"memorials" poems
Previous commemorative
memorials of positivity
drown in radioactive slime.
Disperse chi like flooding water
Contaminated, laminated with oily tears.
"How is pain controlled?
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
Broken headstones speckle
the even sea
of your grassy hill
Panorama of your crest
hugged by blue sky
Among the memorials
long since uninhabited
the residents
returned to the earth
My thoughts are seeds
and your soil is fertile
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
Why should I care you're there,
Or anywhere.
It was you who interrupted the night;
I watched you stare down the fire,
Scrape your initials in the ashes.
If it weren't for family,
The confusion and strained dialogue,
Like appearances,
I wouldn't see you at all.
Stay you do, everywhere.
So I tell a joke or two, one line quips,
And you were smiling,
While you're there,
Where I should no longer care.
What would be the aftermath of such a collision?
One wreck towed off.
It doesn't bother me in the least,
Our complimentary pauses
At the four way stops,
Or roadside memorials,
With faded yellow ribbons and thirsty flowers
Pinned to a styrofoam cross.
There is no rest, and little peace.
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 9:07 AM UTC
HORSE OF A DIFFERENT COLOUR
Auden & Isherwood
strolling in China
trying to soak up
The War
by the process of
osmosis
staining it
with words
observe
(at first what seems)
green horses
but turns out to be
only white horses
painted green
for camouflage purposes.
That evening in Canton
also offering them
the futility of two men
trying to put a rat
into a bottle
a woman who lived
in a beehive
pouring water
into a sieve.
War knocks
over the inkwell
spills
into men’s lives
covers the white pages
of their wishes
makes the idea of Hell
...all too real.
The spilt ink eating
the words of men
who send letters home
and die in pain
never to return
only in other’s memories
& useless dreams
marble memorials
while green horses
champ the grasses
the bridles & the bits
clanking & glinting
in the hot sun
of Now.
as this last lost evening
dies.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 5:46 AM UTC
I must begin with an apology, my friends
That I shed no tears for you when you passed
When I heard the news that you lived no more
That I did not ponder on your existence and ceasing thereof
When I continued with the ritual day to day
For this, I am truly sorry
I must continue with an apology, my friends
That I did not acknowledge the cancer in your bones
When you were still fighting, still breathing
That I put out of my mind even the thought of autocide
When your wife was left widowed, your children fatherless
For this, I am sincerely sorry
I must persist with an apology, my friends
That I did not wish to attend your funerals or memorials
When I was given an invitation and a chance
That I did not comfort the loved ones you left behind
When I dined in your homes with your memories
For this, I am truthfully sorry.
I must push on with an apology, my friends
That even now I cannot grieve for the loss of you
When I sit and write this poem with all left unsaid
That I still cannot bring myself to shed a tear, to weep
When I force myself to dwell on this tragedy
For this, I am earnestly sorry.
I must conclude with an apology, my friends
That I am still inhaling stale air, exhaling my ghost
When you have been torn from your families
That I can still ungratefully demand more than my lot
When your potential was cut down without my caring
For this, I am fervently sorry.
So, so sorry.
And yet I still do not cry.
h.f.m.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to **** anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.
2.3k
I can still remember.
That burning feeling of inspiration, bubbling up through my body.
It dominated me, defined me, led me to believe that I was my own hero.
A protagonist on a quest, a road to travel on, certainty in my bones.
Driven by love through the narration of my world, my story.
Words overflowed from my heart.
Staining the tracks, pages, and lilies of my life with my fire.
Every heartbeat resounded like the clanging of a tower's bells.
Each ring dictating time, order, purpose, place.
I can still remember.
The lingering taste of coffee on my tongue, my face sore from smiling.
Hours spent talking and listening.
The content of my life summarized like chapters of a book.
The way my heart vaulted when your eyes met mine.
It was like the moon pulling at the tides.
Giving the waves motion and momentum.
So I spilled my ink and blood, writing you into the story.
I can still remember.
What it was like when it was over.
I hadn't realized I had been living in a cell.
Scrawling my visions of the world onto every inch of those four walls.
Diagrams and diatribes, the things I considered to be myself.
Going mad in the most wonderful fashion.
As I left I saw them for what they were.
Mosaics and memorials.
Poison and poetry.
The passionate magic of first and finals, the ****** taste of loss.
But **** it was beautiful all the same.
I can still remember.
What it felt like to move on.
The taste of freedom and fresh air, an urge to defy what was.
And become something more again.
But suddenly, the bleeding in my heart slowed.
The resounding clangs of my inner bells softly faded.
It took years,
But one day I reached inside myself
Expecting to feel the fire burning inside me.
I can still remember.
The dread that came with the lack of heat.
The soul of myself, the definition of me as the hero.
Was only embers now.
The easy numbness that washed over me.
The determination and inspiration that was me had left.
I was broken, as I always was.
But I no longer knew myself as beautiful.
I was not a protagonist.
I had written myself out of my own story, slowly but surely.
There was no quest, no journey, no one to save or be saved by.
Just whatever I have become.
I hope one day to remember.
My clumsy and earnest return to form.
When my heart again bled ink and crackled with flame.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Take a moment to stop and stare,
At memorials in your town,
The named names that never came home,
Some had died at The Somme,
No shouts no shots no whistles,
No guns no bangs no shells,
No barbed wire or trenches,
And no gun powder smells,
All is very quite now,
After one hundred years,
Unlike the time the dead were named,
When families shed their tears,
No khaki uniforms no tin hats,
No bayonets to stab a heart,
No body parts no blood no gore,
No grenades to blow you apart,
Silently remembering,
Their memory lingers on,
They fought for King and country,
And died there at The Somme.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 7:58 AM UTC
thorns in the thicket of thought and
thistles of the heart's crown makes a bitter tea
which she pours thin for her porcelain dolls
with plaster-of-paris cakes 'n' cookies neatly adorned
with christmas colors daintily painted in blood and tears
the bard speaks the rueful tale with cliffhanger pauses
and excited joyous moments enclosed in the
crisp images of winter wonderland
the bard is a figure of such stories
long white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars
but now that the tale is told
the song sung.....
the bard retires his joyful face in his private room
with its smoky mirrors
and clutter of memorials to his younger days
his words once on the powdered lips of elegance
now are the dirt stained humble man's bread and butter
they were grand stories
they were adoration's to velvet goddesses....
but now they are but thorns in the thicket of thought
picturesque visions of nubile nymph's only sadden the old man
the bard packs away his joyful face
it is for the readers whom he loves
the road weary eyes linger upon her lace
she was a beautiful moment of summer in his winter life
she's now a sacred image protected by
thorns in the thicket of thought
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Prepare to be entranced
by symphonic sounds
acuity and beauty
displays of pique
explosions of profanity
evocative waves
of love and adulation
restrained tones
profound as shadows
crossing a motionless road.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
What happens to the rose when it dies?
When it is chocked by its thorny foes
Does it green blood soak the earth to water more plants of love?
Do its crimson leaves fold their petals in pain?
What happens to the rose when it dies?
By the hands of a stray lover in search of a gift
Do the lovers drain all their tear wells?
Perhaps they merry as its mortal remains
Passes from his hand to her hand, from his heart to her heart
What happens to the rose when it dies?
Is it ever eulogized and its memorials held
Or is the emblem of love left in pile ash of bygone?
Is the rose ever buried and how does its epitaph read?
What happens to the rose when it dies?
Does it body like man’s decay leaving nothing but dry bones?
Is it folded and placed inside an old love book?
Who knows what happens to the rose when it dies?
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
Drinking like savannah beasts at rivers edge she
is left to ferment
lethal like wine in an hourglass
she denies death and is weaponized
she defies god and is made a woman
she aims and in doing perfect harm is made
stricken with regret your running target stems
consequences whose stomach is filled by feather
memorials bound by leather turmoil
Shells in my face says Henry the eighth and Rome
will burn gladly on
a nest of Palestinian violins
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
Today for the first time in a very long time I went to a memorial.
To me, memorials are very special.
They are time capsules
Links to men and women I'll never know,
Who's faces I'll never see
Who's stories I'll never hear in their voice.
That's what they are.
For the men who lost their lives on December, 7, 1941
They put your name on a wall.
I've shed tears for each of you.
I don't know why but coming to read your names,
It felt as if destiny played a hand.
Perhaps in a past life I was one of you.
But in this life I'm a coward and I could never live up to your expectations.
I'll come back.
I'll come back to each of you.
To my Mecca
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
Up the steep steps
as you reach the age old fort,
you breathless behold
the green valley down below
and that magnificent mound of rock
by the name Robinson Hill.
In the sweet silence of birds' chirping,
the winds reek of rifles and gun smoke
and you hear not the rustling leaves
but bullets echoing all over the valley
one more down, another down
as they held the fort till fell breathless
passing into tombs and memorials
you read to pause for a breath
up above the green valley
where the grasses grew over the blood.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC
Through thickest glooms look back, immortal shade,
On that confusion which thy death has made:
Or from Olympus’ height look down, and see
A Town involv’d in grief bereft of thee.
Thy Lucy sees thee mingle with the dead,
And rends the graceful tresses from her head,
Wild in her woe, with grief unknown opprest
Sigh follows sigh deep heaving from her breast.
Too quickly fled, ah! whither art thou gone?
Ah! lost for ever to thy wife and son!
The hapless child, thine only hope and heir,
Clings round his mother’s neck, and weeps his sorrows there.
The loss of thee on Tyler’s soul returns,
And Boston for her dear physician mourns.
When sickness call’d for Marshall’s healing hand,
With what compassion did his soul expand?
In him we found the father and the friend:
In life how lov’d! how honour’d in his end!
And must not then our AEsculapius stay
To bring his ling’ring infant into day?
The babe unborn in the dark womb is tost,
And seems in anguish for its father lost.
Gone is Apollo from his house of earth,
But leaves the sweet memorials of his worth:
The common parent, whom we all deplore,
From yonder world unseen must come no more,
Yet ’midst our woes immortal hopes attend
The spouse, the sire, the universal friend.
1.8k
As I walk down the street
That looks nothing but normal,
With pedestrians walking on the sides
Mothers calling sons after school,
Teenagers writing their dreams with sweat pants and converse shoes
Trotting down the pathways with their personalities
Compressed in their back packs;
I like to play a game called
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A bomb;
A wired representation of defeat
An open gate to oblivion,
A flower with pedals of fire
Pollen of political tyranny
With ignorant humans for bees
That “spread the word”.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
A kid reading a book
Forgetting the world outside
For the worlds in fairy tales
Seem real;
And as soon as his eyes start rolling
He envisions himself a leader of a striking army
A great protector of truth,
Or even a little girl dancing her way into the forest;
Busy being a child
She never thought about the monsters waiting on the other side;
And all those characters are despised,
In a world where innocence is put aside
Where dreams are confiscated
Like phones in elementary schools,
Where minds only follow
And hearts are black;
In a world,
Where reading a book becomes a threat
Only terminated by something louder than life
But nothing is louder than words.
“What’s behind the steering wheel?”
Afraid tyrants,
Calculating their reign
In seconds
And seconds are all they leave us
Before we leave us,
Before we start making martyrs of our names
And memorials of our pictures,
Before we write elegies
Before we write poems of anger
Before we cry down our thoughts
Screaming the names of those we lost;
Afraid that one day,
No one will remember those names
Afraid,
That one day,
Our name would be among them.
Ow martyrs who left us a world to fix
Our hands are tired of typing,
Our eyes are drowning
For the more we write down your names on our souls
The heavier are our tears;
Our thoughts are crumbling
Into posts and statuses
But who are we posting for, if all of you are dead?
Ow martyrs who left us with more spaces to cover
We cannot cover all this by ourselves.
Our trials are self-destructing,
Our memories are filled with images of you
Hoping that our memories stay memories
As we revolute towards our future.
Our flowers are wilting,
Our candles are too close to burning out
We have read all the prayers that we know
And as the journey prolongs
I ask myself…
“What now?”
Our rage is dormant,
Our eyes are open as we observe
The post traumatic epilepsies the world is coming about,
Our minds,
Once fooled
Are now base lines for our attacks;
Our hearts are filled with images of you
In an open chamber
Easy to access
For one day
All these images will appear on the surface of us
And that is the day we avenge you
Ow martyrs who left us,
You left us with a world to fix and a nation to create.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
Railroad tracks along the Keystone Line
Gleamed with a copper luster under light
From the Dog Star and the solstice moon.
Those slivers of metal became more valuable
After they were squished by the weight of train cargo
And blessed by the red light of the railroad crossing.
The coins we minted weren’t trinkets
We could spend at the general store.
They didn’t belong to the government.
We created a currency for our neighborhood.
We stockpiled them in mason jars,
Traded them for boyhood commodities,
And made necklaces for our girlfriends.
I can’t say when the others cashed out.
Maybe it was the day they started earning
Bigger coin in the mines and the mills.
I walk the tracks at night, searching for the
Cents we lost beneath the splintered ties.
There is a rusty coffee can in my garage
Filled with distorted faces and Lincoln memorials.
I recognize those weathered shapes
Better than my friends’ faces
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:48 PM UTC
In the warmth of a summer sunset
I sat idle on the sea shore
Looking at the grey enormity
That heaved and swelled in turn
As I looked on, the breakers rose high
Thundering sea waves dashed
And crashed over the boulders
Before me was the wild brutality of the sea!
Though at times she is calm and windless,
A smoldering volcano lies beneath her surface
I sat away from the crowd
In a cool squire of quiet
Inhaling the briny air
And enjoying the foam and spray
My mind then was light as that of a child
That plays on the sea shore, making sand castles
I watched small boats carrying men
They were heading towards the Casino
Moored in the inlet of the sea
I felt those men were like flies lured by the flame
They come either to perish or to prosper
Most of them go back with empty wallets
Very few fortunate to splurge in money newly amassed
My eyes stretched far into the horizon
Bound by a vault of azure sky
Swallows were circling beneath tangled clouds
The tall masts of ships could be seen at a distance
I watched waves taking the shape of curving scrolls
Dolphins were seen leaping over the waters
And ever growing ripples drifted and strayed
As the fabric of blue got continuously shredded
For fun I scribbled my name on the sands
But a wave came crashing against the shore
And the very next moment washed it away
Was it here or there, I had scrawled my signature
I don’t know. It has vanished leaving no trace
Suddenly from a child, I grew into a sage
How transient is man’s life on Earth
How very tiny we are
Set against the vastness of the sea
In the wide expanse of life, as on a sea shore
We scribble our names to stay
But Alas! Some unknown hands wipe them away
It dawned on me that with time’s ceaseless flow
The world will continue to speed away
Without you or me
Leaving no memorials behind!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 11:41 PM UTC
The thing that keeps people alive
Is often not some miracle cure
Comprised of pills, mysterious vials of liquid,
Or some new psychotherapeutic discovery,
But instead lies in the simple act
Of people not leaving.
Leaving leads to forgetting,
Forgetting leads to not caring,
And, not caring, you will lose
All emotional attachment to what is left.
I have been saved many times by people's not leaving.
I feel, however, it's only fair to note
That if you, my friend, were to leave,
I truly believe you'd be happy.
No need to gloss it over-
Just imagine, for your own sake,
The dreams you could fulfil,
The achievements you could make,
And the places you could go
Without me.
If you were to leave
But should return before you've forgotten,
I'd like to console you by letting you know,
That I probably died in peace.
No need too dwell on what caused it-
What difference does it really make
If I succumb to depression, or cancer,
Or some unknown cause in my sleep?
I ask for no grand array of flowers at my funeral-
Such displays are best reserved for the living.
Perhaps some bluebells placed over my body though;
The perfect symbol; a small array of beauty,
Just enough to be noticed, achieving nothing in particular,
Heads hung low, no longer able to reach, as they once did, for the sky,
Epitomising the temporary fragility of life
With their easily stomped on, chewed up,
Beaten, and then forgotten little bodies;
They're an epitaph in their own right.
No other physical memorials are needed.
No headstone, no need for anything
To be named after me.
Much easier to cry whatever tears
Need to be cried at that point,
And leave.
If you find the emotional attachment doesn't fade,
And you really feel you need some thing,
Some physical presence to remind you of me,
*Then for god's sake don't make it something
That dresses me up as some kind of plaster saint!*
Instead choose something more meaningful and lasting
Like a cardboard box,
Or the smell of paint.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
tears to remember
with candles lit to honor
heart's memorials
a ramdom act of kindness
from a very special friend
my candle's aflame
a warmth that spans the distance
from my house to yours
with roses and baby's breath
for a very special friend
Dec 24, 2010
Dec 24, 2010 at 4:01 PM UTC
Days turn to weeks,
and months into years;
Our calendar filled,
With days that bring tears.
No longer with cheer,
There’s a birthday we keep;
A life sown in hardship,
Is now reaping grief.
His anniversary of leaving,
A dark smear on that day;
Its nothing to celebrate,
But it won't wash away.
Those days that we’re honored,
As his mother and father;
Special cards that he made us,
We receive them no longer.
A day for memorials,
Then picnics and parades,
The summer he loved,
A special hike on Labor Day.
The season to give thanks,
Forces us to remember,
All the years that we did have,
All those happy Novembers.
Finally Christmas comes round,
Full of time spent together;
All our family traditions,
Where he's missed more than ever.
Each day a reminder,
Every memory so dear,
Yet silence speaks loudly,
When laughter disappears.
Then it's time to repeat,
Time to turn a new page,
Time for new resolutions,
Time to hope for some change.
Maybe this is the year,
That the calendar’s our friend,
When peace is returned,
And we look forward again.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
The world is so big
And I am so small.
A speck of dust lost in the stars.
Not good enough to be called stardust.
They build monuments for kings
So tall they battle planets.
War generals rewarded with medals and memorials.
We strive for remembrance
But the world is so big
And I am so small.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
museums
and televison
soap operas
and rotting memorials
the nation has suffered
i cannot understand
without perspective, we flounder in the dark
in misery
being victimized
for what?
my view
is:
am i wrong
about bears?
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 12:29 AM UTC
It’s all fckt up,
can’t even pretend it’s not,
whatever happened to love Love,
whatever happened to us,
I don’t care how many Instagram likes you get now,
I don’t care about how many repost you receive,
see all those likes aren’t loves and love is all that matters,
so what the fck does any of that really matter to me,
or you,
or us,
or what,
what the fck,
it’s all fckt up,
can’t even pretend it’s not,
whatever happened to love Love,
whatever happened to us,
how have we become just fading memories of each other,
how can we repair what we’ve broken,
my God nothing is forbidden,
I mean I came inside of you when you opened,
my seed entered your belly,
we went way past the point of ***********
and the now you act as casual,
as if we’d only exchanged a conversation,
but we exchanged much more than that,
we exchanged Life and it’s essence,
I gave you my seed you gave me a reason to breathe,
but what did we get in exchange for that,
nothing,
nothing but a memory,
of a fracture in a heart that’s been broken,
nothing but a bit more inspiration,
to use as fuel to put these words into these poems,
and so what,
so now we have these words to last as emotional memorials,
from I time when we still felt,
from a time when emotions still held a place in our Selves,
oh well,
I guess there’s no turning back now,
we’re on a Death March to the Blackness of Nothingness now,
and we got here somehow but I don’t know how,
wow,
what the fck,
show me something of interest,
and when I ask you why tell me just because,
because,
none of this matters,
other than the art we create,
and if you’re an uncompromising artist as well,
then you can relate to my current emotional mental state,
wait,
no fck that get going,
this is your life no one is going to live it for you,
so do something that at least seems important,
because there are no rules,
all parameters are gone,
kiss love fck forget,
everything’s your choice,
it’s all fckt up,
can’t even pretend it’s not,
whatever happened to love Love,
whatever happened to us…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC