"graveside" poems
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
I still remember
the drawn out afternoons,
the minutes passing without a thing to do,
the clock just a metronome
keeping us in time.
I poked fun at you without reason;
jealousy leads one into themselves it seems.
Do you recall?
We were carnal beings...
I'd apologize for my egoistic banter,
but apologies are best left to the
eulogizer,
and this may be some sort of graveside whisper;
a long-winded to-do list of idle talk.
I'd call you
"Lesbia", "Rosalind",
"my diadem stashed away",
but twenty-two months wore words away
and it would seem like frantic blandishing.
Maybe in my own life
I may be able to demonstrate
what William Yeats had meant
by a body quarreling with it's soul,
but I think -- You're delusional! --
that I could be content.
I remember everything ---
I remember the yielded heart feels a subtle sting.
The yew chattered in the wind outside your
window and I felt rooted
as I told you
I was you and would always be.
But twenty-two months is a long time.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
To my mother, Gina,
Who's watching over me.
Today is your birthday.
You would have been 50.
You had me when you were 31,
And left me when you were 49.
No one knew that you were going.
No one still knows why at this time.
You were an angel of a woman.
A healer and a helper.
As I was growing up I'd say,
"I wanna be just like her!"
Even though life hit you hard,
You wouldn't let it phase you.
You'd keep a beautiful smile.
Oh, this much is true.
When you passed away,
It was a sudden blow.
Like from my chest my heart was ripped.
And from my body too was my soul.
Everyday I cry tears.
I leave the evidence on my shirt.
These tears stains are just evidence.
Evidence that it still hurts.
And today is your birthday.
May 2 is the date.
Today is your birthday.
50 is the age.
But you're not in the next room over.
Not there for me to run to.
I can't come say "Happy Birthday."
And you're not there to say "Thank you."
You're up in Heaven.
The big glorious kingdom in the sky.
And it's just got me thinking,
I wonder what birthdays in heaven are like.
You're celebrating a new life.
Eternal life is the name.
You get to walk those golden streets.
And never feel any pain.
But down here on earth,
We miss you, oh we do.
And it's heartbreaking that we have to go to a graveside.
Just to sing "Happy Birthday" to you.
But even through the pain,
There's still happiness here.
Knowing we get to celebrate you.
Is the greatest celebration my dear!
So today is your day.
Our celebration will ring through.
Happy 50th Birthday Mom.
I love and miss you.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
And so here today I say goodbye
at your graveside in the rain
all the mourners they have gone now
its just you and me again
The scars of your sudden passing
no-one will ever see
like a thousand shards of glass
driven deep inside of me
The only evidence of you being here
is the unmade bed you left behind
And memories of the love we made
and of our bodies intertwined
So many things will go unsaid
so many dreams go unfulfilled
So many rooms are darker now
That you lights not there to fill
My world is much more empty now
without your gentle grace
As I close my eye's the tears come
at the memory of your face
I wish I could have been there
to be with you at the end
To cradle you within my arms
my lover and my friend.
Our time together was our secret
and one that will be kept
None will ever know the "other man"
at your graveside stood and wept.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 8:46 AM UTC
The brain freeze of
mundane ordinary life squish.
the mellow death of everything
hopeful, mischievous, quizzical
remembered only at a sad graveside funeral
in the back of the trailer-park of your brain.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
In the shadows rose the gallows,
his execution date drew near.-
Wolfe Tone, denied a soldiers ‘death,
could not hold life that dear.
He took a blade to his own throat
and cut a swathe of red.
It’s said he lingered but a week
then brave Wolfe Tone was dead..
He was the father of desire
for an Ireland brave and free.
Desire famine could not ****
nor emigration flee.
He choose the manner of his death.
He did not die a slave.
It put his life in context-
His words transcend the grave
Each year on the day he died
as long as Wolfe’s lived there
They lay a spray of roses
on his graveside in Kildare..
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
He was the tough guy,
The bad boy, the person
You never, ever crossed.
He was the owner of the old hotrod, the
House you always avoided
Because it was too loud and smelly.
He was the guy who never
Shaved his beard, kept at least
Three motorcycles in his garage, and
Had a different girlfriend every month.
He was the tough guy.
But then his dad took ill,
And suddenly he didn’t care
About his hotrod anymore.
His buddies were forgotten,
His workshop untouched,
As his calloused hands held
His father’s weak and shaky ones.
The graveside service was
A week later, and I remember
Him kneeling over his father’s coffin,
Head bowed in prayer,
Trying to stay calm, but
Tears flew down his cheeks with
An intensity that no one had
Seen before, nor since.
And that’s when I learned that
Tough guys aren’t always tough.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
Savory sense to ease my worry
Walked in the mist, mild with fury
Graveside scene, eerily silent
Souls of the dead speak out in violence
Mind numbed feelings, frozen with fear
Take the next step, not going near
Hair stands on end, weak at the knees
Black cat crossed, begging you please
Lay down and listen, whispers at night
Can't close my eyes, a moment I might
Rust broken gate, iron wrought ring
Shhh do you hear? The dead starts to sing
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
black trees, silent stars
did you see? a meteorite!
life, infinite night
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
What once was warm and welcome
Is now but distant cold and silent death.
But the setting of a friendships sun
Not quite as yet a souls dying breath.
-
Up in arms and marching forward
There is no need for anyone of us to be alone tonight
Who'd have known that brotherhood pivoted upon speech untoward
And who'd have known that some love, to kiss through embrace of fight.
-
From cradles and cots
When were we supposed to learn
That parking lots and graveside plots
Were our only future to discern.
And just like all of those bedroom eyes
friendship itself also often dies.
N.H.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
*I don't know the rules. If I go looking
for grace and find it, what will grace*
be but penance for my past, a silver
sinew-thread wrapping 'round old
wrongs, gray hair for the
fickle.
I've naught but want for sweet release
from this history. The bombs ignored,
repeating in gramophone static
dripping stiff
*as wet bamboo. I remember someone
once sang here, once strung together*
chords so sweet they rang like peace-
bells beneath cloudless sky. They've
rang the bell upon my jaw and
done no wrong.
It's not so much unlike one's curiously
cold reception at a funeral. The cold
and rain ****** at the skin
during graveside hymnal.
*As long as the earth continues
its stony breathing I will breathe.*
That which I cannot help but do.
Stuck between boulders, I sing.
*When it stops, I will shatter back
into gravity. Into quartz.*
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
even though
i am much
older now
all the hard work
that goes into raising
your son
somehow
i have found
the bitter-sweet courage
to say that
i love you
father dear
i love you now
more the anyhting and
here i am
your flesh and blood
at you graveside now
where I am
suppose to be
dust to dust
ashes to ashes
now my heart
planted on
solid ground
be filled with thee
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
In haste...
Behind
Our footprints
Were the scattered emptiness
Of the memories
Of them
On the shores
She left the three parties of us
Me, Samantha
And our traveler friend
They were play things for sunset fares,
She said.
Just yesterday
They were happy to be here
The young flowers now scattered about
This beach shore
Too young to be plucked
Happy to grow up into one party of laughter!
That's how we remember they were here
That's how to plant graveside flowers
For the dead
They were play things for sunset fares
They were not soldiers
They were unprotected, unfed, afraid children and women.
They were not warriors
That's how to plant graveside flowers
That's how we have kept them forever
In our hearts..
You are not forgotten
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
I saw her just the other day,
But, not knowing what to say, I turned away.
For she has lost her only son,
off fighting in the war.
A bootless war that lingers on
Like a chancre sore.
There are others like her;
Gold stars in windows shine-
For brave boys brought home in boxes
for “no one’s left behind. “
There’s no word that refers to her
Who has lost her only child.
A remnant who lingers here
the last one of her line.
I’ve seen her tend his graveside
like she once made his childhood bed.
She keeps the flowers watered,
trims the grass above his head.
In her Living room, a folded flag
A grateful nation’s gift
To remind her of one she loved so
Whose death left her bereft.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
I walk along beside you
each and every day
watching over what you do
listening out for what you say
Advice I try to give it
and yet it goes unheard
It's like I speak but you wont listen
not even to a single word
It's probably the same
for all parents just like me
it's hard to make children listen
it's hard to make them see
It hurts to know you cry at night
as you go off to sleep
to hear my daughter sobbing
to see the tears she weeps
If only you could talk to me
I could help I'm sure you'd find
But instead the words always the same
"Hey Dad, oh, never mind"
But now as you sit in the churchyard
I hear you ask me why
but no more words can you get out
before you start to cry
Why is it I'm so useless
as you sit here all alone
and shed tears at the graveside of...
just who's name is on the stone!
Oh my god it cant be true
please say it isn't so
Is the why that you were asking me
why I had to go?
Aug 1, 2010
Aug 1, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
The grief has not set in yet.
Only the foreboding weight of sorrow
hangs in the distance.
I will find it in my mother's eyes,
bright from weeping.
The sweetest lives are always the shortest.
The Good die young,
and we the half-good, remain.
Pausing for prayers and graveside tears.
I would say unfair,
but death is always the great equalizer.
I may join her tomorrow-- who knows.
Cradled in earth still damp from rain,
or burned to ashes.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
But Death, be not proud.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
I sit at your graveside
with tears in my eyes
my heavy heart will be broken
knowing you will not be here
This is for all who have gone before me
I miss you all.....KG
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
salt offerings to the wounds of pride
difference between dark of doom
and the engine of simple summer eve
night sustains but
but doom is the door to the
great beyond and the fates fair or foul
that awaits each of us
a voice echoes along the path
to all the heavens ever proposed by mans thought
that voice speaks of years
spins a tale of labors
whispers songs of longing
quietly shouts story's of horror
reserve your strengths friend
for the battle yet to come
hush your unquiet mind
and lay your head down to rest
soon enough blades shall stir to war
soon enough widows shall gather their children to
graveside rememberence of fallen fathers
as trailing edge of summer day
slips into the past
the depth and majesty of summer night unfolds
crickets and the sounds of feasting familys
warm breeze in the tall grass
the sand of a beach on your fingertips
simple joys in our world and of our lives
are the counterbalance the
the dark things in our world
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
I knew time stood still but it flew faster away and off into the wide of that terrible day.
At the graveside they cried and I watched as
they left,
bereft and bemused,confused by the sounds that came silently to me and observing surroundings so new, and so clearly my focus became
Someone called me by name,someone stood in the doorway framed by the light which shone as bright as the sun,and to look back on it all just did not occur to me,as time flew it freed me into that which could not bleed me any more.
In the door was my loved ones,memories gone and not gone and I found they live on,and this terrible day did not seem so sad.
Though I lost I didn't lose,to choose and not be chosen when the warm blood stops flowing like the ice bound we are frozen
and yet we are freed.
At the graveside they needed some solace
I can't turn back to face them and so I place them in a memory,knowing they will remember me and I will live on.
At the wake they raise a glass and the sadness, it will pass as all things we know will,
for each and everyone time eventually stands still and flies so quickly away.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
I’ve never become low on my graveside attendance,
Victim , victim they call me, the moments I’ve been facing are abysmal,
Your voice, mellifluous, makes my world lucid, just like a blissful carnival
You fade away, so far away, in the shades of grey,
These black petals, merely dead, have witnessed a fray
Victim, an element of my soul, enshrouded in a stack of mud, in a desolated place,
My roots are too feeble to read that case
A fragmented mind, my hampered cognition, pictures you in the pleasing attires,
All I know are just my futile desires
Victim, they call me, when I visit your house, and grab those dispersed roses
A few letters garnished, just to seize my reaction,
Almighty has deceived me with his bitter, yet innocent abduction
Your warm breath, ventures me, like a spellbound,
Snivels, ****** tears, soaked up in the soil, I tend to hound
Victim, I’m a victim of my encapsulated love,
A victim of irrational fears, fallible against my taken vows
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
Miss lee regrets
She's unable to dine today
Sadly , miss lee regrets
She's unable to dine today
She's so sorry to be delayed
But last night
At lover's lane instead of being faithful , she strayed
Sadly, miss lee regrets
She's unable to dine today
When she got up from her dream
Discovered her man had tasted her sweetness and gone
Sadly, she ran after him
And made it his final earthly time to play
And from her chic matching outfit
She fired that first bullet into his chest
Sadly, miss lee regrets
She's unable to dine today
Than the cops came and put on the cuffs
Read her rights calmly with no muss or fuss
She served ten years right away
Used the long years of time to think and pray
And not long after her release miss lee died
Few folks were at the graveside to cry
Sadly , miss lee regrets
She's unable to dine today
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
When the time is come
a Viking funeral
is what I want.
No crass military honors,
no graveside of grieving.
Place me in the boat
soaked with flammable unguents,
mould my rigid arms
around my life's sword
and push me into the current.
There I will glide alone
until one precise arrow
sings its firey song
and I depart this world
in a burst of flames,
like a warrior, like a man.
~mce
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
So many times, I knew you'd be in my life;
my first car, out of school, a new job and a wife.
My first job just started today.
I know its not much, but its paving the way.
Just branching out, to make it on my own.
I wish you could see me in my brand new home.
But you're not here, its just me and my beer, and I **** sure wont be sober.
Cause try as I might, I remember the night, They told me "visiting hours are over".
Its hard to explain after all these years, how it seem so easy that I break down in tears.
I always thought that You'd be here with me; it never occurred that You just wouldn't be.
As I stand by your graveside, a train whistle blows. The wind picks up and the sky is a glow.
So many things I was longing to say.
I hope you are right, that well meet again someday.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC