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Phil jones Jun 2014
I don't care much for love and such things that go well with red
Because my bed is a love gravesite
Twisting, cutting, affecting only my love life.
So I've been making friends with ghosts who chose to be dead
White sheets and streaks of life left
But the burials set, and it's time to breath dirt
Heavens picket fence or hells stained shirt.
"Wagons East (1994) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0111653/ Internet Movie Database Rating: 4.7/10 - ‎3,545 votes (stylized onscreen as ‘Wagons East’) is a 1994 western comedy film directed by Peter Markleand starring John Candy and Richard Lewis. The film marked one of Candy's last film appearances although it was not his last film release. His last film, Canadian Bacon which he had completed before “Wagons East,” had a delayed release in 1995. The film was notable for its leading actor Candy dying of a heart attack during the final days of the film's production. A stand-in and special effects were used to complete his remaining scenes and it released five months after his death."

And it’s Wagons East!
John Candy’s last mega-bomb,
Released 5 months postmortem.
Alas, even the sympathy vote stayed home,
Reject the we-owe-it-to-him-for
“Planes, Trains & Automobiles”(1987, IMDB).
The role, like money in the bank,
Earning diminishing returns,
Yielding interest but losing value over time.
The myth of INTEREST:
Das Capital, 2015.
The Prime is at 0%,
Yet, Inflation soars at, well,
At inflationary rates,
Digit-pounding inflation,
Higher food & shelter prices,
Masked ever so cleverly,
So deftly obscured by benevolent gasoline prices.

“Planes, Trains & Automobiles” (1987, IMDB)
Meet Del Griffith,
An obnoxious slob,
A complete schlemiel
(Also shle·miel (shlə-mēl′),
A serene shower curtain ring
Salesman and tour de force.
A film illustrative of everything
We love about farce,
(Merci beaucoup, Molière!)
And love about any
John Hughes/Steve Martin collaboration.

Needless to say,
I watched “Wagons East”
On TV the other day.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
Will-o'-wisping in the ashtray,
Smoke from my first joint of the day.
The ashtray, a mosh pit carbonara--
Actually, an inverted exoskeleton dome--
One of dem big muthas,
I once free-dived for,
Offshore Mendocino Coast,
Back in the day,
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY . . .
(The French Laundry: Thomas Keller Restaurant Group, www.thomaskeller.com. Chef Thomas Keller visited Yountville, California in the early 1990's on a quest for a space to fulfill a longtime culinary dream: to establish a destination for fine --314 Google reviews · Write a review 6640 Washington St, Yountville, CA 94533 (707) 944-2380. Daily Menus - ‎Make a Reservation - ‎Restaurant)
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY
Paid beaucoup bucks for
Well-tenderized,
Sledge hammered slabs of illegal,
Black Market abalone.
Most assuredly, I digress.

So where else would I be?
My laptop was open & willing,
Legs spread, wet and waiting for
Whatever comes what may.
What came was a film
Earning pitch perfect
Dramatic chops for Candy.
We owe you, Del.
We owe you for this Anthem:
“You wanna hurt me? Go right ahead if it makes you feel any better. I'm an easy target. Yeah, you're right, I talk too much. I also listen too much. I could be a cold-hearted cynic like you . . . but I don't like to hurt people's feelings. Well, you think what you want about me; I'm not changing. I like . . . I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. Cause I'm the real article. What you see is what you get.”
But that was then,
This is now.
Wagons East:
A disastrous ****** bomb.
A vapid character jambalaya:
(1) A defrocked doctor
(2) A sagebrush *****.
(3) A queer book vendor.
(4) A Donner Party Survivor
Sounds can’t miss, right?
Or was it a classic Broadway/Hollywood sting?
Redux: “Spring Time for ******.”
N'est-ce pas?
Four *******
Heading east by wagon train;
Giving up on The West,
Heading east for Saint Louie,
Where freaks & geeks go undercover.
Down go their guards.
Camouflaging the chimera,
Transits the urban Wasteland,
Vast & nasty, as it were.

St. Louis, Missouri:
A much more tolerant
Hideout place.
THE WEST:
Just too much of
A hassle, I guess,
Too much for one’s
Flat-lined human mind,
Bored too shitless by
Buffalo turds to venture thought.
THE WEST:
Neorealismo italiano.
Complete Jolting-Joe reality,
A veritable wake-up call
Devouring any & all
Residual romantic fantasies . . .
THE WEST:
Struggle & Drudge,
Life lived west of the Mississippi.

Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Kindle (www.amazon.com) Books Literature & Fiction Amazon.com, Inc. Start reading Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Get the free Kindle Reading App or read on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle? www.amazon.com

That’s right: another advertisement,
Smack dab in the middle of
Of the ******* poem!
My invention, by the by,
Putting herein another plug for
A preferred memorial gravesite,
The Shrine To Me!
Situated in Scituate,
(Always wanted to say that.)
Scituate MA (www.scituatema.gov)
Knowing my kryptonite crypt,
My not-marble-nor-gilded
Princely-monument,
Had no chance to outlive
This fakakta rhyme scheme . . .
The Shrine To Me!
My final resting place:
My very tony, exclusive
Sub Zip Code?
The South Transept
Westminster Abbey
The so-called Poets’ Corner,
Of course!

Which brings me to my true purpose:
My true intentions for you this morning?
To publicize the strange Case of
CHARLES ROCKET:
(Go ahead, ******* Google him!)
“Charlie Rocket, found dead in a field near
His Connecticut home on October 7, 2005,
His throat had been cut.
He was 56 years old.
The state medical examiner
Later ruled the death a suicide.”
And if you believe the Coroner,
A Medicine Man &
Master of Self-Interest;
If you give that sharp-dealing,
Proverbial Connecticut Yankee his due,
Then you will probably also think
That millionaire Robert Durst
Didn’t **** Susan Berman,
Even as we see him
Getting away with ******.
Again.
Looking at the times the way these dimes
Droppin' like flies as time goes by thinkin' why?
They living up to a ** status tryna to be the baddest
But forget that you beautiful the way your are
a shining star that's going dim
Tryna impress them ?
But they ain't seeing yo who do believe in?
Me or next man
Setting the masterplan at hand got ****
She fell to the design that was planned
Insecurities rushing cuffin'
to a disease
Invisible melodies stringing her menality
Wake up and stop following these fakes in society
Cuz they don't care about thee
just another bill ya need to seal and ****
These fakes tryna make fame off of a fake name
Only to end up ashamed


Now the next girl was giving her self to the world
Eyes glistening like a pearl yo it makes me wanna earl
She was lusting each scene for the cream and it seems
She can't break away from the siblings
Aphrodisiac beings
spiritually killing
Her soul outta control to many energies swarming a hole
Thoughts dug deeper than an abyss soon to kiss
A gravesite from having to many one nights
Momentarily she's feels good from.the morning wood
And if I could
Change her views but she stuck in her ways
So I guess the pain is there to stay floating away
Me I'm on cloud nine tryna place my self in unison to the sun
an unbecome a fallin' one

Little lost women lookin' for men
To take in can't amend
Their problems but we all got problems
Can't resolve 'em only evolve 'em above the rim
Word to birdie lookin' for the enemies frenzy
See the past I peeped the scenery since the age of three
a golden taste of the coke and Hennessy
Gave me a second chance to glance into the 9th D
A Time traveler wisdom unraveler I'm the savior
Resurrected from death in the form of a fetus
Baby girl wipe ya tears no need to fear
And compare against these buccaneers
Most close their ears so they can't hear
Ya sighs ...bawlin' no stallin'
let's rise
above all of those fallin'..now say...
We
Dark n Beautiful Mar 2017
I buried my father:

In the St. Augustine Cemetery
I visit at the old gravesite of the deceased annually
I saw the quiet grave keeper still standing there looking dazed and confused
By the looks of things:
My father resting place
still soaks up all the tears

My mother and other siblings said to me
That to visit any one grave site wasn’t their kind of thing

I buried my father underground: It have been so long
Since then, the birds would come to the house of my father
Looking for breadcrumbs from days old bread
The dead will not be forgotten, his name will lives on

When I was a toddler, he fed me white rice with butter
Sprinkled with black pepper and grated cheese:
With my weak voice I was say “thank you: he was so please

I buried my father in the St. Augustine cemetery
It’s one of the saddest places to visit,
Unlike seasonal passes tickets
So adjacent, those graves: so annoying those wild crickets

He might be far away from his home,
but not from our hearts
Everything on his grave seem so square and flat,
But the most outstanding piece was the letters that read
R.I.P:  what I saw was (Rescue Innocent Perry)

Sometimes, I wondered about the dead
About their done deals: their final feast
I buried my father there, but not his memories

I saw the old mahogany tree still standing tall
the pieces of kindling wood, he made for grilling,

I will  always remember him, and I know he might be
Thinking of me, his poetic daughter especially on that day
when I accompany him to cut the branches from the
old Mahogany tree, just to make backyard wood fire
For the family breakfast, lunch and supper
I buried my father: the naïve share cropper:
Memories, sadness Mahanay tree, death , wood fire,
family, sharecropper
I was drinking at the Legion

The place wasn't really busy

But there was one man at a table

Who made me really dizzy

He was waving all around the room

He was really in a zone

The funny thing about it

He was sitting all alone

He spoke in quiet whispers

And he heard silent replies

From chairs that sat there empty

He heard their mournful cries

He had a beer before him

But he never left his chair

And no one sat beside him

It's just like he wasn't there

So, I went about my business

Playing darts and shooting pool

Buying tickets for the meat draws

Watching young ones acting cool

The other active members

Who'd spent some time in battle

Always checked to see his beer was full

As he sat there spouting prattle

It's unwritten at the Legion

You never ask about the war

You just revel in their company

That's what the place is for

There's veterans who'll tell stories

Of years gone bye and bye

But, you never ask a question

"Did you see somebody die?"

The Actives know their station

The young ones though do not

It's because of all the Actives

They've got all that they've got

As time went on I wondered

The story of this man

So , I went and asked the barkeep

He said "I'll tell you what I can"

He served two brews and wiped a glass

He stood flashing a smile

"You'd better grab a chair my boy"

"This here might take a while"

I sat and listened as he talked

About this man distressed

He told me "His name's Harold"

"And you can say his mind is messed"

"I've been working here for twenty years

And he's been here twice that

He's never moved from that **** chair

That's where Harold's always sat"

He got up once to fill a glass

And then came back to me

"When I came here, I had just got home

"I'd been fighting overseas"

"From what I heard at first" he said

"Harold's always been that way"

"And as you can see from watching"

"He'll always stay that way"

"He's lost inside his mind you know

To June 6  in forty four"

"We both know that as D-Day

"But he knows it as more"

"It was Juno Beach from what I've told

he landed with his squad

Over 14,000 Canadians

And now most lie with God"

I then got up and went outside

I said "I need a break"

I went out for a cigarette

For this tale had made me shake

I went back in, got two more beers

And sat right down again

"His whole platoon went down that day

They'd lost 3,000 men"

"There was Harold and 300

"others who survived"

"But living life inside their heads"

"I think they'd wished they'd died"

"He lives with Jean, his sister"She's been there all his life

"She put her life on hold for him

"She's never been a wife"

"She pays me for his beer every month

"And says to keep some for me

"But a penny's never crossed my bar

"You see ...Old Harold drinks for free"

"I give her money now and then

"I say he won a draw"

"Just for showing up each day I say

"just that and nothing more"

I went and grabbed a bar rag

And I wiped my teary eyes

I then paid for my drinks and

I left fifty bucks besides

He said your bill's eight fifty

What's all the extra for?

I said that he could keep it

Or just put it in his draw

He nodded and he smiled

And I left the bar for home

And as I left I watched poor Harold

On Juno Beach, his mind, his home

I came back three months later

And I saw no Harold there

There was now an empty table

And now, four empty chairs

"Dear God, it's you"....the barkeep said

"Grab your coat, come with me"

"Harold died on Saturday"

"And his funeral's at three"

He died a war time hero

But still a prisoner all the same

And down at our old Legion

Very few knew Harold's name

When we got out to the gravesite

I expected to see more

But there was just Old Harold's sister

The priest and us two...made it four.

We said a prayer, and sang a Hymn

He was back with his Platoon

He was back on Juno Beach again

Where his life ended that June

It's a shame that no one came out

To see him on his way

But, there'll be me and Bill the barkeep

Every year and on this day.
Amanda Jan 2019
she wept near the grave of her father,
knees digging into the fresh dirt.
her tears watered the earth beneath
her limbs.
deep sobs escaped her throat.
her father stood near.
not yet enough energy to form
and apparition for his daughter--
maybe some day.

he could see others pacing beside
their graves--wandering.
with a slight tip of the hat
to another nearby soul
and a sigh towards his kin,
he vanished with a gust of wind.
she turned, rubbing her puffy eyes
wishing it were him.
disappointed, she lays down
on top of the soil, six feet between her
and the freshly departed.
Delta Swingline Apr 2017
When walking through a gravesite, you forget that several feet under lies the body of a person you may or may not know.

I have a surname and plot number...

This could have been my family.

Maybe it is.
Maybe it was.

I don't feel worthy enough to sit in the grass before the tombstones.

To place my hands on the stones... they're so cold.

I've read the inscriptions.

Never forgotten by wife and son.
Faithful unto death, may he rest in peace.
A soldier of the great war.
Known unto God

Known unto God

Known unto God.

I have a surname and a plot number written in roman numerals, somebody tell me where I can find the plot under the number 30.

I ran through the gravesite only to find 29.

And I ran out of time.

So tell me where I can find him.

After all... an unknown family wrapped in a common surname is all I really know.
I never found it.
Carly Two Sep 2013
And there you are walking around
with no blood in you
desperately running into everyone
and never sticking.
Copyright, C. Heiser 2013
Riley Nov 2021
1)

don't forget to keep breathing
cradle-rock your heart
soothe your ribs
don't forget to breathe

2)

the cold is natural
bundle up now
you can always shed
your skin
when the sky turns

3)

don't linger
in the places you once Were
keep moving else
your blood settle

4)

late night parking decks
hotel rooftops
yourSelf a whisper
honeysuckle blooms through
concrete wounds

5)

don't think about waking
ripping out of your body
clawing through the coffin and up
and up

your gravesite is spotless still

6)

dream
cool rich earth
lilies and lavender
whisper rustle of leaves
dream

7)

dream
heavy water
lake mud and rock ****
desperate silence
dream

8)

dream
hunger
Hunger
H u n g e r
dream

9)

dream
slow opening
granite doors and damp moss
spaces between absent heartbeats
wake

10)

the hollow is natural
the brain craves familiarity
the phantom mirrors the physical
the hunger will fade
for a time

11)

when eating cherries
don't forget to imagine a tongue

12)

remorse with me
may the living one day
bestow our graves with offerings
we starve in silence

13)

hollowing may beget holiness
but it doesn't denote such
divinity must be earned
few buildings have managed

14)

you can almost smell his skin
stomach rising and falling
best not to dwell
his life is no longer yours

15)

phantom petal flesh
teeth and thrush
rosethorn oleander s e e p ing black
curses and
sinking
  forest rot
    deep
       soil


16)

do not follow
when the wind asks your counsel
when the moon thorn buds
when the night screams bruiseblueblack
do not seek the woods alone

17)

don't dwell
it's natural to feel exposed
keeping space beside you
will only make missing them worse

18)

let the ceiling fall
it is beyond your power
stars make fairy lights
through the frame of branches
as it should be

19)

Death is a story keeper
an archivist
a library of everything
from the first atoms
to the last sparks

20)

don't worry
the house hasn't moved
since you last saw it
though the tree seems closer

21)

press yourself into
the size of a fist
wrap clockwise around
his heart
cherish the fleeting creature

22)

there is always
my s p a c e
left in the bed
when I come home to
haunt

23)

there is
My space
left in the house
when I come Home to
Haunt!!!a

Zombie

24)

missed exit
streetlights smeared by rain
vacant hotels
liminality made nostalgia

25)

tracing paper kisses
early spring thaw
did I melt away too

26)

isn't is strange
your shadow doubles
film printed over film
light runs through you
heat waves off pavement

27)

time will slip off you
don't cling to it
you'd have better luck
holding the sun
time is beyond you now

28)

the hunger doesn’t fade
it twists itself into sickness
an unfillable void

29)

let your heart fill
with paint and
dust
like the nail holes in plaster
last remains smoothed over

30)

there is no place
for you here
why do you insist on
lingering

31)

this house is a heart
you
are a phantom gunshot

32)

do you remember
a sharp pain where your lungs should be
the pressure of blood stagnant

33)

molars, incisors, canines
rigid and Real against
the memory of your tongue
a sharpness drawing blood
staining the sidewalk beneath your false feet

34)

your body is
wet rot and beetles
a collection of rooms
teeth and stomach and hollowing all disarticulated
a knife in a box

35)


sunlight breaking dust layers
the curtains wave lazily
someone has tracked mud through the halls
a splintered attic door hangs off
its hinges
the air tastes green

36)

when you finally become hollowed
the space between houses
the space between ribs
the space between teeth
the light that pours out
you will be made holy
in your Own image

37)

thick ozone at the back of your throat
rainless thunder rolls
the old piano shuffles untouched
a discordant funeral keen
the air ignites

38)

elevator doors close
open
close
stale cigarettes and cleaning chemicals
fluorescent buzzing
vacant sobs in an airy tomb
of concrete

39)

parking decks remain
a kind of home base
for those of us lacking liminality
every one is the same
and as such becomes intimately familiar
no matter how far it means you are
from home

40)

how many eyes are you supposed to have
what about teeth
count them in the mirror
again
again
Again

41)

beauty is in the eye
gnashing teeth
silent weeping
love lies not in the heart
nor head
but in the stomach

42)

skin peels back
muscles made of embroidery thread
birch bones bleeding
indigo
flesh transmuted

43)

you move through the world
as it moves through you
silently creeping
swirls of smoke and fog
filling up to your sternum

44)

wander
for a time
everything will be unfamiliar
on your journey and
return
to a stranger’s home

45)

dust to dust
and ashes to ashes
your headstone crumbles
your bones are meal
the world in which you haunt
will one day be far removed from
your own

46)

study the web
the winding and stretching of gossamer
collapsed in on itself
clustered with dew

47)

study the shell
the crests and smooths hard as bone
fragile against your fingers
an inner matrix of holes

48)

study the nest
the braiding weaves of branch and thread
fractured to one side
feathers slip asunder

49)

study the desk
the crags and slopes of precarious inkstaining
spilling frozen towards the floor
fine filtering of dust

50)

remember
what Precisely is a
Haunted
house

51)

Congratulations on Completing Part I of Your Introduction Handbook
Please Continue onto Part II

52)

fallow hearts sewn full of seed
bones with the crack and bend of trees
pressed petal flesh bruiseblack at the knees
when building a new body don't forget what it needs

53)

liminality is a current
riptide in some places
burble in others
watch for waterfalls
death doesn’t mean you're a strong swimmer

54)

builders write messages
on the innermost workings
of their buildings
behind the plaster disintegrating and
the wallpaper peeling
a belly button
a birthmark

55)

when the moon calls your name
listen
when the raven screeches warning
heed
when the voices of a house offer deals
Run

56)

kitten-footed fog
follow it through
the tall thin trees
until you see lights
then follow it
home

57)

tell me about humanity
does it hurt you
is it heavy to bear
or is it just breathing
one foot in front of the other
a faded photograph

58)

rivers slip blue
through the land like veins
cornflower and cobalt
cold tissue paper flesh

59)

missed connection
you left flowers
three graves down
I was in white
under the maple tree

60)

missed connection
you look so lovely
in blue
I'm right here
just turn around

61)

missed connection
every sunday
you walk
bakery library home florist cemetery
you talk to yourself
I always answer

62)

missed connection
you talk in your sleep
do you sense I'm there
deep in your bones
do you know you'll never
be alone again

63)

missed connection
I smashed a plate
and spent all night playing
in your wires
can you feel me now
in the light bulbs humming

64)

missed connection
you haven't spoken since
it's so silent I could be heard
I'm sleeping in the walls
singing for you

65)

missed connection
you were up all night
researching the supernatural
I'm right here
just see me

66)

missed connection
sunday you started talking
to me
we took a new walk
library shopping district cemetery home
notes and candles and blacksalt
a rubbing of my gravestone

67)

missed connection
nothing we tried worked
you still can't see me
you can just hear
my humming in the power sockets
my singing in the walls

68)

missed connection
I wrote you a letter
with leaves under your staircase
you swept them without noticing
singing one of my songs

69)

missed connection
you found a picture of me
framed it
sometimes you leave letters
my name on the front
hidden in the table drawer

70)

missed connection
I tried writing on glass panes
whispering in your ears
you tried spirit boards
seances and divination
I'll never stop
as long as you live

71)

missed connection
you stopped leaving letters
sunday walks abandoned
for living friends
I shorted out the tv
you don't come home much
anymore

72)

missed connection
you started driving
to nowhere
I tucked myself
between
the back seats
you locked eyes with me
through oncoming headlights

73

missed connection
I broke every mirror
ran screaming through the wires
the curtains are catching fire
can you still feel me
do you still know I'm here

74)

missed connection
you look so lovely
in black
just turn around
please turn around
I'm right here
always
a long-form poem about being a ghost
morallygray Feb 2019
A field of roses
Where we walked
The sun beaming off your face
Tender and delightful

I visit that same field of roses
Only now it is I who walks them
The sun beaming off my tears drops
In pain and dying

You were my rose
My reason for getting up and walking
My sunshine and light
But now you are my rock, so deep in the ground.
They leave Jerusalem, with the acrobats from Shiraz. They were ghosts of poetry, wine, roses and fireflies; they were conjuring the path of the twelve camels to the intersection with the Cenotaph, where King David with the Cherubs of Kafersesuh will stay. They were Epi ghosts, basking in camelid footsteps. They went in all the intermittences of the bent nails and plants of the areas of the marquee of the other four ghosts that accompanied him. They were the jumpers with water wheels, wheel scales with tutelary cords, some with stilts of gold disgrace from the coins of Judas Iscariot and the last propelled by a caper that ruled all the others on the wings of the Fireflies. Withdrawn from the road that leads to the Kidron valley, 2,500 years of clay tablets from Persepolis fall on all of them, they were phonetized with the plaintive nightmare of Tirazis's one-eyed poem; which is currently Shiraz, in this way these ghosts escorted the Hexagonal Birthright, they were exiled from their ghostly cities for not paying the tribute of obedience to destroy and rebuild. As they began to be with them in the cove, the ghosts of the acrobats boiled with the eagerness to prevent everyone from being saddened by the departure from the orchard, which was falling further and further behind their footsteps, dancing with their pirouettes along the way, they told little stories. in the ears of travelers.

Hydro Saltimabanqui: “I come from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), an underground canal that carries spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here I have to mend the propellers and water ropes to do my acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When we bite our tongues, we repair it with Hafiz's verses from the Koran; there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with my wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monteblanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan trembling with uncertain doubts on its way to Jaffa. "

Saltimbanqui of Bacule: "We are Epi ghosts, the reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almería of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Here we look; from here we will board the barge that will take them from back to Limassol. Curiously, the same ship from Lepanto that sleeps in the swings of the sea and in the arms of Anaximander, in a new awakening from the lethargy of the super-string theorization, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, since this is not just to research purely empirical. "

Says Anaximander: “First…, we have no proof that string theory is not ultimately correct and in the future in any verifiable way. Second, we propose a project of the order of string theory, which is necessary for science and its importance, going even beyond the scientific to also project itself on the metaphysical and the religious, right here in this order of greater what to do together with the rope that leads me to Patmos.

Saltimabanqui of Bascule responds: “metaphysical and religious legitimacy, here we are tying knots in the rope that inaugurates a new masonry in the observable futuristic look. Here is the original fiction of continuing to raise the necks of the ants over our optics. We will jump on these ropes, but we will fall on intervals of placental physical dens, which were born from the new embryo in the twelve caves of Gethsemane, in a primitive late germinal process. The micro phonetic vibrations will lift us up from the hunger to follow and leave King David in his cenotaph, gored on his hips by the Cherubim, marking his holy antlers that become entangled in the blunting of the cuneiform scratches of his epigram.

In the middle of the magical theorists exotically as associativity of substance causally of the poetic and multiverse song, believing in the ghosts of Shiraz, as dreams injected to sublimate the Aeneids that they lamented on the bottom stones, even though they were independent of their material origin. Multi universes, multi paraphrase for who has to dress the word “Rosa in her noble long dress to the cliff of Ebdara when Vernarth acclaims his brother Etréstles, he comes with the Auriga from Messolonghi. Rested and determined to head to Tel Gomel, he comes with his horse Kanti to keep him company on this crusade. Kanti defied the Cliffs of Crete, he was servile to Markos Botsaris, 1821 (Royal Hero of the Liberation of Greece in the Turkish Invasion, Koumeterium Messolonghi - Palibrio USA), until in the afternoon he approached from a herd of beautiful places of steeds to him. This was heard by Etréstles and he seized His horse to have more than a Life from his company, more than a lost and lost aroma of his natural mother, to reach the one who would treasure it”.

The ghosts attribute quantitative passages from before leaving King David, and then continuing on the road to Jaffa and advancing on the ship back to Cyprus; Limassol. All were hyperkinetic bowls leveraged by the terrain that was on the **** of the acrobatic histrion foreshadowing the contours of the temporal filigree, which in each one made them smile at the carriage with oxidizing wheels, still being immaterial beings, but alive in its marvel gases, wading the serious bile that emerged from the glasses in his allegories. His footsteps and his undulating phonetic figures did not stop over the caravan, which had already passed Jerusalem. They were already undaunted by themselves and overshadowed by the foreboding modulation and encryption of the rehearsals they were doing, over the heavy atmosphere that seized and begged a small piece of the attention of those who did not celebrate their Shiraz pirouettes.
The areas, volumes, and lengths were fully encompassed by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the acrobats ran along the banks of Ramallah, it was already winter, the city received them with winds and rains from the southwest alternating with cold and dry winds from the northeast. The acrobats went like master geometricians to condone the fuss of the caravan, devising a dodexagesimal system. (Twelve centuries of ultra-nocturnal geometry and shipwrecks at the Alexandria lighthouse)

Positioning as a base the number 12, to measure times and angles that they needed to avoid the voluminous rains that hit the caravan.  Incredibly, the volumetric position of the plantar legs of the camels seemed like wheels that rotated without stopping in any anti circumferential radius, making some clouds a shutter that enclosed them like a trapezoid of God's flock in the high semicircle of the waters that tried to fall. , like axiomatic staves of Euclid's beard tempering his elemental construct.

The linear position of each one of those who were mounted was a perfect ergonometric based on the Muladhara pressing the four red petals on pressing the Achilles heel of Vernarth, which was dimensioning the Ramallah triangulation, with the fungi that were housed in its Xifos sword in the jet tip that carried the dodexagesimal cartography. In the same position, the Apostle Saint John seemed, he carried the rosary in his left hand in geometry that elongated his nose and feet in an adonis triangle, thirsty for one hundred and twenty degrees of the sextant that broadened its spectrum to align with this Birthright. Thus the stars and planets are positioned as celestial spheres with the gravitation of the Olivos Berna, revolutionizing curved and flat equations that intuited to go beyond the crossed pirouettes that the acrobats did all the way, even further than those of the withered path of oil, purposely of the axiomatic systems that the Ghosts of Shiraz intended to establish.

Shiraz  Ghosts

These Persian Epi ghosts, axiomatized abstract and ideal entities relating models of austerity and lyricism, which fluctuated in the lines and planes of movements of the clouds with the counterpoint of the legs of the Gigas, leaving marks in the sand like a point Morse, straight and flat, until the fifth step that tried to cross the lines of Ramallah, for the parallelism that the centuries that asked Vernarth to reorder the geometric geography of time and the positions that were added as a delay effect in the Garden, essentially of a hyperbolic vision, to appropriate the entities of the Ghosts that grasp with their little finger the strings of the times associated with Gaugamela in his palatial sovereignty with the footsteps of Vernarth and in the phylogeny of a world that is born behind the confines of religious micro- genetics , from whose space is born in another and would accommodate a circular bijective function, to attract the aerosisms of Ein Kerem in the new life signs of J Joshua in the reborn One-dimensional Beams.

Vernarth diluted his bones to sit near the tarsus and accommodate it at the end of the vertebra of the Muladhara (Chakra of 4 petals), making a sub-technical geometric function to preserve the figures of darkness that were also diluted, to arrive at night close to of Jaffa, in the surroundings the isometric fire existing in each one and in two dimensions…, but born of a common one. Raeder and Petrobus wore their floating eyelashes full of dusty and dense manias on their faces, with splinters gum that they had released from one of the pirouettes of one of the mountebanks when colliding with the basic postulates of the Ghosts of Shiraz, deducing undulating spaces like snakes within the isometric fire that dazzled them with the burning senses of humor of the last drops of the Shemesh codifying themselves in an absolute intuitive measure, beyond all dimensions, which is Consciousness destroying the planes and spaces that multiplied among themselves as members of another geometric conscious dimension.

Arriving at the Ben Shemen crossing, everyone undergoes collective hypnosis; the ghosts manage to embody each of the components of the Birthright but omitting a great factor. They relegated the Hexagonality of the genetics of this caravan, not raising the ghosts when calculating the area of once they were being intracorporeal within the members, thus having to abandon before the last ray of Shemesh threw them on their faces ashes of the Gehenna, for this supposed reason to leave them condemned to recycle the human species, for the purpose of reproducing sacred human beings, but being subservient to the cravings beyond the immortality of the miscalculation that led them to the citadel of Karim Khan, surprised with its stamp of thick stone walls and circular towers in the heart of Shiraz. This gave them a warrior aspect contrary to their fame and history: this was a city famous for two thousand years for its culture, with its gardens and its poets, now if in a conspiracy by this beautiful odalisque ruse that attracted the guide of the ecstatic ghosts, in a bad moment of extradition to a bad context of epi ghosts not yet defined in their pockets of apprentices boasting on the laurels of weak and doubtful ideas, which still swarmed within his white heart, trying to reach Vernarth's as former commander Hetairoi, now a servile mystic. In such a way, the complicated as ghosts like "Sufi", being, in reality, the genetic soul of the double ax that carries the double edge of today ..., of the sacrament of Medea in Abdera.

Pro says a ghost from Shiraz (embarrassed):

"The Universe is a sea that longs for dry shores,
without sea and without other wet longings ...,
no possible maiden could
Try to dry it with your star hands ...
Who calms the crying of the Universe ...
even so ..., simile remains floating as a verse between his dreams "

"How can I make my dreams another dimension of the universe?
if he is quiet and does not make me float in his sea ...
How can I make it possible for the tips of its stars
fill the spaces that have revealed it ...
and that have made circular shores without a sea in the mists "

"I walk alone and nobody sees me ...
so I don't wake up the candles that smile and accompany me ...
between days that turn into mornings on the shore
of the solitude of the universe, that nobody embraces him ... "

“Now the days tremble from almost falling on themselves,
They come out alive from their own loneliness of exhaustion and fullness ...of whoever appreciates them in the mists ...
being able to surrender their attention in Ben Shemen ”.
As the Ghost of Shiraz expires in Ben Shemen, he escapes all for nothing in the triad of hypnotizing conventions that still resided in the shameless air that engulfed him, all over the stationary enclosures of the entertainment spaces caused by the acrobats and epi ghosts. That seduced the indecisive beings that sailed over the limbs that made them doubt where to refrain from continuing, outside the radius of the caravan or beyond the skies that did not cease to be in good spirits, of the universe passing through the white hearts, six on the inside and six on the outside in their traveling artist folds.

The lands that are accommodated by the time of parapsychological hypnosis tremble again, as a separation from the physical magnitude of Gethsemane.  Creating a sequence that bends the heads of the ghosts, filling their translucent physiognomies between a cold past and a frozen future, from a classic mechanic, which from now on would depend on the dice thrown by the Third Phantasm of time. Here a relativism would be opened to those who want to see the past in the orchard in an unstable particulate present, leaving far from splitting both parts of the archetype of today, like a subdivided clash of several times that allowed integrating the remaining phantasmagorical spectra, taking over a story on a pluriaxial axis that prevailed in the time of a supposed numerical line from a vector, aligning itself towards the compass of the distance that shines between both northern hemispheres in the minutes that go to the right and the solid-gas seconds that burst almost in the walls of their own liberated beings. The four ghosts of Shiraz, had time differentials before this event with the caravan, verifying the simultaneous prop between the two pairs of ghosts between four dissimilar, but poetic ones that made them here at this point obviate and cancel between two relative nomenclatures of physical structure. The durability and classification of these micro-times of the phantom epi would make the database that St. John the Apostle and Vernarth will accumulate with their eyes closed, each one surpassing himself from the debatable areas, which concern to estimate in occupying the spaces physical in some of them at will so that one of them could embark to Limassol. This simultaneous and relativistic multi-active line, encloses events and squares of spaces in the cinematographic time of the parapsychological regression, as a link of physical images slowed down in the evolutionary and cognitive memory, passing from the conduit of expectation memorization events towards the set of absolute figures. not pigeonholed, but approaching the universe in grasping scales of those who value them. This elucidates even the very conception of conceiving oneself as a ghost, rather in what is called "Epi Ghosts", of absolute belonging of the identical ..., outside of oneself "Being with them and not, as a tacit phase of a dragged story with the seconds that were not lived ... "

This scaling conception will allow them to reside a few millimeters from the consciences of the caravan that was advancing automated along the tracks that already made time and distance in front of the absolute, in a jiffy, having in their faces Rizhon Lezion, who was made of images more than a marked and concrete story in a mechanics that kept the body as part of a large volume in all, to the rhythm of the plantar areas of the Camels Gigas, dividing as a stream of water that would flow fragmented between past, present and future, but as a starting pattern to the future as the only "today" for the time of the times. This unified three-dimensionality would mark the mathematical space of the attempts towards the future of the contiguous camelids of the ghosts of Shiraz, for the ownership of time between all with a single identity that cries out for the univocal will to rearm, even if the winds are very strong. Of the partition,  which separates the world from God and the believing observer into the future with a believer from a historical past in obscurantism, leaving and entering a new world whose notion is to spend connected and bound in a systematization dependent on the great causes, although the static feels isolated from the dynamics, inquiring probative to unite between the ghosts and others, even though they are inferior forces under the line of the generous gaze and the parallelism of the attentive spectator, which suggests more openness to receive and delegate the circumstances of all physical, emotional, spectral and mental-spiritual dimensions, flexing the emotional states hierarchical night and day. Everyone falls asleep hugging on cushions of lamb saddlebags, making it possible to get closer to them too, close to the Ghosts and sleep next to them hugging with the decanted strength of the frames that hang from their faces showing the emotion of being favorite children of the Mashiach, absorbed in the Kidron Valley.

The frontier of the future will be the pre-act of not traveling too much of the physical love to the touch that only awaits the love of the sleeping of a Cherub, this may occur when the sheep climb the hill of our consciences, and manage to be perceived as the simultaneous harness of satisfaction, who lack the vision that would speak to them of a past belonging immobile, to this ethereal topology that will have to biodegrade the molecules of the seconds that sleep in the sheep-man wool saddlebags, at a higher speed than it would last to go back near from the palisade, where it crosses the path to the immemorial arcades of the Mashiach, spinning around all creation at a speed that determines a verse in its soul around the orthogonal of Shemesh, quadrupled and cloistered in its self-consciousness scattered like iceberg down the back in the submissive thoughts that long to be tied to more precious time.

Our lord has us more tied to an absolutist past and future, looking at his calendar divided in such a way that it always fits the day that hurts the shadows of a sharp past, so that it always smiles in us, as the best luminous sign, of whom and with whom to repair the damage of various wounds that travel through the times of time, always wounded, to and from the borders of an anachronistic past. The ghosts, always fast tetra, marginalize themselves to the sound of greater diligence, they fled in Rizhon Lezion, to wake up a little further away from the rays of the stationary Sun, which from now on always surfaced in the degraded dark circles of the mountebank, prowling around the festivities of who knows how to wait, to make a toast under the pretext of faith and hope that exempts the cardinal turned into a flower in white attire.

Shvil from the Angels

The fast epi phantom tetra was emaciated, they lost their north and since they could not walk, they were not energized by the radiosities of the earth, which dominates those who lend divine graces if their feet rested on the tapestry of those who threw their footsteps in winter already near Jaffa. The Shvil Angels were angels that were on the route that cordoned off the pilgrimage of Vernarth and Saint John the Apostle, they were full of flowering Berne Olive Trees that made trunks of floral arches at the entrance of this ancient port. They were three when they walked, they were always distributed so fast that they seemed to be six, but they ended up averaging the quantum of three for each of the components of the Birthright, which from today would be the great circumcision event of the Universe, to make it part of those who one day will have to caulk the rhombuses of the fragmented light beams on the path of heaven so high, in the name of the phrases that never tire of looking at the incautious years that are of our father by the exogalaxies in the total company of the invisibility and relativity of cautious time.

This Semitic seashore beauty indicates and invites us to reach its salty Hebrew waters of Yofi, reinforcing the phonetics that runs madly through the border hills with its heart in hand, when foreigners appear in the name of plausive phylogeny. That brings him a piece of bearable land from the Universal Flood, this is why the ancient Canaanites have to receive them with the table set, to entertain them with winter flowers in Jaffa. The Hellenistic tradition relates the name to Iopeia, which is Cassiopeia herself, mother of Andromeda. After Pliny the Elder the name is connected with Joppa, who was the daughter of ******, god of the wind. Where Vernarth locked his Aspis Skolié shield so that it would shine in the bilges of the Eurydice, under the pentagon’s of the bronze layer of his shield, every time he approached the Dodecanese when the Auriga descended from Andromeda on the back of a punished rower by the storms taking him away from his mother galaxy.

Thousands of years BC Its merchants glorified themselves with their baskets full of belongings and merchandise, for its inhabitants, who today pretended to be pharaohs who paid tribute to the marine corners through the coast that today seemed to open up with more new waters that were reborn from the capering of the swells, founding thus the omens of embarking to attempt and submit to the omens of sovereignty between Judah and the Hellenic lands, to work with noble trees in their armories and utensils, of which they played an honorable part after the maintenance of the emblem of the last portion, of the shaft of the libertarian triumph of Alexander the Great over the Phoenicians in Tire. In the New Testament, it is related how Peter resurrected the believer Tabitha (Dorcas, in Greek, gazelle) in Joppa (Jaffa) and, later, how near this city he has a vision in which Yahweh told him that he should not distinguish between Jews and Gentiles while ordering the removal of ritual (kosher) food restrictions followed by Jews.

The Shvil of the angels distanced themselves from the desire of this station without reaching them and not making them drink salty water from Jaffa, therefore they resorted to Petrobus who a few meters before reaching the port, summoned a large number of Dodecanese Pelicans who were waiting in great celestial flocks, which hovered happily above the sky welcoming them. The pelicans levitate from a risky juggling act, over the caravan and headed to the high seas, collecting saltwater, then they went along the initiation path of Shvil and reconvert the saltwater into sweet with hazelnuts so that they would have holy water, to insolate it and pour it into the canteens of the temple guards of the Canaanites who were waiting for them, to distract them, making them believe they were other Syriac lands such as those of Ashera, which in this act, perhaps it would be good for them to sponsor the Hexagonal Birthright.

But the paths of the angels have confederated before the noisy crowds and Ptolemaic lemurs, who were incorporated into the empty spaces that remained. Faced with this gravesite, Vernarth shouted to the sky with the force of Falangist tradition to himself, and acclaimed heaven, for the sake of freeing them from their definitive income to Jaffa, summoning the Hypatists; elite warriors and spearmen, for them to gather at the portal of the ante entrance of Jaffa, for others who never came from nowhere and nowhere, only blocking it from its perfect plan of memorial and theological heritage conservation, upon return from the exit Judah, to embark with destiny through the sulphurous point that  will boil them in temporary waters, towards the Cyclades and then the Dodecanese, triumphing in inhabiting them wherever whoever was and whoever arrived with foreign promise.

As dusk falls in its first nubile shadows, the  Shvil presents itself to you with these three angels dressed in ivory white, each with a book in each hand and in the other a candelabrum, giving signs of ultra-interpretive catechesis, allying with silica. In combination, after the vision of the charms of the knowledge spread. Earth and sky in the second angel, washing the Semitic dew of anguished Jaffa, with teachings of sleeping well and awakening, to walk in the lands that want to seize the senses, of those who are called not to be oppressed, behind the bars of the Morbid and illiterate pan-vision of the angles of hasty entertainment of the angels when they were called by the Angel Regent, simply relaying information easy to carry to their hearts, in faint powers and poetic lessons, before falling into a thorny forest, burning their tongues in furrows of afflicted human positions, to later redeem them fervently with the judicious power of God.

Vernarth, is distressed by matters of seeing them so tender and so fragile, allowing them to crawl toward him gently. Finally, on these three rules of the Shvil, Hanael introduces herself; "Speaking of hindrances stuck in the literary cabal of grateful compliments for all".   Alluding to Vernarth, a subject desensitized and also distant from any Sub Yóguica disciplinary doctrine. This led him to stand behind San Juan, protecting himself and scared of everything around him, he was seeing in front of him, on the upper left side itself, that Zebedeo was, San Juan's own father calling him!

Saint John the Apostle says: “Justice, at this time, allows us to alleviate ignorance, if the riddles allow us only to look for the answer, God will not be here…, it will only be emotional catharsis, through a merely ideological  Shvil or passage, which moves our meaningless sentences, definitely leading us to the coffers that rearm one after one, after the mistake. We are faithfully interpreted by them, but we detest our regencies with the Escaton, when we all pretend to follow his light of thunderous density towards the sky, prophesying to follow him without losing ourselves in him ..., held on his shoulder glossary. On the claws that are released from the dazed angelic prey, correcting its wavering vision, unraveling the living presence of condemnations or salvation, in Eden with your bare feet or in hell with no departure time”

Inexplicably, some Praetorian soldiers of Domitian appear, who would be restricting the departure of the tretacontero to Limassol, curiously they were the same ghosts from Shiraz that continued to represent such a bad event, just as when he was expelled to Patmos by Domitian in 95 BC, in size was the scandal that the Shvil angels produced with their impractical ideologies, who opposed such spectral imagery, in such a way that they replaced their figure with that of another Hellenic man who wanted to embark for Patmos, the other members were fully incorporated to the ship, which frolicked on the pranks as it proudly carried them to a new ocean. Around the last drops that jumped in Jaffa on the coastal rocks, others appeared when the last divided and scattered drops were going to shine the navigation temples, thus it is possible to board in the same ship that brought the principle from Limassol to Judah that transited from Lepanto.

The chapel of ministers reappears offering a ceremony, which would return the messianic remora to the Angels of Shiraz, to return to their former positions within the paths of biblical characters, who tend to commit adultery in the game of loss of consciousness of the Escaton, probably requiring that everyone have to make pilgrimage routes for all humanity secluded and liberated by themselves. The Saltimbanqui finally manage to jump into the boat to sail to the Dodecanese, but the Shvil of the Angels stayed where other celebrities will require them to reroute the Shvil Escaton.
Chapter XXIX
Ghosts from Shiraz to Jaffa
Part VII - Mashiach of Judah Miracle VIII
dj Mar 2012
I don't remember
Let's go back in time then
Rewind the mind
Like a VCR
Remember those?
I was 17, maybe
Like a baby
basic and small
a simple kind of life
Not this staggering strife

He & me
21 with no job and a place of his own
"Cool."
We we're cool.
And it functioned
And my cellphone was always close-by
And everything he said echoed nicely
And we we're "us"
And it was "what we're gonna do"

And it's dead now
What?
Yeah.
We might not have a gravesite
But I swear I visit it anyway -
And I think it's cool
Solaces Mar 2015
The robot, cyborg, android or whatever you called it stood over its murdered master.. Looking down with glowing red eyes.. Scanning for any form of life its master may have left.. Its purpose was to serve its master the best it always could.. It then walked the rooms of its master's house and found the rest of his family also dead and murdered.. It then gathered the entire family in the back yard.. It dug a massive hole into the ground and it buried the family together.. Father holding daughter mother holding son.. It then kneeled at the gravesite it created for its master and family for days.. Looking down at the ground.. It stayed there under passing storm and in the hottest of days.. After a month it finally rose to its feet.. Weather it prayed for a soul or simply found a program that would give him one He is now Self aware.. Eyes shining sky blue he gives himself a mission of revenge.. As he is now able to seek it.. He calls himself Rai..
Revenge..  I can feel what it is to want revenge.. Now I must seek it!
drownitout Jun 2014
Illegal answers require psychic invasion,
Personal opinion poses dangerous hobbies.
Thought police outlaw; evasion,
Applauds fourth-dimensional bodies.

If lifespan be as a labyrinth,
And garish men of magicians,
Are blessed with luck and wisdom.
If we bloom as imperialists,
And abandon our traditions,
Then it backfired, teaching us to think independently but listen.

Some advice screams truth aloud.
Too poor, for this is the minority,
Now the scene of this ****** thing is crowned.

Dim lit street lamps; slow dancing silhouettes.
A kingdom falls and it kills the sound.
Where we question lies here and there,
Here, then there, cancer coated lessons-
And long conversation that only wonder of more, hollowing an aged box of danger.

It has only taken every single descendants chances,
and we've trophied our lack of community.
So we've taken up advances, and embraced our anonymity.
More secure in loneliness and his companions,
Because fear is a world built for lost men with a common trait.
Their demeanor cheers:
"Abandoned, Abandoned."

-Traversing dust-riddled attics,
Discovering volumes, the journals of addicts.
We make the vices so dramatic,
Pray sweet no sinner, leaving gods post-traumatic.

Paperback letters,
Another waiting for the weekend.
Another fix, and I'm complacent.
Another deafening regret.
Screaming in my ears,
My pulse excites, vacation.
Animus gone racing.
You can't see it, but I swear it's there,
I don't know what you see in material things.
It doesn't hurt, but it bleeds.

Ghost towns, we,
The apparitions,
have minds so twisted,
It's Cataclysmic commonplace,
And these are some sadistic statistics.

What is the damage?
The telephone whispers, almost dead.
Another crippling harlot,
Internal bleeding,
And a few scars left.
A question lingers in the atmosphere.
Will I die like this?

The grass is green, and you can hide in your lies,
But know there's not much luck on the other side

Now?
I don't ******* care,
I don't...care.
Because all I consist of is a lost cause,
A lost cause with burdens to bear.

All of this conversation piece casts,
Yet I plant enlarging gardens.
Mother warns and Father mourns;
You'll reap what you sew, and finish what you've started.

Household horror story,
moaning and groaning and talks of hell.
Award-winning wintered heart
Burned the millionth ironic degree colder.


All-american, classical religion; a cult's worried storybook.
Gears grinding within a machine fit to sell.
The saint stays sinning while I rust nigh twin decades,.
Along the way,
Cemetery silence and  vesper's nine raised my entity centuries older.

Salt-water sea folds offer flooring,
Riverbed full-house cathedral; blasphemy.
I stand and mimic a missionary, touring.
Nostalgia.
This all reminds me of home, though now it's not we who sit in
permanent pews snoring.


Forgive my old identity and it's abuse of me.
Forgive me and my use of we,
That I don't seem dull for my mind's eye's sight strayed... For a few thoughts.

Retrospect depicts life lived selfishly in leisure.
Mocking, spitting in the kindest face still surrendering, and...
I'm lost and content, drowning in thought again.


Thought...
An infinite, sacred journal.
A closet, save a doorknob, because no key is needed inside the bedroom's housing our souls.
Where god's children fellowship among the angels.
Or those like us fall for demonic hypnosis, with no need to say farewell.

Thought.

A trap, a gravesite, a laboratory.
A map of your life, or the origin of our own self-inflicted boring.

Our thoughts are forever ours, under any circumstance.
Even those of us that greet the sun on a grim crossway sidewalk, shaking with violence,
Internal, external,
Cold and wet.

To compliment the poetic beaten bones,
holding in place sentences scribbled across worn cardboard that whimpers...
That whimpers something so human.
To regular passerby's this is meaningless and mediocre.
To the youth, a sick humor for spoiled wannabe's and jokers.

Personally, and with whole heart my pen exposes sorrow, empty of any patience left on a fabled morning for that imagined intersection, or that city.
I saw humanity in broken cursive ink,
Cursing under sighs I saw what connects it all in my eyes.

It will seem radical, and hollow in meaning but I feel there exists substance behind this being's...
Expression.
I say there is depth.
I spoke the universe in my interpretation of the cardboard sermon that read,
"I don't want your pity, I want your pennies".

Consider with I, 'thoughts', again.
I consider, that if anyone were to remember the phrase connecting both, with distaste or sympathy.

No war hero, no slave to addiction;
The most ancient ideas of enemies, but neither side fate favored on what's given.
Be witness to our ignorance,
Where one another we could give our petty...nothings.
To save a life, or many.
To save our world.

We submit no rag the value of one single rich,
Gift no population with hope to survive and forgive.

Millionaire beggars scatter 'round plenty,
And their wealth will stay fictional,
But don't you agree their thoughts have stayed many.
Their pockets are empty, save their thoughts, which are infinite, and continue.
Endlessly.
This is about the god ****** human race and the disease we bear.
And other stuff along those lines.
liz Apr 2018
Memory's hands whisper in your soul
and yet you misplace your devotion,
throwing flower speeches of undying amor
upon the graves of those you lost
in those years of missed connections.
I promise there is catharsis here,
our words build cathedrals in the soul
strongholds of calcified emotion
outlasting the crumbling of the earth
beneath your painted toes.
Grace abounds in plenty here,
and flowers are better spent
on human company
than left to waste away
on the cold Carrera marble angels
almost swallowed up by
weeds that tremble at your approach.
Death is death, my dear.
The glamour of the tomb
is only a whitewashed lie.
We are not followed into the abyss
by the ones who loved us in our vitality.
The tears you pour out
like ashes from a hallowed father's urn
cannot be counted beyond the divide
by the souls of our lost ones.
But do not spite the living
for their grief that crushes mountains
into pebbles to throw at birds
that wake them too early into remembrance.
You cannot throw dirt on the living
for their pain numbers more than stars
which are themselves the tears
of a living God, the memory
of endless human experience.
The sky is the final gravesite.
It holds the memories of all
that has been accomplished,
all that has vanished into dust
under centuries upon centuries
and the stars hold the great amor
we have left in our wake.
this grew as a 'cliche poem' assignment i was given. the cliche was supposed to be the phrase 'you throw dirt on the living and flowers on the dead', but clearly, my heart had a much different perspective. anyways, i hope you enjoy my ramblings :)
Lin Cava Mar 2013
-Remembered-
*
He is gone
has been gone
long before his life-light
blinked out.

In the wake of who he was
is emptiness
a chasm only he could fill -
now barren of his uniqueness

In his lingering
I saw the proof
that life is neither
fair, nor just

We have but one life
and many choices
When it’s through
there is no more

We bear our burdens
of poor choices
bearing witness to our
mistakes, or lack of purpose

And we ponder
near the end
feeling the hard pain
of having wasted time

Never wasteful, he was a man
who did not need to ponder
he took up the cause
of his fellows in life

Life’s circumstances; beyond the control
of the accident of our birth
become our burdens,
and change; our redemption

He filled the many lives he touched
with happiness, support and reason
He helped, when help was needed
and he Served; hard but well

For such a man is a hero
in many ways
and should not pass
through a lingering chasm

But life is not fair, nor just
and mankind has tinged
our natural outcome
by un-natural measures

He is missed, and the emptiness
more pronounced for the living
because of who he was
how he filled their lives and hearts

In memory, we must celebrate
for we all were touched
by a quietly remarkable man
Our lives ever improved for it.

I shall return to his gravesite
And place a stone upon it
For as long as a stone, is a stone -
He will be missed.

©Lin Cava
14th March - 2013
Del Maximo Dec 2010
whose flowers are these?
who brought them to the gravesite
and arranged them with such care?
placing each flower individually
every week a kaleidoscope of color
pastel petals wrapped in green stems, leaves and ferns
bouquets speaking softly from the heart
conversations of love and respect
unspoken words of connection and affection
painting a picture of impressionistic serenity
amid grass and tombstones
who cared about him this much, besides us?
who cares about him still?
© December 2, 2010
Stanley R Larson Jan 2012
Lines composed coming home from Florida,
Janice and I, in March, 2001,
beginning with an EASTER acrostic:

Expectations,
Aspirations,
Sorrows,
Tests,
Endurances,­
Remembered now,

we speed North, up I-75.

     "Do we have time to go to Milledgeville?"
      I ask.

     "Since we may never come this way again,
     let's spend the hours, and not be sorry when
     some task looms higher than this hill ahead,"
     I hear her say.

And so we go and find our way
through town and past the "Private Residence"
to the blossomed gravesite, fenced and locked,
as if to warn that night, like some grotesque character,
will overtake us, too;
and Flannery O'Connor, nowhere in sight,
seems still to speak of life and essence,
although nothing rises to converge.

     "Well, it was worth it,"
     I declare,
     some miles on the road.
    
     "We'd always have been sorry,"
     I hear her reassure,
     "if we had not stopped,
     and then, for ever after
     thought we had missed some Revelation."

So I drive on and speed right through Atlanta,
remembering a moment of grace.
Megan McF May 2013
I still remember the sound of you
and the feeling of your fake nailed fingers
combing through my knotted hair
as an angry storm shook
feeble white shutters
the day of your funeral
the beach was at low tide
and I took the shattered clam shells
and heaved them calmly into the water
as the sun shine down
inappropriatly joyful
I came up to your casket
and tears streamed down my young face
I wanted to hold your folded hands
and shake you awake
you smelled like nothing
no longer the smell of your vanilla lotion
we visit your gravesite
and stand quietly
doing the happy reminiscing
that seems so fake
to remember so real of a person
I love you
I'm thinking of dying my hair
to match yours
I can still remember you teaching me piano
and your laughter ringing through the house
please come back
Diverseman2020 Dec 2009
How can love by way of death gratify?
To a slumber so inviting
Sharing a ghostly hostess
Who shares me
Alone with no timeless treasure
Withdrawn
From worldly behavior
As my heart bleeds
For resurrection
Exhausted
Going endlessly
Bearing a painful punishment
That takes me
Shouting to the heavens
With great intensification
While tears continuously streaming
A conclusion I must face
Ashamed
While I kneel at her gravesite
Torak May 2015
She tells me I taste like too many apologies
I remind her I am a notebook full
of archaeological love letters
There is not footnote to this story tale
there is the script and no sequel to follow
I am falling into the well of woe
searching for my fingers
in an effort to assemble them
contorting in such fashion
formatting this jest of speculation
into the peering ideology of self appreciation
She reminds me of the day
she smiled and felt it rattle my bones
I have not ceased to read dictionaries in a n effort
to find the right words to ***** on your shoes
to get you to smile my way once more
she is filling my glass with the words spewing from her lips
and I am drunk on her laughter
ringing in my ears like a telephone calls
from a gravesite
telling me
it’s time to come back
tread Apr 2013
It's as a sun grew from my cornea just to announce the arrival of Vaughn Pass and Bantry Bay. I slithered past An Cillinach- a gravesite void of tombstones, set aside for unbaptized babies and anonymous foreign nationals as if the decision in death were anyone else's choice. I sat and joked with sheep, who gazed like pseudo pioneers across the Irish landscape while casually waste plopped from behind as if their ******* were mouths and they were simply breathing. Exhale. The sun came and went between friendly cloud cover, tug boats that looked almost larger than the islands in the bay made me wonder if I was dreaming. Hills of golden brown phased into green and greenish blue and each little house in the distance shone like unnatural gemstones protruding from the Earths crust, rooted in the mantle, as if humanity were mother natures toothy smile, and today she was just glad to be alive.
Fenix Flight Jan 2015
Wooden structure that plagues my mind
I sit and watch them tear you down
Rip up your swing set, crush your slide
It's all to much I just want to cry

You were the one my grammy took me too
My cousins And I ran around your grounds
Our laughter now haunts your gravesite

They said you were getting too old
creaking dangerously and giving kids splinters
Parents were yelling at you left and right
But I rememeber you in all your glory

You're tire swing and glimming slides
the "wave" bridge and the little cubby holes
The ones that were perfect for hide and seek games.

But now you are gone,
torn down and thrown away
Crazy colored plastic now resides
where you once stood so tall

Even though you are gone
You will never be forgotten
The joy you brought will forever be treasured
written for a writing promt from the poetry club I am in
Prompt was:A place from your past or childhood, one that you are fond of, is destroyed. Write it a memorial!
Lynda Kerby Dec 2013
i was at the my mom and
dad's gravesite
trying to do some soul searching and
really and
deeply missing them and
i will never get used to being an orphan and
life has been so difficult since they left me and
i took for granted how much love support and
an ever ready hand to move heaven and
earth to help me and
i didnt even appreciate it much less utter very many thank you's and
i would give almost anything, the rest of my life to have had just one more time of sitting at the kitchen table and
i would actually this time drink her nasty Folger's instant coffee and
when she died she left a jar of it and
although it only contains a hard inch layered congealed ball it is so comforting to open the cabinet and
see it still up there and
you want to try to judge me when instead i was sitting there on the ledge of their headstone watching the beautiful and
powerful electrical dry lightning and
feeling the wind hit my face and
i cried out to a god that i no longer even believe in to please have my mom cont to keep looking after her grandson the one she never admitted to, but over time it just became apparent of that she was most partial to Colton, the one that she had the special soup and
salad dates on special occasions and
i find myself agonizing about how whether my son is here on earth in the physical form or his physical blood skin organs and
bones have decayed into apparent nothingness but either way i want to feel that my mommy is looking out for him and
that i can have answers and
can at the worst case scenario be granted just a tiny piece of real estate to go and
release my grief and
have 1 place where i can finally have just a piece of peace and
know that he is with his grandparents and
i can visit and
memorialize him in the usual manner rather than having moments that can last for months of something that is truly a most insidious form of torture that i can't even grasp words to express and
i have been so blessed to be able to have you want to play martyr with that last comment?
Ameliorate Sep 2018
Outside the leaves turn yellow and I’m struggling
My mind becoming my enemy, replaying memories from a time which doesn’t exist to me any longer
Two years ago we became one, something I never imagined
We spent days and days together until you asked me to move in with you
Two years later and five months since we broke up yet it’s all I think about
Cascading liquid tears fall from tired eyes as I remember the life I never wanted to leave behind
My eyes are mourners, dressed in black visiting the gravesite of what we were, together  
Each blink is a silent goodbye to pieces I’m still not ready to leave behind
How do you stop loving someone who gave you everything and seemingly took it away just as fast?
Those moments my heart remembers despite fleeting time and energy
Fall apart, fall asleep and dream of then when leaves changing colours meant falling in love with you and building a family.
A family I still see almost every day, but it’s no longer mine.
So yes, five months after the fact I’m still coming to terms with you being gone.
Feelings I cannot control and memories hovering like an unresolved ghost.
I am haunted by what we were and the fact that you can still look me in the eyes after the way you left without a second glance.
Twenty-nine years old doesn’t make heartbreak any less significant and difficult.
Perhaps someday I’ll be able to make sense of being alone.
If I came to you
Wounded
Wound up
Winded
Weary

Then remember that I couldn't fight what I felt for you anymore.
Why battle beating hearts that besiege my pride?


And

If I fell to my knees

There would be no need to lift me.

You already have when you smiled my way.
Burying a vision of you in my memory.
On my gravesite, blow the pinwheel, so you could send my soul spinning to heaven with every breath you take.



Ifeanyichuku Okoro II © 2023
Firing squad. In the field.  You can always take my life.
Lendon Partain Mar 2013
My arms have been.
Cut off.
Feet.
Nailed to the floor.
I don't know what,
But I'm doing it wrong.

I feel so much.
At stake.
Like stakes through the heart.

I am grief incarnate.
No one's died.
I feel like all,
the flowers.

I'm sitting in a gravesite.
The ceremony was beautiful.

Was it.
0nly held.
And was I.
Only to be put in the ground.

I feel petrified in dirt.
Then dismembered,
De-powered, and swaddled in earth.

Can't move at all.
My brain's been eat out.
Imprisoned in this bed.
Being swallowed,
Whole trying to keep.

My insides down.

But it doesn't work
Powerless
Here i am laying roses at your funeral because i, i am the one that killed you. It was my gun that was pressed against your temple i counted to ten but you see it wasnt any ordinary gun....it was my lips gently pressed against yours that slowly killed you. I was slowly poisoning your body with every lip lock and hand hold.... i could see that it killed you inside to be with me, so to get rid of us you pulled the trigger and overdosed on poison. The doctors said it wasnt the medication that took your life but it was every i love you hushed into existence avoided by your parents and i dont even know why i tried because. ..itll never be the same when i look you in the eyes, when i write lullabys with your eye sockets. Day dreams with your hair folicles and forevers with your angelic smile. Im laying roses on your gravesite because i know they werent your favorite.
Delta Swingline Jan 2018
When I leave this world...

Stencil graffiti on my gravestone. There is no greater way to tell that people have touched your life unless a mark was made in reflection of it. I will personally see to it that the words etched into my gravestone are "Permission Granted".

When I leave this world, know that I did panic in my last moments. I am a thanatophobic which means I am both afraid of death and dying and always running away from it. So watching doctor shows and cop reruns with my family seem a little less comforting.

When I leave this world, plant the brightest, most purple orchids you can find around the patch of land I own that is my gravesite. I don't even like the colour purple that much, but when I googled the top 10 most beautiful flowers, number one was roses and that is too **** fancy for my dead punk body.

When I leave this world, pray for the sky to cry rain enough for all of you. I was not famous enough for people around the world to cry over me, but rain is as close as it gets.

When I leave this stupid world, make sure people knew I was also pretty stupid. I once told my mom that I realized "Hey water isn't blue... it's clear!!". I clearly didn't drink enough water as a child.

When I leave this world, hang a sandwich board on my gravestone that reads "I will continue to sell lemonade as long as the world keeps giving me lemons."

When I leave this disastrous world, publish everything wrong about me, and then make a sequel containing only things I said about myself during my worst hours. Compare the two and decided for yourself if the way we judge ourselves is too much to argue over.

When I leave this world and Sara is still out of the city, tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I don't want her to dig. Tell her that I wanted to talk to her so badly, but I was always scared of interrupting, or being an inconvenience, or dying suddenly without her knowing. Tell her that I wanted her to remember me so well that she knows exactly what our last conversation was about. That she won't have to dig for answers...ever.

I dug myself into a grave I do not need others to dig for my past.

Death is never one to discriminate against anyone. But it is selfish, it takes, never gives, and is always consistent when giving the final sentence for everything we do wrong.

I will constantly run from it, and it will always get me.

When I leave this world, and if you're there, tag my gravestone. I get to say that I was here... you might as well tell me that you were also here.
..
Bowedbranches Sep 2017
They're bulldozing over your gravesite
To make more ******* apartments
Hey! Let's add more idiots to the mix
To forget you exist
This is where we'd go to hid our secret
No one will ever know the extent of it
So I throw your poetry in fire pits
To resurrect your presence
In the here and now my angel
I'm so elated you found peace
Though, I'm stuck under construction
Seeking ways to embrace the living
Were seperated by dimensions
Intention is key
I reach out for your hands everytime there's a breeze
You couldnt even give me a reason
Let alone write a letter
About what went down during your last fight to get better
Oh, i cried violently same as each false alarm
Each time you challenged death
He came back stronger than before
I want you to hammer away
On my puny brain
Take my memories
But leave their stain
Because not even I can embrace it's rich paint
#q
M H Aug 2015
The news report on the radio mentioned something about sun
And all around, revelers, bob between waves of light
Shadows playing eternal catch up--
But somewhere along the way I missed the word
And clouds, swaying from the hidden winds, form sunglasses,
In shaded vision I walk
Dragging my heels, the many fingers that crunch and snap beneath the weight
Fallen from the silent giants that dot the roadside,
How reckless, absently rejecting the parts well-worn
The memories
Litter the concrete, a gravesite, a memorial to progress and growth
So much for holding onto the past.
I’ll take a branch and be on my way through the shade
And, smiling, whisper to nothing but the wind:
One day we all become twigs.
Jamie Lee Apr 2016
The day of my funeral, I felt guilty and watched as my parents cried.
The day of my funeral, I laughed as I watched my clueless three year old brother fool around with my clueless baby cousins.
The day of my funeral, a watched how dismal the clouds were in the sky.
The day of my funeral, I sighed as my body was carried to the gravesite.
The day of my funeral, I got one last glimpse of the scar on my neck from the noose that killed me.
brandon nagley Aug 2015
Some just loveth by their chatter
Some loveth only by their action;
Some just showeth love from fear
Some just loveth for distraction.

Some just loveth to not hate
Others just loveth by their fate;
Some loveth only whilst in death
Others loveth from their last breathe.

Some loveth, from wanting none abuse
Others loveth before their necks art noosed;
Everyone wilt loveth us sadly when we're dead
At ourn gravesite, they'll be bowing their heads.....



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
Sad truth people don't notice us until were dead and gone
Moral of story love now while you can (::::
Joe Nemec Jul 2016
While visiting the gravesite of my once good friend Kathryn Kuhlman, I came across this on a nearby headstone. I was so moved.
"In life we weep at the thought of death, perhaps in death we weep at the thought of life"  
As time goes by, I understand this more and more.
Kelly Apr 2017
You left Scotland
when you were three.
Even though
it wasn't your choice,
you left behind
most of your family.

When you first husband died
you left the city
for a smaller, sleepier town.
You left his gravesite there.

When your second husband died
decades later,
you left your house in that town--
again, not by choice,
but you left your good health
in that old white house on the cul-de-sac.

And when you died
less than two years later,
you left us behind--
left a hole in our hearts--
you left us to live a life
without you.

But when you died,
you also left memories--
laughs smiles hugs love--
you left an impression on us.

I guess sometimes it's okay to leave
as long as you leave something good
behind.
for my grandma. thinking of you always

— The End —