"morgues" poems
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
You are gone,
yet everywhere
that I touch,
breathe,
see, with my sensitive eyes
and heart.
You are gone,
Yet we never stop looking.
We know you're out there.
Each morning we call the
hospitals,
morgues
the jails.
You are gone.
Day after day
we hear nothing.
We wonder,
we hope,
we pray that you
are alive.
That no one has hurt you too badly through the night.
That you've not hurt yourself too much to come back from.
You are gone.
Yet the shadow of you is here.
It is everywhere.
Your shadow floats down from the
moon light,
and at night
covers such deep sadness
we know then that we miss you beyond the stars.
The You
that was You..
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:05 PM UTC
In the morgues basement, I found you hiding
Compassionate feelings overcoming, in your favor they are dividing.
After holding your remains in that tin can
I came up with an idea I devised a master plan.
Body 2 Bones will be my informative speech in my class
They don’t know it yet out your urn, the bag all around, I will pass.
Some will be scared, and many jaws will drop to the floor
But I know, there will be a few that will be begging to see some more.
Thirty eight years in there trapped you did stay
Rubbing the side I then saw you, a genie inside I saw emerged
Out you came and now it’s time to play.
Asking me now to give a breath of fresh air
I opened your bag, I ran my fingers through
With wide opened eyes I did stare.
I kept you ten nights on my maple night stand
I did some digging and I learned, you came from a different land.
Having to now put you back, I’m fighting with all my might
Back into the darkness, darker then the night
You won’t rest, till your family comes to claim
Someday they will come.
till then don’t give up the fight.
(SirCARSr.08-13-13)
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Folded into this numb-husk of unknowing,
undeveloped eyes, wrapped by distressed skin,
continue to peer, unseeing, accustomed
as they now are, to a feed of distant
Telegenically Dead. These short lives have been
socially shared and mocked,
as morgues overflow to floor;
impromptu fans recirculating mournings hot air.
There is little chance for grief on Day 13;
rage has to be spent like a brass cartridge
or slung stone, or drowned in red pools
mixed with the water of collective driblets.
Meanwhile a politician says something else.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
*No Justice. No Peace.
We're killed for jaywalking,
But are expected to remain at ease.
We're seen as looters.
When terrorists are heroes.
And never unjust shooters.
They "protect and serve."
They protect each other.
Whether its inhumane doesn't matter.
Then they serve morgues...
with young black bodies on shiny silver platters.
They don't want to hear us.
So we're told to remain peaceful because it's easier to ignore a sound that isn't being made.
And if we remain quiet the passion for wrong doings will begin to fade.
Black people are ashamed of each other for rioting in their own community. But it doesn't belong to us. So feel free to burn down gas stations and break the windows out of a Toys"R"Us.
We'll be executed in suits. We'll be executed in sweats. We'll be executed when we're armed and We'll be executed when we pose no threat.
So scream if you have to.
Let it all out.
Fight fire with fire.
It will grow, and eventually someone will put it out.
Because remaining peaceful has gotten us nowhere.
When we're peaceful they don't care. They torment us. And we're mocked. And are attacked with tear gas while rubber and wooden bullets are being shot.
So don't shoot. But when you need to. Shoot back.
I want us to be able to raise children who won't be murdered for being big while black.
And it isn't in the U.S.A.
Where Unjust Shootings are Admissible.
And Uniformed Shooters are Admired.
So fight back. Even though we're already so tired.*
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
My heart empty
My trust gone
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
The doctors and nurses maxed out
Can life still go on?
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
The morgues and mortuaries over-spilling
In the City of Angels and lost souls
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
I wear two masks, a smile and one of cloth
Life must go on
The hospitals full
The ambulances all gone
As ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three
Happy new year?
In the City of Angels and lost souls
The hospitals are full
The ambulances all gone
as we ring in a "new" year and life must go on
The hospitals remain full
The ambulances still gone
as one, two, three, four, five, six friend and family we bury
as living death still stalks on
Dec 31, 2020
Dec 31, 2020 at 10:58 PM UTC
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.
i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.
i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.
i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.
i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.
i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.
when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.
i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.
tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.
i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.
your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;
a house with things
that even i can't pack away.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
Red letter days
and friendly fire.
Will I ever go home?
Your voice over
the airwaves soothes.
But the things you say
cut like teeth,
sharp and vile.
You visit the hospitals,
shake down the morgues.
The batting of your eyelashes,
a ruse to your construction:
You're a steam shovel, girl.
Digging for Nazis
at the center of the Earth.
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 4:23 PM UTC
A percentage of me has to hell been consigned
by the ever raging zionists' war machine.
To each livid soldier, a mandate is assigned
to uproot terror where multitudes are confined.
Torrents of explosives have swept my landscapes clean.
Churches, mosques, schools have all to mighty vengeance bowed.
Stricken mothers wail uncontrollably aloud.
Itinerancy pervades my horror stricken crowd,
whilst my kids toy with explosives, carnage and ruin.
Survivors will take shelter from snipers shooting
death ***** and lead from peevish and portable guns.
Horror unprecedented the people outruns.
I have metamorphosed to nothing but a morgue.
Lice and bugs have infested hoodies lined with borg.
Disease and maimed limbs have no remedies in sight.
Let not the world be unmoved by my sorry plight.
Why must I this price pay for a thousand or more killed?
My morgues are beyond their capacity filled.
The deaths of innocents are nothing but unjust.
My once-populated streets have been turned into dust.
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
Nigeria my beloved home is under siege:
A death trap I see in her third mainland bridge.
The crying blood of the slain in the North-east
overwhelms vicious politicians with guilt.
Humans with hearts of beasts ravage her North-west,
outgunning her corrupt weakened armed forces.
Catacombs of mass graves quantify losses
incurred from incessant farmers-herders clash.
Darkness looms as stupendous amounts of cash
are cast in an energy sector like trash.
Her healing centres are no more than health morgues,
and her institutions breed intellectual dogs.
Her oligarchs of the six zones unify
to plunder, **** and line their pockets with filth.
With peanuts they entice poverty stricken
youths, just to have their sit-tight bids guaranteed them.
Indulgences from the gullible gratify
custodians of faith endowed with seducing lips.
My beloved Nigeria has failed to hearken
to the values of the elders before them.
With priorities misplaced, we go seeking
for stereotyped reputations in our trips
to foreign climes for filthy lucre to acquire.
Good Lord! When will values my mother-land require?
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 8:18 AM UTC
The battlefield long now cleared
of corpse, blood and gore.
Belay the epic truth they tell,
knee deep in history and wars.
Dead stacked like cords of wood,
burnt on unsanctified fires.
Log by log of rigored souls
sent the flames up higher.
years later make shift morgues sat 'bout
to hold the fallen heroes.
Kept in dungeons and deeper colds,
till springtime thaw for burials.
Those that live on to build
and keep recording life.
Never thought once and all
war would end their daily strife.
So it goes, axe to sword,
Cannon to machine gun.
Scud missles to nuclear.
Who will be left to say they won?
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC
I still got my heart in my pocket
And that same old locket
Yeah the one with the scratch on the back
Now I know that's a ********* fact
The skies are burning red tonight
And I can't seem to see right
Where you are I can only guess to God
Now I'm feeling heartbroken and oh' so small
There's that guy with the fat left eye
The one I punched last night for stealing my pie
Oh there's that guy with the fat left eye
I see him staring at your locket, whata' guy
The curbs are burning red with hate on every corner
The morgues are getting full with weary coroners
Were left here on this place without a clue where to go
Buy your ticket, rip your stub, enjoy the ride
And hell lingers round' me as I walk along alone
A sin in every mailbox, a catch in every mitt
Sailing in my car with the windows down just a crack
A lady last night she wished to give me a smack
Heave away those lofty regrets that you never met
Their weights in pasts that can be lost quite fast
Look ahead to the greater beyond
The last mountain to be seen will hold your song
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 11:27 AM UTC
The angles had guitars even before they had wings,
and his fingers wove delicately through nylon strings,
and the ends of my hair,
playing tunes that only I could hear.
His chest thumped in rythem,
echoed past morgues
and cemeteries like church bells.
His mouth was as simple as an oceans shell,
vibrating the voice of God through bones consumed in sin,
and silence.
Fragile and infinite.
He held me in a cradle made of skin off his back,
rocked me like the waves do the shore,
and sang me peacefully at rest.
He was the lords gift to mankind,
to me.
And even though his hallow fell tight around his neck,
and serpents arrived one late September night,
his wings burnt markings of Christ along the the floor.
Poison swam through his veins,
and cursed his eyes to black,
but still he sang the tones of faith.
*For a boy created in hands so holy,
he sure did die a death devoid of mercy.*
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 7:55 AM UTC
pay more respect to the women working at morgues.
they tend to the dead
it takes sympathy
it takes care
it takes courage
it takes control
not the control of fear of stray souls
not the control of fear of phantoms
but the control of wanton
and that is why men aren't hired by morgues.
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 4:28 AM UTC
I have watched mothers lose
their children, and children lose their mothers. I am tied
by my toes to a loop
which can be seen in cafes and morgues -
the breast-feeding, the burying, the everything is all
on a string. I have heard about
women and children thinking they are unlimited,
I am unlimited, too, if
the two ends of a circle never meet.
My lover once closed his heart off from everyone, and I
never understood until now
that you do not
have to open up in order to be full inside. I still can
water his flowers, even the weeds
and he never has to open his eyes to see and
he never has to open his heart
to feel. I understand that sometimes it is better to just be.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
(there are churches left standing in war zones.)
there are churches left standing in war zones and
they're a symbol
of far-off war-torn places
because destruction is universal.
(blood stains the walls
but they are still holy
and still there.)
there are churches left standing in war zones on
the front page of newspapers,
shouting numbers and figures
but never tragedy.
(there is nothing more powerful
than a bombed-out miracle.)
there are churches left standing in war zones because
soldiers know that in churches
words cut deeper than bullets,
than bayonets,
and the destruction of that power
would be atomic bomb
ground zero
hiroshima nagasaki
hundreds dead and
decades of fallout.
(hospitals and morgues are gone.
the church still stands.)
there are churches left standing in war zones
filled with dust and rubble
and blood and death and dying
and faith screaming for hope
and the church is still standing
but nothing
else
breathes.
(and the church watches war
and she laughs.)
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
It was clear from the beginning
That the only one who’s winning
From the violence underpinning
Why our population’s thinning
Are the morgues and undertakers
As we leave to meet our Maker’s
Heaven high or hell below
Becuz’ ya see, we never know
When our ashes turn to dust
It’s enough to cause disgust
As the perpetrators cuss
Then let their gun shots bust
Two rounds in the head
And the floors are running red
If you heard a word I said
No need to ask if they’re dead
But we’ll swallow up our grief
And no matter our belief
Try to seek Godly relief
For yet another unwarranted beef
And regardless of the venue
Violence is still on the menu
So no doubt it will continue
Like dancers of China’s Shen Yue
Let’s go in the laboratory
To review this time worn story
With its familiar repertory
And ironic allegory
It doesn’t make no sense
Like our Vice President Pence
Guess we’ll be kept in suspense
Until things get less intense
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 7:29 PM UTC
*No Justice. No Peace.
We're killed for jaywalking,
But are expected to remain at ease.
We're seen as looters.
When terrorists are heroes.
And never unjust shooters.
They "protect and serve."
They protect each other.
Whether its inhumane doesn't matter.
Then they serve morgues...
with young black bodies on shiny silver platters.
They don't want to hear us.
So we're told to remain peaceful because it's easier to ignore a sound that isn't being made.
And if we remain quiet the passion for wrong doings will begin to fade.
Black people are ashamed of each other for rioting in their own community. But it doesn't belong to us. So feel free to burn down gas stations and break the windows out of a Toys"R"Us.
We'll be executed in suits. We'll be executed in sweats. We'll be executed when we're armed and We'll be executed when we pose no threat.
So scream if you have to.
Let it all out.
Fight fire with fire.
It will grow, and eventually someone will put it out.
Because remaining peaceful has gotten us nowhere.
When we're peaceful they don't care. They torment us. And we're mocked. And are attacked with tear gas while rubber and wooden bullets are being shot.
So don't shoot. But when you need to. Shoot back.
I want us to be able to raise children who won't be murdered for being big while black.
And it isn't in the U.S.A.
Where Unjust Shootings are Admissible.
And Uniformed Shooters are Admired.
So fight back. Even though we're already so tired.*
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
*No Justice. No Peace.
We're killed for jaywalking,
But are expected to remain at ease.
We're seen as looters.
When terrorists are heroes.
And never unjust shooters.
They "protect and serve."
They protect each other.
Whether its inhumane doesn't matter.
Then they serve morgues...
with young black bodies on shiny silver platters.
They don't want to hear us.
So we're told to remain peaceful because it's easier to ignore a sound that isn't being made.
And if we remain quiet the passion for wrong doings will begin to fade.
Black people are ashamed of each other for rioting in their own community. But it doesn't belong to us. So feel free to burn down gas stations and break the windows out of a Toys"R"Us.
We'll be executed in suits. We'll be executed in sweats. We'll be executed when we're armed and We'll be executed when we pose no threat.
So scream if you have to.
Let it all out.
Fight fire with fire.
It will grow, and eventually someone will put it out.
Because remaining peaceful has gotten us nowhere.
When we're peaceful they don't care. They torment us. And we're mocked. And are attacked with tear gas while rubber and wooden bullets are being shot.
So don't shoot. But when you need to. Shoot back.
I want us to be able to raise children who won't be murdered for being big while black.
And it isn't in the U.S.A.
Where Unjust Shootings are Admissible.
And Uniformed Shooters are Admired.
So fight back. Even though we're already so tired.*
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
Moments no one could expect,
Like the year New York City finally slept.
When cuddles and kisses were no longer romantic,
And coughing or sneezing created mass panic.
We feared the air and what it could hold,
As we watched the breaking news unfold.
The days merged and time slowed –
We waited at home as morgues overflowed.
Strangers became heroes overnight -
Dawning masks of blue and suits of white,
Working relentlessly with no end in sight.
When keeping distance was a sign of affection,
Knowing it was for your own protection.
Children stripped away from friends,
For reasons they could not comprehend.
Through troubles and trials -
The answer to our prayers,
Came in glasses and vials.
For as the sunsets and rises,
Across every ocean horizon.
And like the certainty of tides -
This storm will soon subside.
This too shall pass -
Jul 4, 2021
Jul 4, 2021 at 3:58 PM UTC
*No Justice. No Peace.
We're killed for jaywalking,
But are expected to remain at ease.
We're seen as looters.
When terrorists are heroes.
And never unjust shooters.
They "protect and serve."
They protect each other.
Whether its inhumane doesn't matter.
Then they serve morgues...
with young black bodies on shiny silver platters.
They don't want to hear us.
So we're told to remain peaceful because it's easier to ignore a sound that isn't being made.
And if we remain quiet the passion for wrong doings will begin to fade.
Black people are ashamed of each other for rioting in their own community. But it doesn't belong to us. So feel free to burn down gas stations and break the windows out of a Toys"R"Us.
We'll be executed in suits. We'll be executed in sweats. We'll be executed when we're armed and We'll be executed when we pose no threat.
So scream if you have to.
Let it all out.
Fight fire with fire.
It will grow, and eventually someone will put it out.
Because remaining peaceful has gotten us nowhere.
When we're peaceful they don't care. They torment us. And we're mocked. And are attacked with tear gas while rubber and wooden bullets are being shot.
So don't shoot. But when you need to. Shoot back.
I want us to be able to raise children who won't be murdered for being big while black.
And it isn't in the U.S.A.
Where Unjust Shootings are Admissible.
And Uniformed Shooters are Admired.
So fight back. Even though we're already so tired.*
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
What happens in Vegas won’t stay there this time,
It’s the scene of a terrible, unspeakable crime.
From high up above in the Mandalay Bay
Bullets rained down as the musicians played.
Carnage and horror. Screams in the night
People were trampled as others took flight.
The gunman is dead but the questions remain.
Was this act one of terror or was he insane?
Fifty Eight are dead, It doesn’t seem right.
Vegas, our playground, has been bloodied this night.
The Morgues overwhelmed and the E.R. is full.
The shooter had come well equipped for the ****
Is it time to restrict weapons sold in our nation?
Surely it’s time we had that conversation.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC
Victor Frankenstien went shopping through morgues and cemeteries and picked out only the very best features,
stitching them together with string and tape
the flowing black hair and the delicate pale skin,
it should have been perfect
but once the lightning struck and the creature opened his glassy eye the truth was revealed
you can't make a person that way
not a good one anyway
the hair was matted and the skin that looked so fresh on a corpse was jaundice
the monster was a monster by design, even if it was not intentional
I understand what it means to take what seems so beautiful on other bodies and stitch it together haphazardly trying to make something perfect
I have Victors hands, the hands that play god
but more than that,
I have the sickly skin and the glazed-over eyes
I have the very best things I saw in everyone else
a gentle angel with one million eyes to watch over her children,
I took her kindness
a wretched holy beast that could never be hurt, I took his aggression
I stole ideas and attitudes that resonated with me,
I stole the rebellion that I saw the righteous wear in books and on TV
I stole the heart that some sweet girl wore on her sleeve with faith in the world around her
I plagiarized, I became everything I thought was beautiful
with my Frankenstein hands I had created a self to live in, an idea to thrive in my useless body
I thought I could live as the perfect boy, the perfect person
but the ideas split off, still inside me
growing and expanding and bulging out of my skin
my bones crack under the weight of so many people within
the sweet, the angry, they were always at odds
a monster, a monster that lies in poppy fields and dreams about love
a sweetheart, a sweetheart that slices rats in half just to see what their insides look like
I am not the perfect thing I wanted to be
I am fractured like the bones I had to rip apart to make them fit
I am too little too late and too much too soon all in one,
not enough, never enough, far too much to bear
I am the god I swore was dead,
I am taxidermy animals that don't look quite right
I am fractures of what I wanted to be
I am Frankenstein
but
I am also Frankenstein's monster
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC