Funeral pomp is more for the vanity of the living than for the honor of the dead.
quote by Francois de La Rochefoucauld
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Day Someone Will Say The Same Of Me
The hearse through the main street is passing slow
With the funeral cars following in a single row
Is the dead person a he or a she?
One day someone will say the same of me.
And did that person die young or old
And will her or his life story be told?
To the departed that does not matter 'twould seem
As the dead do not have a sense of self esteem.
The funeral towards the cemetery winds it's way
Up through the main street at noon of day
But on the cortege shoppers no interest show
As in and out of shops they go.
The dead from the Land of the living gone
But life for the living must go on
And the same fate surely awaits you and I
As the dead person in the hearse going by.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Guess Living Is So True
In trying to get all the clues
What living might be about
I know a man who said
You had a good life
If there are many people smiling
When you first shed the tears of being born
And if there are many people crying
When you’re long dead gone
I forgot his name
But I believe this is
What living might be about
A cradle and funeral treasure
I guess living is so true
In trying to get all the clues
What living might be about
Tasting the feel of questions
The dough of answers dwelling in different thoughts
And a blissful moment
When you suddenly do not care about either
But simply live a moment of your own truth
With an absurd credo that everything will be ok
Cannot prove anyhting
But pure joy of the choice you’ve made
A cradle and funeral treasure
I guess living is so true
In trying to get all the clues
What living might be about
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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A Problem With Living Too Long
A godlier man, there never lived -
My dear old Uncle Fred,
And throngs should fill the funeral home
When word comes that he's dead.
For the numbers at the funeral home
Are a measure of one's worth;
The sum of all the lives one's touched
While here upon the earth.
But few will visit the funeral home
When my Uncle passes on,
For he's lived so long that those he's touched
Are already dead and gone.
I had a thought on your funeral...
Eighty years of life
on this Earth
Was it worth?
I had a thought on your funeral.
Eighty years ago in heaven
when you were just the soul
and wanted to forever become
a part of this whole
You urged God to grant you a life
And promised
you would this time achieve your goal
But did you keep your promise at all?
I had a thought on your funeral.
The aim of your taking birth was
Service, contribution and asceticism
You instead chose
Hoarding, platitude and hedonism
God prescribed
Love, joy and compassion
On your life you inscribed
Jealousy, gloom and repression
I had a thought on your funeral.
Childhood’s dawn wiped out in dependence
Lust devoured on the morning of adolescence
Youth’s noon you squandered
due to fear and apprehension
Dusk of old age got totaled in
egotism, vanity and pretension
I had a thought on your funeral.
I asked myself
Was I any different from you?
Was I keeping my own promise to God?
The response from within came in negative
My heart did not give the nod
Seeing you sleeping in God’s lap
with a performance that was dismal
Your funeral appeared to me
as God’s signal
And I realized I had a chance to change
before I reached my own burial.
I had a thought on your funeral.
(30.08.2011; New Delhi; India)
poem by Anshul Gupta
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Never Mourn At My Funeral
Never mourn at my funeral
Because i'm not dead but sleeping
And relaxing on Abraham's bossom
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in view to mourning
But within you, you're here to mock
Because my poetry has once expose your secret-deeds
Throw my body where you please
Or let it be dismembered
Never mourn at my funeral
You the insect that bites my daffodils
And you who want my fish to swim on a dry earth
Throw me on a stormy sea
Where Jonah fell
But its a glorious shame
I can never sight the river bank of Joppa
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in my maker's name
Just to bless my end
Go thy way and search for lust souls
Wear them a garment pure as snow
Before they lie low with me
And journey hell eternal
Never mourn at my funeral
But mourn for we're debtors of death
poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
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Vanity Kills
Have you heard the latest? (you love you)
Have you seen who just walked in (vain vain vain vain)
(uh huh, you love you) right over there
Shes so vain vain vain vain
Vain vain vain vain
Im glad youve found someone who loves you
But sad to say that someone is you
And now perhaps youll both be happy
Guess that makes two just you and you
Someone who cares so much about you
But does that someone have to be you
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, it kills
So glad I found you glancing in the mirror
Gazing deeply at loves patron saint
Admire the frame, survey the scenery
Or are you just inspecting the paint
Temptations strong modestys so weak
High on yourself humble you aint
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Bom bom bom bom bom bom bom bom yeah
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills (no way)
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, it kills
So vain, vain vain vain
You love you (yeah)
Give it, give it us, give it us
So vain, so vain, so vain
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, it dont pay bills
Vanity kills, you love you
Vanity kills, if the blast dont get you
Then the fallout will
You love you
song performed by by Abc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lilacs At My Funeral
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m dead
Lilacs in my coffin
Placed gently by my head
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m gone
Lilacs to help send me
On my journey home
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs for my grave
Lilacs instead of roses
Think of the money you will save
1978
www.dakotaraeaustin.com
poem by Dakota Austin
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A man's vanity tells him what is honor, a man's conscience what is justice.
quote by Walter Savage Landor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death Is a Mockery of Life
Death is a mockery of life
They who have lived it through, are dead
So what about death can be said
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
They who have lived it through are dead
We do not speak of death too much
It lingers in the living room after the funeral
We try not to think about the lonely grave
We do not speak of deah too much
It is always raining in the grave yard
We try not to think about the lonely grave
Where no one seems to be, but only was
It is always raining in the grave yard
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
As nature doesn’t care about it, live or death
Just carry on as usual
Some flowers grow between the tombstones
So what about death can be said
Just carry on as usual
Death is a mockery of life
poem by Ina SchrodersZeeders
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Have pride and vanity
Service and sacrifice can be the base
For your pride and not your caste or creed.
Have pride that you have helped someone rise
And not that you have conquered someone.
Pride is that one feels about oneself high.
Show vanity for your simplicity;
Show not vanity for your affluence.
Show vanity for your affinity;
Show not vanity for your elegance.
Vanity is that one shows oneself high.
11.07.208
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Funeral Bell
The funeral bell is ringing a reminder of our mortality
Farewelling a deceased soul one day 'twill ring for me
Ringing in the stillness of this cool Autumn day
Across the rural city in the morning damp and gray.
The funeral bell is pealing for one a last farewell
And few sounds sadder than the slow peals of the loud funeral bell
Above the streets and houses it echoes to the sky
For one bound for her or his last resting place the cemetery nearby.
The peewees in the town park distinctive in their call
And the magpie on a wattle pipe on this cool morning in the Fall
And for one who will not breathe again the eulogy is read
And the funeral bell is tolling in memory of the dead.
The funeral bell is ringing for one a last goodbye
And on the clock of our mortality the hours just seem to fly
Respect to the departed is all that we can pay
And for each and everyone of us a final night and day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Oh Vanity
Oh vanity oh vanity
You only like to read
About beauty
Little about pain
Or hateful disdain
Am I so vain
Am I so shallow
To refuse a
Dark place to go
I'll lend a hand
To those in need
I'll give my love
While looking up
Is this not positivity
Not vanity
poem by Harriet James
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Night Funeral in Harlem
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Where did they get
Them two fine cars?
Insurance man, he did not pay--
His insurance lapsed the other day--
Yet they got a satin box
for his head to lay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Who was it sent
That wreath of flowers?
Them flowers came
from that poor boy's friends--
They'll want flowers, too,
When they meet their ends.
Night funeral
in Harlem:
Who preached that
Black boy to his grave?
Old preacher man
Preached that boy away--
Charged Five Dollars
His girl friend had to pay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
When it was all over
And the lid shut on his head
and the organ had done played
and the last prayers been said
and six pallbearers
Carried him out for dead
And off down Lenox Avenue
That long black hearse done sped,
The street light
At his corner
Shined just like a tear--
That boy that they was mournin'
Was so dear, so dear
To them folks that brought the flowers,
To that girl who paid the preacher man--
It was all their tears that made
That poor boy's
Funeral grand.
Night funeral
In Harlem.
poem by Langston Hughes
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The Ghost Dance
12 hours pass, flash by again twice
toll for the dead to awake again
the 8 o'clock rising still and eiry
as we follow suit of the sun dance
on hour goes by so quick so fast
and we blend to the pacing crowd
the beast struck nine and the dead join the living
hand in hand we dance the ghost dance
and look down into anothers distant eyes
hollow, gone and forboding us
what awaits beyond fleshy worlds
lust, gluteny, blasphamy and sloth
join in hands with thy brothers
vanity, gluteny and greed
the beast struck nine and the dead join the living
hand in hand we dance the ghost dance
throw back our heavy heads again
and scream to darken the clouds
let the rain fall let it wash us
pure as we now dirty and alive
distance apart us one key and two
unlock the secrets of time
the beast struck nine and the dead join the living
hand in hand we dance the ghost dance
loincloth needed to cover mine shame
as we're told as we are is imperfect
we cover and cower and hide
our shame merely shame to them
red, salty tears sting our black eyes
as again we cry for their loss
the beast srtuck nine and the dead join the living
hand in hand we dance the ghost dance
and the beast be the sun dance
as time claims us all in the end
hand in hand with our brothers
we trace regrets as our ghosts
and dance in circles around their heads
red right hand of the devil baptise me
the beast struck nine and the dead join the living
hand in hand we dance the ghost dance
poem by Sabrina Burton
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The Night Will Soon Be Lost
THE NIGHT WILL SOON BE LOST
The night will soon be lost
Another night of so many already gone
Who knows how many left?
I have seen far more nights
Than I will ever see again
Mostly it’s done
I have some nights left
But not so many
That I should waste it wholly
On frivolity
I’ll try now
To write a poem down
So this night
Will not have been wholly in vain
But who knows
Vanity of vanity of vanity
Perhaps for all nights and all poems- vanity
I am writing this poem down nonetheless
It flows as if it knows it has real life within it
I don’t know now how long this night will last
Or how many nights I have left
I have written a poem
Will G-d save it as if it were not vanity to vanity?
I do not know.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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A Funeral Note
Life on a lonely pillow,
The thoughts of the morrow to sleep at last;
Not a drum was heard at his funeral.
Of a funeral note,
Darkly as the dead of the night;
But its deep heart is full of dead men bones.
Fruits,
Sweet rejoice;
The flowers of that garden say it all.
Of error, ignorance and strife;
Like the barbarians at play,
Where the earth takes the dead away.
Of error, ignorance and strife;
Like a corpse within its grave,
Ready for the earth to swallow it.
Hear and hail,
Wear and wail;
Like the earth's decaying leaves where,
Life's lonely pillow shares the funeral note.
To all the overgrown sons,
To all the overgrown daughters,
With flowers and azure moss;
The impulse of your strength is like,
The Atlantic's level powers at sea.
Uncontrollable!
Like mourners with sad songs;
Their eyes are heavy and dim,
Broken with remorse like that orbed maid;
Where the moving-star shines dead,
And the thoughts of man die easily.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Unity Of The Elements
It was a pompous show,
For everyone should know,
The funeral procession
Of a rich man of the town.
Inch by Inch, the funeral cart moved.
Step by step, the mourners walked.
In black costumes, each one was dressed.
Front and back, march passed the crowd.
At the gate of the burning ghat,
The procession came to a halt.
Each one spoke, in praise of the dead
And tears flowed, for what they said.
On the sandalwood bed,
The body was laid,
And his son lit the fire,
That engulfed the funeral pyre.
The dead man's remains,
In the form of ash and bones,
To the sea, were consigned
As a finish, at the end.
At the bottom of the seabed
The bone of a poor man dead
Addressed his bone and said
'Welcome to this silent seabed.'
'The difference, when we were alive
Is no more with us, now let us live,
Not as poor or rich, but as one element,
No hatred feelings to foment.'
From the elements, man comes,
And back to the elements, he goes.
In between arises a low-high status,
That brings a world of differences.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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This Song I Sing
This song i sing is for the living souls,
If you loved me but you never showed,
I did not read my tombstone for i was dead,
If you cared about me but i did not know,
Am sorry i did not see how many teardrops you had shed,
If the speeches on my funeral were filled with eulogy,
Let my symphathy sink in our hearts,
For i did not hear them accept my apology.
poem by Shamba Kaunda
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Kohelet Again It Is Not Just The Vanity Of Vanities
It is not just the vanity of vanities
It is not just the truth of the contradictions
It is not just ‘a time for this and a time for that'
It is not just ‘Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth before the evil days grow nigh'
It is not just ‘Better a living dog than a dead lion'
It is not just ‘Enjoy your days with the wife of your youth'
It is not just the eternal truths
And the poem of the long home-
And the turning again and again of the wind and the water
And the sun and the sound-
It is not just the sheer beauty of the thing and its words
Despite an occasional archaic ugliness
It is not just the truth that cannot be gone beyond
Because this is what life is and what the grave is and what we are
It is not just too ‘that the making of many books much less the making of many poems is a weariness of the flesh-
It is that after all the years I have arrived at the time
Where the golden bowl may be broken and the voice of the grinders made low
And man return to his eternal home-
As in youth I in old age read and reread the words of the Preacher
And know myself and all of us in them-
Oh the greatest Literature is here
And part of it I repeat in my fragmented self
While the long distance of life goes beyond
In words which will be heard for the first time -
For this too is not everything
And what we do not know yet
Kohelet too does not know-
And for all of us as God permits
Who knows what will come
After the Vanity-
If it is after all Vanity
And the end of it all?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Dead End Street
Theres a crack up in the ceiling,
And the kitchen sink is leaking.
Out of work and got no money,
A sunday joint of bread and honey.
What are we living for?
Two-roomed apartment on the second floor.
No money coming in,
The rent collectors knocking, trying to get in.
We are strictly second class,
We dont understand,
(dead end!)
Why we should be on dead end street.
(dead end!)
People are living on dead end street.
(dead end!)
Gonna die on dead end street.
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
On a cold and frosty morning,
Wipe my eyes and stop me yawning.
And my feet are nearly frozen,
Boil the tea and put some toast on.
What are we living for?
Two-roomed apartment on the second floor.
No chance to emigrate,
Im deep in debt and now its much too late.
We both want to work so hard,
We cant get the chance,
(dead end!)
People live on dead end street.
(dead end!)
People are dying on dead end street.
(dead end!)
Gonna die on dead end street.
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
(dead end!)
People live on dead end street.
(dead end!)
People are dying on dead end street.
(dead end!)
Gonna die on dead end street.
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Head to my feet (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Hows it feel? (yeah)
Hows it feel? (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
Dead end street (yeah)
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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