation is The Book of Coming Forth by Day or Spells for Going Forth by Day.

The heart was actually the only ***** left intact in the mummified dead. The other organs were kept in canopic jars though some were rebound and reinserted into the mummified remains.

For a slide video of this and other poems, please check out my Instagram page at chrissaitta or my Tumblr page at Chris-Saitta.
Syv Elena Aug 2018
I like to play horror games
Amnesia was the first one I played
The monsters were scary
The envoirement was eerie
But if I'd call the monster Steven
Instead of scared I'd be merry

Steven was such a funny guy
He looked funny
He walked weirdly
Nothing of him would terrify

The only time he'd scare me was when I'd open the door
Sometimes the jumpscare would make me fall to the floor

Many years I have played these games
Even though I was scared, in the end I'd be okay

That was until I stood next to my brother
He was not yet in his grave
This experience was like no other
It crashed on me like a giant wave

I'd never seen him lay so still
It was hard but I wanted to try
Though I knew it could only go downhill
I wanted to touch his hand one last time

I lowered my body and reached out my hand
I was pretty sure he would scare me right then & there
But my brother didnt move, not even a hair

And I realized at that moment how much I wanted that jumpscare
I lost my brother back in February to suicide. Back then I didn't have the words to say what happened when I stood in that room with my best friend. I told her when I lowered my body that I was waiting for a jumpscare I knew would never happen.

It were very tough times.
To be honest, I still can't handle it.
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
Every star across the seven skies
wishes to kiss it is a gold dust.

Not to mention the Moon in the centre
waning and waxing in the open and in secret
keeps unleashing longing to rub
this non-sublunary piece on its forehead.

She knows only then the rough seas beneath
her will calm down in the soft raining moonlight
rubbing off such a lucky blossomed forehead.

Oh, if only scarcely they could ever see it
the galaxies since their inceptions longing for it.
The bliss of the eyes tucked away from the scene
Paradise lies beneath the mother’s feet!

The mother is fast is for all and is down to earth
She, the mother Fathima descended down
from up above the heaven that pivotal frontier
only all the prophets’ Prophet has seen.
Then was no Adam nor Eve or Jibreel!

Paradise finds its core with its resonant lore
in the shadow of the original feminine Fathima
the immortal hotspot the original matter explored.
Paradise lived and breathe beneath her
but she touched down at the heart of the earth
without stepping or touching on paradise
only to give away her stake to others!
No land she would take on her way back indeed
Not in her name, know where Fathima’s grave is?
When people visit Islamic holy city Medina they look for the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been the tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown It's been said that she preferred her grave to remain unidentified.
Tara Jan 2019
The ocean,
oh it looked so blue,
shades of colour swimming around like clouds around the moon,

The water,
oh it looked so clean,
but it was just the sun's reflection making it clear,

Underneath the waves lay a graveyard,
a promise of death,
a promise of extinction,

Tombs made of plastic,
slathered in oil,
steaming with toxic waste,
and all the people know,

The damage is unfolding faster than we are evolving,

The turtles are ingesting plastic as if it were their only meal,
begging for their fins to just be free,
so they can dive through the sea,

The seals are tangled in nets, lines and lures,
plastic bags and packing bands,
till they're tied to their grave as if life were just a brief phase,

The seabirds skim the ocean waves for fish and squid,
yet plastic is their only catch of the day,
leaving them broken inside and out,
and dead on the beaches we claim are our own,

The whales are submerged beneath the sea,
eating most things that they see,
plastic, plastic everywhere beneath,
not giving them much time before they can no longer breathe,

The dolphins are gliding through the sea,
taking what they can to eat,
plastic as their only meal,
tearing them apart from within,
leaving them starving for weeks,
till the grave is the only thing they see,

Us humans are so weak,
we can’t see how deep the pain seeps,
but when nothing is left for us to eat,
and the rich have nothing left to steal,
we’ll end in the same graves as all the lives we could have healed.
Sean Kassab Jul 2012
It was in the earlier part of November, 2005 when I was called to the garrison HQ to receive an emergency Red Cross message informing me that my grandfather had passed away. I was in my third year of service as a direct contractor to the Army and my duty station was in Iraq. More specifically, I was at Tallil AFB near the city of An Nasiriyah. I was granted an emergency leave so that I could go back to the US to be with my family so I stowed my gear, packed my duffel and made the long trip home. This was the first time I would make this trip, but I’m getting ahead of myself so let me back up a bit. You see, my grandfather had served in the Second World War, actually both of them had. They were brothers. PFC Eddie Kassab, the one I’m speaking about here, had survived WWII through some pretty tough odds, including being on the third wave of the Normandy invasion at D-Day where thousands had died during the beach head assault. His brother, SFC Joseph Kassab, who married my grandmother, was killed in that war, He was a bombardier and his plane was shot down during the Guadalcanal campaign. It wasn’t until 27 years later that the wreckage of the aircraft and remains were found and recovered. When Joseph died leaving behind his young wife and new born son, Eddie began looking after her, sending home money for her and the boy, my father. They wrote back and forth to eachother after the dissappearance of Joseph and when he returned to the US after the war they courted and were eventually married. Joseph was laid to rest with the rest of his flight crew in Arlington with full military honors. Eddie, who died much later in life, was also afforded a military service there. That was my first time being in Arlington National Cemetery, a place reserved for men and women who had served their country in a military capacity. It is difficult to describe just how immense and powerful that place is, the impact you have on your life just from standing on those grounds is indescribable. If I had to try I would say it’s a mixed feeling of Honor, pride, sorrow, and a profound sense of loneliness. There are row upon row of white marble markers spanning miles of emerald green grass and broad shade trees. The markers themselves are simple, nothing fancy, but the respect they command is beyond contestation. There are also wall vaults for those who were cremated, one of these would become Eddie’s final resting place. The US Army's honor guard performed his service, while a trumpeter played “Taps” and his flag was folded and presented on behalf of a grateful nation to my father who Eddie raised as his own son. In the distance a 21 gun salute was given by seven riflemen firing three shots each. It would be the only time in my life that I saw my father cry. We took the time after Eddie’s service to walk to Joseph’s grave marker as well, passing thousands of other markers and I found myself wondering how many of these people were forgotten by the years. How many of them left behind young children. Were they killed in combat? How many of them were laid to rest with a grave full of unfulfilled dreams? The sacrifices they made weighed heavily upon me. It was a feeling I would carry with me long after I had left that place.
Years had passed and I found myself still working in Iraq for the US Army, I was stationed at Camp Taji this time, on the edge of Sadr City, a real dust bowl. I was in my eighth year of service when I was again called to Garrison HQ, another emergency Red Cross message had come through informing me that my Father had passed away. It was December 29th 2010. For hours afterward it felt as if I had been punched in the gut. I called my Mom as soon as I could to make sure she was ok and to see if there was anything she needed before making arrangements for yet another emergency leave. I again stowed my gear, packed my duffel and headed out. Now, it’s only fair to give you an idea of whom I’m talking about here, my Father, Jan, had been a Navy man and had been stationed on submarines as well as destroyer class ships during the Vietnam War. He signed up for service when he was just 18 years old and when he left the Navy he went directly into the Maitland Fire Department in central Florida and stayed there for many years. Eventually he expanded his training becoming the 80th paramedic in the state as well as a certified rescue diver and instructor. More importantly, he was a great father who raised two boys as a father should and later in life, he was a pretty good drinking buddy. His teachings and advice have helped me through some of the toughest times in my life. It was because of his prior military service that he was also awarded full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. There was a waiting list of about 8 weeks at the time because of the high volume of casualties from the wars in the Middle East so it wasn’t until February of 2011 that he was finally laid to rest. This time it was the US Navy’s honor guard who performed his service. I remember it well; they stood in their dress whites throughout the ceremony in the biting cold as the wind whipped by mercilessly.  The honor and discipline in these men was no less than awe inspiring and through my sadness I couldn’t help but feel an amazing sense of pride for who my father was during his life. We all stood as a trumpeter again played “Taps” to the folding of my Father’s flag which was presented to my Mom on behalf of a grateful nation after a 21 gun salute was ordered in the distance. My Father’s remains were also placed in a wall vault that became his final resting place; his marker being only about 20 feet from Eddie’s marker in the adjacent wall and even though it was freezing that day, we took a little extra time to visit Eddie and Joseph again. Walking the grounds of that place again awakened all the feelings I had felt the first time, probably even more so. Again, I have to tell you that words couldn’t accurately describe how that place makes you feel. The grass had turned brown by now but was still immaculately manicured, and the precision placement of the grave markers was flawless. There were thousands of names that dated all the way back to the American Civil War. I went also with my brother to pay my respects at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It was an impressive mausoleum that is guarded twenty four hours a day by the US Army’s horror guard.  After it was all said and done and we had left Arlington and met as a family, my Mom, my Brother and his family, myself and my family and some close friends to remember him for a while over some food and drinks, and though nobody seemed to really have any appetite we still stayed there for hours. That was the first time in eight years that I had seen my Brother and would be the last time I saw him alive, but that part comes later. Eventually we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways, each having a very long way to travel back home and I had to get ready to go back to Iraq, heavy hearted or not.
I had only been back in theater (that means deployment) for a few months when I was reassigned to Al Asad AB as my permanent duty station. It was a place in the middle of nowhere and was originally a Marine base but transferred to Army and Air Force some time in 2010. I had made some good friends there, settled in and finally started coming back to myself when I received a message from my brother’s wife asking me to call her, said it was important. Thinking back on it now, I remember feeling a little angry that she wouldn’t tell me on email. Internet I had in my room, but a phone…well I’m no general and I had already settled in for the night. It was about 21:30 hrs. (9:30 p.m.) on a night in late July so I got dressed and made the quarter mile walk to my office where I could use the phone, cursing under my breath the whole time. It took me about 20 minutes just to find my phone card in my cluttered desk drawer, but when  I finally did amongst more unsavory mutterings I made the call. She answered quickly enough but her voice sounded strained so I calmed down and asked her what was going on, I figured something wasn’t right so she didn’t need me jumping her case on top of it. It was then that she told me my Brother’s body had been found in his home in Whiteville NC. He had been having a hard time with depression since our Father passed as well as marital problems and he had made the decision to take his own life at the age of 36 leaving behind his Wife, Stepson and Daughter who was only 5 at the time. I was blindsided to say the least, no one saw this coming, and he left no real reason as to why so there still is no closure, no understanding. I was angry… no, I was furious! But I’m getting ahead of myself again. She had called me not only to inform me of what had happened, but also to ask if I had Mom’s phone number because she didn’t have it and didn’t know how to get in touch with her to tell her. I told her not to worry about it and that I’d take that on my shoulders and get back to her. It had only been five months since we laid our Father to rest and to say I dreaded making that phone call was a ridiculous understatement. It was easily one of the toughest things I ever had to do, but it had to be done all the same so I dug Mom’s number out of my wallet…and stared at it…I don’t know how long but it felt like a long time. What else could I do? What could I say? It’s not like I had an instruction booklet for delivering bad news and this was as bad as it gets. After a few deep breaths I dialed her number and decided to take the direct approach. She answered the phone and we exchanged hellos, and I asked her what she was doing. She was out shopping with Robbie at the Tractor Supply Co. He was a longtime family friend and all around good guy. I told her that I had some pretty bad news and asked if she could find a place to sit down there, but she told me it was ok to just tell her what happened so I did exactly that. I gave her all the information I had at the time, I didn’t know how to sugar coat it so I didn’t. She took it pretty well up front, not breaking down until later that evening. My Brother, SPC Troy Kassab, had enlisted in the US Army with our Father’s permission when he was only 17 years old. He was a combat medic assigned to Ft. Carson in Colorado before transferring to the 82nd Airborne Division in Ft Brag NC. He deployed to Cuba among other deployments overseas before being attached to a Ranger Unit as their medic and doing other deployments that he never would talk about much. After the army he lived in NC where he worked in restaurants while attending school on the G.I bill and volunteering on the Hickory Rescue Squad as an EMT. He eventually completed school in Winston Salem NC where he got his PA degree in general practice. Troy was a self-educated, brilliant man who wasn’t perfect but who is? He saved lives in the Army, and then continued to do so in the civilian world until his death in July of 2011. He was a husband and a father, a brother and a friend. He was important to us. It was because of his past in the Army that he also was awarded full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery. This time the wait was much longer and his funeral wasn’t held until November 15th of 2011. I remember that day and the days leading up to it like it was yesterday. I had ended my deployment in Iraq on November 3rd, making it back to the US on November 6th. From the time of his death I had stayed in contact with Mom and his wife Andi to make sure they were ok and help in any way I could with the affairs and expenses. When I finally did get home I pulled my truck out of storage had it inspected, fueled and ready to go. It was unfortunate, but my wife was in college and had work at the time so she couldn’t come with us so my daughter and I made the long trip from Houston TX to Hickory NC to see Troy’s wife and kids. While I was there I also picked up a close family friend of ours who needed a ride and made the long drive to Arlington VA...again. The US Army’s honor guard met us there to perform his service and again the attention to detail, the respect given to the deceased, and the discipline shown was flawless. There were more friends this time than family in attendance but I was there with Mom, Robbie, my daughter, and some very close family friends, some going all the way back to our childhood. The ceremony was the same, every time the same. I remember thinking I hated the way “Taps” sounded as they folded the flag and I was angry and hurt when I stepped forward to claim my Brother’s remains and walk them to the wall vault that would become his final resting place. I have to say though, that through my grief and anger, I was a little bit pleased to see that he was placed so close to my Father and Grandfather. I left a pair of my own dog tags in his vault, it made me feel better that he wouldn’t be alone in there. I guess it doesn’t make a lot of sense now but at the time it did.  I stood over his marker and said a silent prayer before heading out to see Dad, Eddie and Joe’s markers and pay some respects. The grass was that brilliant emerald green again, and the sense that I stood in a place of honor reserved for our nations fallen still struck me through the heart.  After that we just kind of faded away from that place making our way home. Troy’s wife Andi had decided not to come, she was angry, she felt betrayed and abandoned, so on my way home I stopped back in Hickory NC, dropped off Michelle and made the drive to Andi’s house to present her with Troy’s flag as it had been presented to me. I remember hoping that her decision wouldn’t leave her with later regrets, but it was too late to change it now. The drive home was a long one, one that rekindled so many unanswered questions. Three generations of my family laid to rest leaving me as the only surviving male member of my family; something that still weighs upon my heart today.
But this is their story, and though it seems a sad one, that is not its intent. This story was written so that you the reader could understand that there is a place where over a hundred thousand Josephs and Eddies, and Jans and Troys are resting.  Each one of those stone crosses and stars have a face, a name, a history, and they made a sacrifice for you and for me. They were people who gave up their futures so that we could have one. They were people who had dreams, families, and who put all of that aside for what they believed in. They weren’t perfect people, but they deserve to be remembered. If you do nothing else after reading this, at least take the time to think about the freedoms that you have, freedoms that have cost us so much…
There are those who came before us, who paved the way for the lives we now live, their voices whisper to us through our freedoms and we are a greatful nation. Listen and remember...
Jesus loves me, this I know.
These words embraced in my heart.
This simple children's Hymn,
that really, is perfect in description.

I'm thinking too much.
      Worrying too much.

What will be will be.

This is true of me, and every one.

Jesus hears me when I pray.
This is His promise that He made.
I say my Rosary with Him in mind.
Hope for a miracle, but if not,
      hope it does not hurt
        when I die.

Dying.

Coffin and grave.

Solemn images that trickle
like leaking taps into
      my consciousness.
When the end comes.
When I expire from
      the land of the living,
I hope Jesus will be there.

"Jesus loves me, this I know.
For the Bible tells me so"

These words impress me,
which is as it should be.
One should consider
not only this world,
      but the next.

The coffin lowered in the grave
holds only the shell of what I am.
I'll live on, in what form
      I do not know.

Visit my grave, if that
is what you need to do.
Just know
I'll not be rotting there.

Jesus, I trust in You.
Kim Davis Oct 2013
Once there was a girl
Who could feel
A young, playful, and truly memorable child
naturally born to lead, learn, and strive,
Jumped in front of any camera she saw,
because she wanted all eyes on her.
Yet that didn't prevent an inevitable day,
an insignificant, random day
when she was faced with her new reality.
An old lady took a fall,
an animal she'd grew with began its downward spiral towards death
a neighbor robbed of weapons,
and no more did the girl get attention,
but was rather brought to the attention that the world was cruel.
But attention was her drive, her motivation to live
and taken from her, she desperately tried to regain her spirit
but couldn't handle everything she'd ever known changing on her,
and a little girl, third grade, began a path of self destruction.
The natural leader now a follower,
The playful girl turned her interests into other people's pain,
She enjoyed that year the most she could,
secretly hating the old woman, mistreating her
saying her goodbyes to the dog that was there years before she was born,
grades turning from all A's, to B's, to C's, to D's and F's,  year by year.
getting rejected just a few times, but over-complicating it, as she would do everything later,  
taking it personal, letting it destroy her
and so the little girl grew,
first into an angry, manipulative version of herself,
she was no longer slender, pretty, or girly in any way.
She was a wreck. No care for herself anymore.
Sharpened her finger with a pencil sharpener.
When mad, would beat herself up.
Demented, but that was just covering a layer of desire for attention.
Something so simple, something everyone has to learn to live without, took such a toll on a little girl, because it was just cut off, one insignificant day.
But one day she got attention again, months after another
insignificant day.
This insignificant day, she remembers,
daddy standing by the mailbox
she was outside playing with neighbors
and she heard daddy talk funny.
A sliver in his voice, that was never there, was it?
and listening, she heard it again,
and she looked at dad, and in his eyes, he wasn't there.
his body, his face, his smile, but his eyes weren't there.
And the little girl ignored it.
But daddy was in pain for months. Didn't tell a soul.
and when that sliver in voice kept going, mom forced him to go to the doctor.
But the sliver wasn't it, there was blood, daddy was coughing blood.
And so the doctor diagnosed it as bronchitis.
But it was deeper than that, it was the big C,
and the little girl knew that daddy saw it coming
his smoking tripled
and he got a recorder so as to record what he was thinking
and there was that night, at her aunts, everyone in the kitchen,
the little girl heard it from a distance,
cancer,
but she wanted to be wrong, so bad.  
She gets in the car with her mom, and receives the news,
but upon seeing her mother crying, doesn't know what to do.
She was supposed to be strong for her mother, everyone expected that of her,
but everyone also expected her to be fragile, and wanted her to cry more than anyone about her dad.
But the conflicting emotions resulted in the girl, not so little anymore, to grow up.
To shut off all human emotion, to be a walking robot. To never cry, never feel.
That made everything pile up in her head.
Daddy had cancer.
Daddy was doing Radiology treatments.
Daddy's treatments were failing.
Daddy was getting skinnier.
Daddy was doing Chemo.
Daddy was trying to **** himself.
Daddy was in and out of the hospital.
Daddy wanted her there.
Daddy needed her there.
Daddy cried in front of her and asked, "Why don't you love me anymore?" because she showed her disinterest in tying his shoes for him since he couldnt.  
But there's nothing more terrifying, than seeing someone one genuinely cares about in the hospital.
Than being afraid to break the person one loves in half with just a hug.
Daddy was dying, and daddy wouldn't talk all day until she got home, even if it was just a hey and a smile.
To this day, she'd love to say now that she would go back, and do it all differently, show that she loved him, not that she was disgusted in what he'd become, but  she knows herself, and she'd shut herself down again in a heartbeat.  
Daddy died of three types of cancer,
and the little girl got the attention she'd longed for, but in the form of pity.
But she hated pity.
She stopped doing anything.
Couldn't go out with friends,  secluded herself in her mind.
Until she found a way to be herself and get attention, and became someone new.
Then someone else.
Then someone else.
And then the girl was no longer herself, she was someone who made an impact on people.
Someone who people were attracted to,
Someone who had friends,
Someone who had company who couldn't physically show her pity,
company that satisfied her romantic desires, and company that was there when she was down,
and who she could manipulate to her desire, to understand men and women on a deeper level.
And that sweet, playful, little girl, was a monster.
Divided in two, she emoted on a fake half of her, a half that wasn't her, a fake story personified,
what was left of that little girl was skinned, and buried in dirt.
So when the girl had had enough damage inflicted on the sane, but fake side of her,
and was unhappy regardless of who she was that day,  at that hour,
she would tell herself it was over, it was time, this should have ended a long time ago,
and her skinned corpse of a soul was trying to crawl out of its grave,
pulled back by the dark cloud it became, and buried again with the fake's love,
because that side of her, with skim, but human emotion,
couldn't bear to hurt people it'd already done enough damage to.
So one day, when she was found out, by best friend and an ex, it was a sigh of relief,
just to feel the air on that hand, reaching up to get out of her grave.
But she didn't know that what followed was losing half the people she loved,
most being the ones she loved most, the most active in her life at the given moment,
And even then, with the remaining few, she felt too awkward in that situation,
too conflicted, that she once again, turned off her emotions.
And now, what's left?
A broken little girl, in a big, damaged carcass, freezing in mud, staring down at her own grave, unable to find her skin.
Sarah Michelle Jun 2014
Went to the grave
this past Memorial Day
and saw it was covered
with mud.

With but a dish rag,
maintenance
didn't exactly leave a shine
behind them, walking
away as they massaged
their own aching backs.
Otherwise they could,
I don't know,
massage the backs that
are already broken.

"Don't graveyards have
maintenance-people for that?"

They are humble.
They like not to be known.
Finally write a poem a couple days ago. I'm back!
"The iniquity of the fathers upon the children."


O the rose of keenest thorn!
One hidden summer morn
Under the rose I was born.

I do not guess his name
Who wrought my Mother's shame,
And gave me life forlorn,
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
I know her from all other.
My Mother pale and mild,
Fair as ever was seen,
She was but scarce sixteen,
Little more than a child,
When I was born
To work her scorn.
With secret bitter throes,
In a passion of secret woes,
She bore me under the rose.

One who my Mother nursed
Took me from the first:--
"O nurse, let me look upon
This babe that cost so dear;
To-morrow she will be gone:
Other mothers may keep
Their babes awake and asleep,
But I must not keep her here."--
Whether I know or guess,
I know this not the less.

So I was sent away
That none might spy the truth:
And my childhood waxed to youth
And I left off childish play.
I never cared to play
With the village boys and girls;
And I think they thought me proud,
I found so little to say
And kept so from the crowd:
But I had the longest curls,
And I had the largest eyes,
And my teeth were small like pearls;
The girls might flout and scout me,
But the boys would hang about me
In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood
A long mile from the town,
A mile of windy down
And bleak one-sided wood,
With not a single house.
Our town itself was small,
With just the common shops,
And throve in its small way.
Our neighboring gentry reared
The good old-fashioned crops,
And made old-fashioned boasts
Of what John Bull would do
If Frenchman Frog appeared,
And drank old-fashioned toasts,
And made old-fashioned bows
To my Lady at the Hall.

My Lady at the Hall
Is grander than they all:
Hers is the oldest name
In all the neighborhood;
But the race must die with her
Though she's a lofty dame,
For she's unmarried still.
Poor people say she's good
And has an open hand
As any in the land,
And she's the comforter
Of many sick and sad;
My nurse once said to me
That everything she had
Came of my Lady's bounty:
"Though she's greatest in the county
She's humble to the poor,
No beggar seeks her door
But finds help presently.
I pray both night and day
For her, and you must pray:
But she'll never feel distress
If needy folk can bless."
I was a little maid
When here we came to live
From somewhere by the sea.
Men spoke a foreign tongue
There where we used to be
When I was merry and young,
Too young to feel afraid;
The fisher-folk would give
A kind strange word to me,
There by the foreign sea:
I don't know where it was,
But I remember still
Our cottage on a hill,
And fields of flowering grass
On that fair foreign shore.

I liked my old home best,
But this was pleasant too:
So here we made our nest
And here I grew.
And now and then my Lady
In riding past our door
Would nod to nurse and speak,
Or stoop and pat my cheek;
And I was always ready
To hold the field-gate wide
For my Lady to go through;
My Lady in her veil
So seldom put aside,
My Lady grave and pale.

I often sat to wonder
Who might my parents be,
For I knew of something under
My simple-seeming state.
Nurse never talked to me
Of mother or of father,
But watched me early and late
With kind suspicious cares:
Or not suspicious, rather
Anxious, as if she knew
Some secret I might gather
And smart for unawares.
Thus I grew.

But Nurse waxed old and gray,
Bent and weak with years.
There came a certain day
That she lay upon her bed
Shaking her palsied head,
With words she gasped to say
Which had to stay unsaid.
Then with a jerking hand
Held out so piteously
She gave a ring to me
Of gold wrought curiously,
A ring which she had worn
Since the day that I was born,
She once had said to me:
I slipped it on my finger;
Her eyes were keen to linger
On my hand that slipped it on;
Then she sighed one rattling sigh
And stared on with sightless eye:--
The one who loved me was gone.

How long I stayed alone
With the corpse I never knew,
For I fainted dead as stone:
When I came to life once more
I was down upon the floor,
With neighbors making ado
To bring me back to life.
I heard the sexton's wife
Say: "Up, my lad, and run
To tell it at the Hall;
She was my Lady's nurse,
And done can't be undone.
I'll watch by this poor lamb.
I guess my Lady's purse
Is always open to such:
I'd run up on my crutch
A ******* as I am,"
(For cramps had vexed her much,)
"Rather than this dear heart
Lack one to take her part."

For days, day after day,
On my weary bed I lay,
Wishing the time would pass;
O, so wishing that I was
Likely to pass away:
For the one friend whom I knew
Was dead, I knew no other,
Neither father nor mother;
And I, what should I do?

One day the sexton's wife
Said: "Rouse yourself, my dear:
My Lady has driven down
From the Hall into the town,
And we think she's coming here.
Cheer up, for life is life."

But I would not look or speak,
Would not cheer up at all.
My tears were like to fall,
So I turned round to the wall
And hid my hollow cheek,
Making as if I slept,
As silent as a stone,
And no one knew I wept.
What was my Lady to me,
The grand lady from the Hall?
She might come, or stay away,
I was sick at heart that day:
The whole world seemed to be
Nothing, just nothing to me,
For aught that I could see.

Yet I listened where I lay:
A bustle came below,
A clear voice said: "I know;
I will see her first alone,
It may be less of a shock
If she's so weak to-day":--
A light hand turned the lock,
A light step crossed the floor,
One sat beside my bed:
But never a word she said.

For me, my shyness grew
Each moment more and more:
So I said never a word
And neither looked nor stirred;
I think she must have heard
My heart go pit-a-pat:
Thus I lay, my Lady sat,
More than a mortal hour
(I counted one and two
By the house-clock while I lay):
I seemed to have no power
To think of a thing to say,
Or do what I ought to do,
Or rouse myself to a choice.

At last she said: "Margaret,
Won't you even look at me?"
A something in her voice
Forced my tears to fall at last,
Forced sobs from me thick and fast;
Something not of the past,
Yet stirring memory;
A something new, and yet
Not new, too sweet to last,
Which I never can forget.

I turned and stared at her:
Her cheek showed hollow-pale;
Her hair like mine was fair,
A wonderful fall of hair
That screened her like a veil;
But her height was statelier,
Her eyes had depth more deep:
I think they must have had
Always a something sad,
Unless they were asleep.

While I stared, my Lady took
My hand in her spare hand,
Jewelled and soft and grand,
And looked with a long long look
Of hunger in my face;
As if she tried to trace
Features she ought to know,
And half hoped, half feared, to find.
Whatever was in her mind
She heaved a sigh at last,
And began to talk to me.
"Your nurse was my dear nurse,
And her nursling's dear," said she:
"No one told me a word
Of her getting worse and worse,
Till her poor life was past"
(Here my Lady's tears dropped fast):
"I might have been with her,
I might have promised and heard,
But she had no comforter.
She might have told me much
Which now I shall never know,
Never, never shall know."
She sat by me sobbing so,
And seemed so woe-begone,
That I laid one hand upon
Hers with a timid touch,
Scarce thinking what I did,
Not knowing what to say:
That moment her face was hid
In the pillow close by mine,
Her arm was flung over me,
She hugged me, sobbing so
As if her heart would break,
And kissed me where I lay.

After this she often came
To bring me fruit or wine,
Or sometimes hothouse flowers.
And at nights I lay awake
Often and often thinking
What to do for her sake.
Wet or dry it was the same:
She would come in at all hours,
Set me eating and drinking,
And say I must grow strong;
At last the day seemed long
And home seemed scarcely home
If she did not come.

Well, I grew strong again:
In time of primroses
I went to pluck them in the lane;
In time of nestling birds
I heard them chirping round the house;
And all the herds
Were out at grass when I grew strong,
And days were waxen long,
And there was work for bees
Among the May-bush boughs,
And I had shot up tall,
And life felt after all
Pleasant, and not so long
When I grew strong.

I was going to the Hall
To be my Lady's maid:
"Her little friend," she said to me,
"Almost her child,"
She said and smiled,
Sighing painfully;
Blushing, with a second flush,
As if she blushed to blush.

Friend, servant, child: just this
My standing at the Hall;
The other servants call me "Miss,"
My Lady calls me "Margaret,"
With her clear voice musical.
She never chides when I forget
This or that; she never chides.
Except when people come to stay
(And that's not often) at the Hall,
I sit with her all day
And ride out when she rides.
She sings to me and makes me sing;
Sometimes I read to her,
Sometimes we merely sit and talk.
She noticed once my ring
And made me tell its history:
That evening in our garden walk
She said she should infer
The ring had been my father's first,
Then my mother's, given for me
To the nurse who nursed
My mother in her misery,
That so quite certainly
Some one might know me, who--
Then she was silent, and I too.

I hate when people come:
The women speak and stare
And mean to be so civil.
This one will stroke my hair,
That one will pat my cheek
And praise my Lady's kindness,
Expecting me to speak;
I like the proud ones best
Who sit as struck with blindness,
As if I wasn't there.
But if any gentleman
Is staying at the Hall
(Though few come prying here),
My Lady seems to fear
Some downright dreadful evil,
And makes me keep my room
As closely as she can:
So I hate when people come,
It is so troublesome.
In spite of all her care,
Sometimes to keep alive
I sometimes do contrive
To get out in the grounds
For a whiff of wholesome air,
Under the rose you know:
It's charming to break bounds,
Stolen waters are sweet,
And what's the good of feet
If for days they mustn't go?
Give me a longer tether,
Or I may break from it.

Now I have eyes and ears
And just some little wit:
"Almost my lady's child";
I recollect she smiled,
Sighed and blushed together;
Then her story of the ring
Sounds not improbable,
She told it me so well
It seemed the actual thing:--
O keep your counsel close,
But I guess under the rose,
In long past summer weather
When the world was blossoming,
And the rose upon its thorn:
I guess not who he was
Flawed honor like a glass
And made my life forlorn;
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
O, I know her from all other.

My Lady, you might trust
Your daughter with your fame.
Trust me, I would not shame
Our honorable name,
For I have noble blood
Though I was bred in dust
And brought up in the mud.
I will not press my claim,
Just leave me where you will:
But you might trust your daughter,
For blood is thicker than water
And you're my mother still.

So my Lady holds her own
With condescending grace,
And fills her lofty place
With an untroubled face
As a queen may fill a throne.
While I could hint a tale
(But then I am her child)
Would make her quail;
Would set her in the dust,
Lorn with no comforter,
Her glorious hair defiled
And ashes on her cheek:
The decent world would ******
Its finger out at her,
Not much displeased I think
To make a nine days' stir;
The decent world would sink
Its voice to speak of her.

Now this is what I mean
To do, no more, no less:
Never to speak, or show
Bare sign of what I know.
Let the blot pass unseen;
Yea, let her never guess
I hold the tangled clew
She huddles out of view.
Friend, servant, almost child,
So be it and nothing more
On this side of the grave.
Mother, in Paradise,
You'll see with clearer eyes;
Perhaps in this world even
When you are like to die
And face to face with Heaven
You'll drop for once the lie:
But you must drop the mask, not I.

My Lady promises
Two hundred pounds with me
Whenever I may wed
A man she can approve:
And since besides her bounty
I'm fairest in the county
(For so I've heard it said,
Though I don't vouch for this),
Her promised pounds may move
Some honest man to see
My virtues and my beauties;
Perhaps the rising grazier,
Or temperance publican,
May claim my wifely duties.
Meanwhile I wait their leisure
And grace-bestowing pleasure,
I wait the happy man;
But if I hold my head
And pitch my expectations
Just higher than their level,
They must fall back on patience:
I may not mean to wed,
Yet I'll be civil.

Now sometimes in a dream
My heart goes out of me
To build and scheme,
Till I sob after things that seem
So pleasant in a dream:
A home such as I see
My blessed neighbors live in
With father and with mother,
All proud of one another,
Named by one common name,
From baby in the bud
To full-blown workman father;
It's little short of Heaven.
I'd give my gentle blood
To wash my special shame
And drown my private grudge;
I'd toil and moil much rather
The dingiest cottage drudge
Whose mother need not blush,
Than live here like a lady
And see my Mother flush
And hear her voice unsteady
Sometimes, yet never dare
Ask to share her care.

Of course the servants sneer
Behind my back at me;
Of course the village girls,
Who envy me my curls
And gowns and idleness,
Take comfort in a jeer;
Of course the ladies guess
Just so much of my history
As points the emphatic stress
With which they laud my Lady;
The gentlemen who catch
A casual glimpse of me
And turn again to see,
Their valets on the watch
To speak a word with me,
All know and sting me wild;
Till I am almost ready
To wish that I were dead,
No faces more to see,
No more words to be said,
My Mother safe at last
Disburdened of her child,
And the past past.

"All equal before God,"--
Our Rector has it so,
And sundry sleepers nod:
It may be so; I know
All are not equal here,
And when the sleepers wake
They make a difference.
"All equal in the grave,"--
That shows an obvious sense:
Yet something which I crave
Not death itself brings near;
How should death half atone
For all my past; or make
The name I bear my own?

I love my dear old Nurse
Who loved me without gains;
I love my mistress even,
Friend, Mother, what you will:
But I could almost curse
My Father for his pains;
And sometimes at my prayer,
Kneeling in sight of Heaven,
I almost curse him still:
Why did he set his snare
To catch at unaware
My Mother's foolish youth;
Load me with shame that's hers,
And her with something worse,
A lifelong lie for truth?

I think my mind is fixed
On one point and made up:
To accept my lot unmixed;
Never to drug the cup
But drink it by myself.
I'll not be wooed for pelf;
I'll not blot out my shame
With any man's good name;
But nameless as I stand,
My hand is my own hand,
And nameless as I came
I go to the dark land.

"All equal in the grave,"--
I bide my time till then:
"All equal before God,"--
To-day I feel His rod,
To-morrow He may save:
            Amen.
Amanda Jean Jan 2011
White noise emanates from the television
Despite volume
Her thoughts shriek
His voice echos
Bouncing off the walls of her mind
With every blink a film strip of the past is replayed
She can't escape it
She's playing keep away with herself
And losing
Her head lay still
But the earth sways
Rocking her fading heart
She entrusted him
Already several shades of grey
He applied the final coat
Grave digger
Only one grave to dig
Hers
mark john junor Sep 2014
a sunshine fighter by nature
his shallow grave face
with its half buried flickers of fury
gives way to the lesser demon's like smiles
while he suffers the hopeless romance
of a cute girl who wants to lick
his carved biceps like a neo-glitter kitty kat
naughty naughty
he cringes all over with the
desperate grins that break out all over him
naughty naughty indeed
Tatiana Jan 2019
For the next two weeks he digs a grave.

He deftly wields a shovel
with hands that have forgotten
what it's like to hold the tools of life
He only knows what life is like
when he digs a hole for holy men
who have cheated others into strife
who have hurt their children, brothers, and sisters
who have made damaged wives
So for two weeks, he digs the hole deeper
than regulation states
for men who were mistakes.

The more time he spends digging
The more time the dead spend climbing

And they're always climbing
the ranks to be on top.
Falling again, bones breaking on impact
they just shake it off and start again.

He met one dead man who climbed to the top
with a light glowing where his eyes should be.
The dead man shuddered, bones rattling a song
of all the people he had wronged.
He was more bone than skin
More ghost than human
But he came back with sorrow on dried, discolored lips
and the grave digger wondered if
he could have redemption

For the next two weeks he digs a grave.
©Tatiana
Curt A Rivard Sr Mar 2013
In my pursuit of a higher education
I am now starting to study the process of human decomposition
And how strange we all rot away like road **** and plant vegetation.
I see the word Casper and my memory takes me back to when I was a child
Remembering he was a sad and lonely invisible cartoon character.
I am now reading it is a proven scientific law, that after you pass
And you give up your ghost, your body then becomes
A breeding ground and you are the decaying host.
Trying to hide the evidence you’re now digging a shallow grave
Don’t do that because it takes eight times longer
Thinking about submerging in water? Yes, it’s a little quicker
But if someone did you seriously wrong and unfair
The quickest way to decompose them is,
Just leave them hiding under some brush and in the summer open air
So then the flies, insects and bee's’ can make a home in their hair.
Sir Isaac Newton told the world how gravity should behave
And now a modern man proved it is no longer so
I can see now, Newton is raging hard and deep inside his grave.
I have not a single fear the only thing that scares me is,
I know without any doubt now that I am insanely brave
Trust me I’ll drag your corpse also and hide it in my make shift grave.
I’m out on a night prowl to change Casper’s law
And prove to you all that it was really only just a theory
Reading books about death gives me a thrill,
Better pray and hope I don’t someday become terminally ill
Everything I do stems from my madness and with it,
Premeditated thoughts and also a great conspiracy.
 (SirCARSr. 3-2-2013)
Pagan Paul Aug 2018
.
i.
Smoke coils up and dissipates,
soon the images will be clear,
as she stares with cold contempt,
into the depths of the Seers Sphere.
And she stands toking her pipe,
watching as the story unfolds,
soon her hate will boil once more,
unleashing her vengeance of old.

ii.
Smoke coils up and dissipates,
a thousand lifetime's away,
blackened stone and charred bodies,
the remains of a village destroyed.
The flames still licking at the flesh
and melting mortar of cottage walls.
Raiding horsemen ride off cheering,
with swords, shields and firebrands,
carrying amidst them a prisoner,
their prize and sport for the victory feast.
Savages are these violent men,
barbaric in their wanton lust for war,
the red mist and the ****** fury,
it's all they really have a care for.

iii.
She waits with patient seething,
her moments will arrive so soon,
the spilling of her black arts,
witnessed by a Woman's Moon.

iv.
The Vale was so beautiful lush and green.
Steep sided, oak trees, clear blue stream.
With fresh grass on which horses grazed,
and smooth rocks where wild fowl lazed.

v.
But the leader here was not a man,
she was the daughter of this warrior clan.
Fierce, cold, she barked out her orders;
build a fire, make food, secure the borders.
Her status unquestioned by her riders,
they would all fight and die beside her,
and as the camp grew out much wider,
her boot casually crushes a hated spider.

vi.
Manacles held her ankle fast,
shackled as she was to a tree.
Withdrawn, shivering with cold,
still seeing her burning family.
Images scorch her private intimacy,
awaiting the moment of her epiphany,
eyes watching with careless vacancy,
preparations for the nights ceremony.
But she would not co-operate,
would not give her jailers pleasure,
as she knows these last few hours
would seem to her like forever …

and Nature weeps with a prelude to grieve,
as the Maiden pulls a dagger from her sleeve.


… deny them their sport she will,
placing the dagger 'neath her breast,
a sharp tug towards her heart,
a thousand nightmares laid to rest.

vii.
A thousand lifetime's away,
smoke coils up and dissipates,
a cackle rents the air like ice,
the time her Woman's Moon anticipates.
And the instant arrives with joy,
as the Seers Sphere is thrown,
shattering and cackling hold hands,
as the glass touches solid stone.
At that moment of contact with rock,
time slips into a reverberating shock.

viii.
The Vale was so beautiful lush and green.
Steep sided, oak trees, clear blue stream.
With fresh grass on which horses grazed,
and smooth rocks where wild fowl lazed.

And the earth heaved and tremored,
shaking the Vales languid peace,
uprooting trees with tremendous urge,
rending the loamy soil from beneath.
Frenzied horses scatter with fright,
and men are thrown up high,
screams and shouts of piercing pain,
and the stream suddenly runs dry.
The quake unsettles the warriors camp,
leaving many broken bones and blood.
Then an ominous deafening roar
heralds the arrival of the coming flood.
And water coursed fast into the Vale,
no longer pretending to be calmer.
All living men drowned and dead,
encumbered by their heavy armour.
But she was much fleeter of foot
and ran hard as the waters rose.
Tripped by a treacherous branch,
head banged, stunned, her eyes closed.

ix.
Sunrise saw many things.
Smoke coiling up and dissipating,
over the ruins of a village,
crows and dogs feasting well.
It saw
the hooded robed figure of a woman,
squatting on top a new grave,
smoke coiling up from her pipe,
cackling …

x.
She awoke in darkness.
It didn't take long to panic and scream.
It took no time to realise,
she was sealed naked in a coffin.
And she screamed and screamed.
Pushing at the sides, the lid.
The air was heavy, stifling, stifling, stifling.
Precious oxygen running out.
The coffin moved, and she screamed,
desperately scratching and scratching.
And in the box she heard … cackling.
Her frantic screams turn to sobs of pleading
to be let out, to breathe, to live.
She felt something touch her inner thigh,
she screamed, as it touched again feint.
Brushing it away as the voice cackled on,
more tickles on her thighs, she screamed.
And something landed on her face.
The feel of a large spider on her mouth,
and she screamed and screamed.
But the cackling persisted
as she scratched at the wood,
her fingernails shredding to pieces,
but the wooden prison gave no quarter,
the skin raw and bloodied,
scratching, scratching, scratching.
And in her tomb she screams,
she screams and screams and screams.

xi.
… sunrise saw many things.
It saw a new river,
wending its way to the sea,
caressing the contoured land,
it saw horses running wild,
across the lush grass on plains.
It saw
the hooded robed figure of a woman,
standing beside a new grave,
as she places the flame dagger
upon the Maiden's final resting place,
it saw
ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence.
Weeping.


© Pagan Paul (02/08/18)
.
3rd poem in Judderwitch series.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2076298/judderwitch-the-beginning/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1923972/judderwitch/

Today, Aug 2nd, marks two years on hp for me.
Thankyou to all those who have supported and helped me over these last 2 years. You are all greatly appreciated :) PPx xox
Crazy Beautiful Mar 2015
I can’t remember the last time I touched your face
But I can feel your cheekbones digging into my mind like the feeling of taking a shovel
hollowing out my own grave to lie in
When was the last time I was able to run my fingers through your hair?
Untangling hair is easy, but I haven’t yet found anything
to get out the knots in my stomach
If someone asked me what colour your eyes were, I couldn’t tell them
But I could explain just how it felt when they looked into mine
Like when you look into the sun and are blinded by its immense beauty, so blinded
you can’t see the inevitable damage it inflicts upon every pore
Except I haven’t yet found anything to protect myself from your stare
What if my skin burns before you can feel it again
And how will you feel if you’re too bright that I can’t look anymore?
You might begin to miss the fact that nobody can look at you the way I do
before you even realize I can
And I could tell them how you felt when mine looked into yours
despite the fact that you can’t
Because you don’t know what it’s like to feel something other than your own fear
But I’m not afraid of you anymore, I have no fear
I have some hope you can have, it’s been growing for quite some time
And I may have a little more strength left, although loving you feels like
running to a destination that doesn’t exist
I’m tired of being without you …
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2017
Far and near
they are two stars
rose in the same orbit.

One shows up is a
dazzling shimmering sun.
One is so polished fine
as if the zenith is
zipped in zero bytes.

No grave can grasp
it in the end.
It has no end, no size
zero left to demise.

An ocean is no more
now is only a drop.
Now the ocean
is in a drop.

Still on the ground
walking the walk
but those giant feet
do not show up!

Can we hear it bending
the ear on the ground?
The orbits on the go
with the sun on the top
pile into the vibration within
only to float up a notch
then bends down once more.
Sabbathius Sep 2014
As you turned on the wrong track
I couldn't see!
As you turned away your back
I watched you flee!
No words or gestures to explain
Just embarqued to a life of pain
In that accursed final train
There was nothing for your gain

On the longest voyage of your life
Through constant fear of all the strife
Yet you managed to stay alive
While poking sticks at the closest hive
You mistake your friends for foes
And are addicted from head to toes

Chorus:
The light slowly fades as you slip away
The feeling I get, it seems like decay
And no matter how much I delay
How much words I can say
I can't make you stay
For a last night or day

Yet you keep torturing your flesh
With pills and needles for a lash
You're in for an ugly final crash
You'll be buried among the trash

In a place where all the wicked tread
That's the ******* you chose to head
On your path to a grave unknown
Without flowers, coffin or tomb stone

Chorus

[Repeat]
Cleanse your soul!
Cleanse your ******* soul!
Cleanse yourself of ****!


*A Grave Unknown by João Massada is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Something overly cheesy that came to me, as an idea for lyrics with the metalcore style in mind.
Todas las parcelas de mi vida tienen algo tuyo
y eso en verdad no es nada extraordinario
vos lo sabés tan objetivamente como yo

sin embargo hay algo que quisiera aclararte
cuando digo todas las parcelas

no me refiero sólo a esto de ahora
a esto de esperarte y aleluya encontrarte
        y carajo de perderte
        y volverte a encontrar
        y ojalá nada más

no me refiero sólo a que de pronto digas
        voy a llorar
y yo con un discreto nudo en la garganta
        bueno llorá
y que un lindo aguacero invisible nos ampare
y quizá por eso salga enseguida el sol

ni me refiero sólo a que día tras día
aumente el stock de nuestras pequeñas
        y decisivas complicidades
o que yo pueda         o creerme que puedo
        convertir mis reveses
en victorias
o me hagas el tierno regalo
        de tu más reciente desesperación

no
la cosa es muchísimo más grave

cuando digo todas las parcelas
quiero decir que además de ese dulce cataclismo
también estás reescribiendo mi infancia
esa edad en que uno dice cosas adultas y solemnes
y los solemnes adultos las celebras
y vos en cambio sabés que eso no sirve
quiero decir que estás rearmando mi adolescencia
ese tiempo en que fui un viejo cargado de recelos
y vos sabés en cambio extraer de ese páramo
mi germen de alegría         y regarlo mirándolo

quiero decir que estás sacudiendo mi juventud
ese cántaro que nadie tomó nunca en sus manos
esa sombra que nadie arrimó a su sombra
y vos en cambio sabés estremecerla
hasta que empiecen a caer las hojas secas
y quede el armazón de mi verdad sin proezas

quiero decir que estás abrazando mi madurez
esta mezcla de estupor y experiencia
este extraño confín de angustia y nieve
esta bujía que ilumina la muerte
este precipicio de la pobre vida

como ves es más grave
muchísimo más grave
porque con estas o con otras palabras
quiero decir que no sos         tan sólo
la querida muchacha que sos
sino también las espléndidas
        o cautelosas mujeres
        que quise o quiero

porque gracias a vos he descubierto
(dirás que ya era hora
                                        y con razón)
que el amor es una bahía linda y generosa
que se ilumina y se oscurece
                según
venga la vida

una bahía donde los barcos
        llegan y se van

llegan los pájaros y augurios
y se van con sirenas y nubarrones
una bahía linda y generosa
donde los barcos llegan
                y se van
pero vos
por favor
                no te vayas.
Ignatius Hosiana Aug 2016
When you die I hope I'll be brave
Enough to spit or **** on your grave
I hope I'll be able to congratulate death
for stealing that pride in your breath
I hope we don't end up in the same place
for even at death I'll still loathe the sight of your face
when you go to heaven I'll force my way into hell
& if I hear your screams in flames might force my way into heaven as well
When you die may the tortures remind me not to waste my tears
after all you've made my eyes river all these years
When you die I hope I'll be confident enough
to for once part my frowned lips and loudly laugh
it's no bluff, you die and I'll stand as tall as a giraffe
on the waves of Hennessey whilst I fatally surf  
the day you'll die so many souls will be reborn
as many as you've tattered from flesh to bone
I pray they pour concrete onto your casket so that in case you rise
none ever hears your appellant and desperate cries
Enjoy stepping on people at the moment
a day will come when feet stamp your grave in bitterness of the torment...

The day you die, I hope I'll be brave
enough to spit or **** on  your grave
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked another way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
So with my eyes I traced the line
Of the horizon, thin and fine,
Straight around till I was come
Back to where I’d started from;
And all I saw from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood.
Over these things I could not see;
These were the things that bounded me;
And I could touch them with my hand,
Almost, I thought, from where I stand.
And all at once things seemed so small
My breath came short, and scarce at all.
But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;
So here upon my back I’ll lie
And look my fill into the sky.
And so I looked, and, after all,
The sky was not so very tall.
The sky, I said, must somewhere stop,
And—sure enough!—I see the top!
The sky, I thought, is not so grand;
I ‘most could touch it with my hand!
And reaching up my hand to try,
I screamed to feel it touch the sky.
I screamed, and—lo!—Infinity
Came down and settled over me;
Forced back my scream into my chest,
Bent back my arm upon my breast,
And, pressing of the Undefined
The definition on my mind,
Held up before my eyes a glass
Through which my shrinking sight did pass
Until it seemed I must behold
Immensity made manifold;
Whispered to me a word whose sound
Deafened the air for worlds around,
And brought unmuffled to my ears
The gossiping of friendly spheres,
The creaking of the tented sky,
The ticking of Eternity.
I saw and heard, and knew at last
The How and Why of all things, past,
And present, and forevermore.
The Universe, cleft to the core,
Lay open to my probing sense
That, sick’ning, I would fain pluck thence
But could not,—nay! But needs must ****
At the great wound, and could not pluck
My lips away till I had drawn
All venom out.—Ah, fearful pawn!
For my omniscience paid I toll
In infinite remorse of soul.
All sin was of my sinning, all
Atoning mine, and mine the gall
Of all regret. Mine was the weight
Of every brooded wrong, the hate
That stood behind each envious ******,
Mine every greed, mine every lust.
And all the while for every grief,
Each suffering, I craved relief
With individual desire,—
Craved all in vain!  And felt fierce fire
About a thousand people crawl;
Perished with each,—then mourned for all!
A man was starving in Capri;
He moved his eyes and looked at me;
I felt his gaze, I heard his moan,
And knew his hunger as my own.
I saw at sea a great fog bank
Between two ships that struck and sank;
A thousand screams the heavens smote;
And every scream tore through my throat.
No hurt I did not feel, no death
That was not mine; mine each last breath
That, crying, met an answering cry
From the compassion that was I.
All suffering mine, and mine its rod;
Mine, pity like the pity of God.
Ah, awful weight!  Infinity
Pressed down upon the finite Me!
My anguished spirit, like a bird,
Beating against my lips I heard;
Yet lay the weight so close about
There was no room for it without.
And so beneath the weight lay I
And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death,
When quietly the earth beneath
Gave way, and inch by inch, so great
At last had grown the crushing weight,
Into the earth I sank till I
Full six feet under ground did lie,
And sank no more,—there is no weight
Can follow here, however great.
From off my breast I felt it roll,
And as it went my tortured soul
Burst forth and fled in such a gust
That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now;
Cool is its hand upon the brow
And soft its breast beneath the head
Of one who is so gladly dead.
And all at once, and over all
The pitying rain began to fall;
I lay and heard each pattering hoof
Upon my lowly, thatched roof,
And seemed to love the sound far more
Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who’s six feet underground;
And scarce the friendly voice or face:
A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come
And speak to me in my new home.
I would I were alive again
To kiss the fingers of the rain,
To drink into my eyes the shine
Of every slanting silver line,
To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze
From drenched and dripping apple-trees.
For soon the shower will be done,
And then the broad face of the sun
Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth
Until the world with answering mirth
Shakes joyously, and each round drop
Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.
How can I bear it; buried here,
While overhead the sky grows clear
And blue again after the storm?
O, multi-colored, multiform,
Beloved beauty over me,
That I shall never, never see
Again!  Spring-silver, autumn-gold,
That I shall never more behold!
Sleeping your myriad magics through,
Close-sepulchred away from you!
O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the earth!
Upset each cloud’s gigantic gourd
And let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush
That answered me, the far-off rush
Of herald wings came whispering
Like music down the vibrant string
Of my ascending prayer, and—crash!
Before the wild wind’s whistling lash
The startled storm-clouds reared on high
And plunged in terror down the sky,
And the big rain in one black wave
Fell from the sky and struck my grave.
I know not how such things can be;
I only know there came to me
A fragrance such as never clings
To aught save happy living things;
A sound as of some joyous elf
Singing sweet songs to please himself,
And, through and over everything,
A sense of glad awakening.
The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,
Whispering to me I could hear;
I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips
Brushed tenderly across my lips,
Laid gently on my sealed sight,
And all at once the heavy night
Fell from my eyes and I could see,—
A drenched and dripping apple-tree,
A last long line of silver rain,
A sky grown clear and blue again.
And as I looked a quickening gust
Of wind blew up to me and ******
Into my face a miracle
Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,—
I know not how such things can be!—
I breathed my soul back into me.
Ah!  Up then from the ground sprang I
And hailed the earth with such a cry
As is not heard save from a man
Who has been dead, and lives again.
About the trees my arms I wound;
Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;
I raised my quivering arms on high;
I laughed and laughed into the sky,
Till at my throat a strangling sob
Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb
Sent instant tears into my eyes;
O God, I cried, no dark disguise
Can e’er hereafter hide from me
Thy radiant identity!
Thou canst not move across the grass
But my quick eyes will see Thee pass,
Nor speak, however silently,
But my hushed voice will answer Thee.
I know the path that tells Thy way
Through the cool eve of every day;
God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,—
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through.
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.
Äŧül Nov 2015
All such stuff is only a myth, right?
Why else would women be forsaken?
Is having periods a grave sin, really?

Their God is just a fantasy, right?
Why else will God forsake Its kids?
The real God is sleeping, isn't It??

God could be a female too, right?
Why assign a gender to God then?
Is God so weak, kidding right???
Read about some ridiculous places of worship recently.

My HP Poem #923
©Atul Kaushal
By David John Mowers

Oceanus, Acheron, Styx and Gyges, Phlegethon,

Phaeacians lament, mourn the loss, Scheria, dissolved in froths.

Virgil’s tale, found correct, a land too good, a nation wrecked,

Nausikaa, burn the ships; their minds released, cool airy nips,

Below the wave, watery grave, submerged to bottom, fathoms by stave,

Fathoms some more, until the whorl, descending to, another world.

Through Omphalos, to Land of Sleep, awaits a beast, where time has ceased,

Darkness here, underworld, cold and frigid, below the whirl,

In solemn grave, souls released, judged and counted, by the beast,

Deeper than, the deep itself, past drowning fairies and dying elves,

Who did mourn them? Those golden men, magic mariners, Mino's kin?

What wrong was seen? What vice not true? What awful sin? What did they do?

One thousand years, first black age, Two thousand more, to find the stage,

Cast off Aries and cast Orion, to find beginning, of Golden Lion.

Man of Heavens, Beast agrees, Bull of Sky, Ox of seas,

Land of Punt, Land of Éire, Ogyges blue, hearts on fire,

All the seashores, all the mines, Tribe of Dan, from ancient times,

Port of Sais, Port of Thera, Port of Lagash, bygone era,

Sailor’s horse, Minotaur, a lyre is crying, strummed guitar, nation dying, abattoir.

Ochre foams to sanguine depth, there they rested, where Kronos slept,

He’ll never answer, he doesn’t care, we’ll never know, if this was fair.

Our hearts in sadness, hands on the gates! I curse you Poseidon!

. . .and your Sea of Fates!
Every historical and mythological reference to the kingdom of Atlantis which was destroyed by it's founder; Poseidon. All of the characters including the archaeological agreement on the historical basis along with Geo-location as well as an approximate age of occurrence, extent of the kingdom set to metered rhyme.

— The End —