Tombs are the clothes of the dead and a grave is a plain suit; while an expensive monument is one with embroidery.
quote by R. Buckminster Fuller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cool Tombs
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs he forgot
the copperheads and the assassin . . . in the dust, in the
cool tombs.
And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street,
cash and collateral turned ashes . . . in the dust, in the
cool tombs.
Pocahontas' body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in
November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she
remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs?
Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries,
cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin
horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any
get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool
tombs.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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Death Alone
There are lone cemeteries,
tombs full of soundless bones,
the heart threading a tunnel,
a dark, dark tunnel :
like a wreck we die to the very core,
as if drowning at the heart
or collapsing inwards from skin to soul.
There are corpses,
clammy slabs for feet,
there is death in the bones,
like a pure sound,
a bark without its dog,
out of certain bells, certain tombs
swelling in this humidity like lament or rain.
I see, when alone at times,
coffins under sail
setting out with the pale dead, women in their dead braids,
bakers as white as angels,
thoughtful girls married to notaries,
coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,
the wine-dark river to its source,
with their sails swollen with the sound of death,
filled with the silent noise of death.
Death is drawn to sound
like a slipper without a foot, a suit without its wearer,
comes to knock with a ring, stoneless and fingerless,
comes to shout without a mouth, a tongue, without a throat.
Nevertheless its footsteps sound
and its clothes echo, hushed like a tree.
I do not know, I am ignorant, I hardly see
but it seems to me that its song has the colour of wet violets,
violets well used to the earth,
since the face of death is green,
and the gaze of death green
with the etched moisture of a violet's leaf
and its grave colour of exasperated winter.
But death goes about the earth also, riding a broom
lapping the ground in search of the dead -
death is in the broom,
it is the tongue of death looking for the dead,
the needle of death looking for the thread.
Death lies in our beds :
in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets,
lives a full stretch and then suddenly blows,
blows sound unknown filling out the sheets
and there are beds sailing into a harbour
where death is waiting, dressed as an admiral.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Come To Think Of Them
beggars wearing
white robes
and large diamond
ring in their
middle fingers
by the authority
of God
they live all
in luxury
tax free
robbers wearing
fine, expensive suits
accorded accolades
and reaping honors
from plain
juan de la cruz
invoking the authority
of your state
holy and honorable
in their respective
thrones all built
by the bricks and
limestones of
our ignorance and
gullibility
we are the people
and we are the kings
and yet we look so
miserable living
miserable in poverty
in sickness in death
we sew the white robe
and the fine suit and
let them wear them
as we take and thrive
on tattered clothes
and listen to our rattling bones
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Luxury is no longer displayed in buildings and external decorations. The carriages are plain, while the servants are less numerous, the fine clothes out of fashion, expensive horses are no longer kept, diamonds are at a discount, and jewellery has fallen into discredit.
quote by Madame de Sartory
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Humility
My virtues in Carara stone
Cut carefully you all my scan;
Beneath I lie, a fetid bone,
The marble worth more than the man.
If on my pure tomb they should grave
My vices,--how the folks would grin!
And say with sympathetic wave:
"Like us he was a man of sin."
And somehow he consoled thereby,
Knowing they may, though Hades bent,
When finally they come to die,
Enjoy a snow-white monument.
And maybe it is just as well
When we from life and lust are riven,
That though our souls should sink to hell
Our tombs point: Destination Heaven!
poem by Robert William Service
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Death
I.
They die--the dead return not--Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye--
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone--
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain--
These tombs—alone remain.
II.
Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not!
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling’s door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain--
These tombs—alone remain.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Dead Prayers
hearts trek
feet travel to the road
leading to unknown tombs
forgotten by the winding clocks
never remembered by the heart
and troubled souls
reach the unpainted walls
of a moss decorated crypt
and the dead souls
shouts dead prayers
only the dead can understand
what are halloween prayers anyway?
for uncaring bones
became stout by the earth
addicted by the rain of forgetfullness
and drugged by dreams gone wild
of wisdom lost
in a maze of unknown heavens
in a hell never found..
yet it is Halloween
so hearts still murmur
souls still recite
dead prayers for all
dead souls
encaged on dead tombs
poem by Villiamor Calventas
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When I'm not writing or tweaking my computer, I do embroidery. When I'm not plunging into the past, tweaking, or embroidering, I'm reading books about history, computers, or embroidery.
quote by Lynn Abbey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Renouveau. (From The French)
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering son and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Please youreslf
I think that ladies should ignore
The dictates of the fashion trade
The doubtful claims of haute couture
by so called experts often made.
A wise lady will choose her clothes
to show her assets at their best.
Not as the expert all suppose
to look exactly like the rest.
Dress to suit your face and figure
There is no need to buy in haste
clothes which make your rivals snigger.
Have faith in your own good taste.
Women come in many shades
different shapes and different sizes.
Mature matrons and slim young maids.
Every one that some man prizes.
A well dressed women who stands out.
Knows full well what she’s about.
She won’t let the experts tell her
how to dress to please her feller.
Some women have good fashion sense
but many lack the confidence
to tell the experts to get lost.
They can dress well at half the cost.
Fashion labels may sell clothes
but only silly girls suppose.
Only the latest style will do.
When obviously it is not true.
Suit yourself in the way you dress.
Choose the clothes that will suit you
If you do you will impress
in the way you ought to do.
Let all the fashion gurus prate
But don’t believe a word they say.
You know that you will look great
when you dress in your own way
Fashions come and fashions go.
You know when you’re looking good
What do the so called experts know? .
Ignore them as you know you should.
8-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Vain Spell
THE house sleeps dark and the moon wakes white,
The fields are alight with dew;
'Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night?
I have waited the whole night through,
For I knew,
O Heart of my heart, I knew by my heart,
That the night of all nights is this,
When elm shall crack and lead shall part,
When moulds shall sunder and shot bolts start
To let you through to my kiss.'
So spake she alone in the lonely house.
She had wrapped her round with the spell,
She called the call, she vowed the vow,
And the heart she had pledged knew well
That this was the night, the only night,
When the moulds might be wrenched apart,
When the living and dead, in the dead of the night,
Might clasp once more, in the grave's despite,
For the price of a living heart.
But out in the grave the corpse lay white
And the grave clothes were wet with dew;
'Oh, will you not come to me, Love, to-night,
I have waited the whole night through,
For I knew
That I dared not leave my grave for an hour
Since the hour of all hours is near,
When you shall come to the hollow bower,
In a cast of the wind, in a waft of the Power,
To the heart that to-night beats here!'
The moon grows pale and the house sleeps still
Ah, God! do the dead forget?
The grave is white and the bed is chill,
But a guest may be coming yet.
But the hour has come and the hour has gone
That never will come again;
Love's only chance is over and done,
And the quick and the dead are twain, not one,
And the price has been paid in vain.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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All That I Have Left
The Apostle Paul recommended women should
not seek beauty in hairstyles, ornaments, jewellery
and expensive clothes, true beauty lies in character;
I say: Thank you, the hairstyle is easily done due to
the thin feathers on my head, as for the clothes
I have to wear something, the clothes I have is ugly
enough - I cannot find pretty clothes in my size - and
now I find none that fits, neither pretty or ugly; at least
Paul said clothing is required, my only option is to mail-
order a burka as the clothes in our Western shops
Are an unqualified flop - for me at least, I comply with
the requirements for looking ugly; working on character
is all that I have left - Paul, you did not recommend
anything, you simply stated the state of affairs!
1 Timothy 3: 9 & 10
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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My Days
My days are but the tombs of buried hours ;
Which tombs are hidden in the piled years ;
But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,
Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.
Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,
Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high ;
But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,
And the dead corpse leaves what will never die-
It may be but a thought, the nursling seed
Of many thoughts, of many a high desire ;
Some little act that stirs a noble deed,
Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire :
They only live who have not lived in vain,
For in their works their life returns again.
poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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You don't need really expensive clothes to look cute.
quote by Christy Romano
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Don't Know Me
I will disguise myself so no one
will really know who I am.
I will wear bright clothes and flashy shoes
and they will call me ma'am.
But when I'm in no one's company
I'll let my hair all down.
I'll put on a drab old shirt
and slippers of shabby brown.
For clothes do make the person.
That's what I've been told.
When my flashy clothes are on
I'm a sight to behold.
But that's not who I am you know.
I'm just a plain old gal.
But I can fool the best of them.
They think I'm a femme fatale.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Alternative - 1908
If, some day, you should find me, cold and stark
If you should stumble o'er my lifeless clay
In some still thoroughfare or public park
And sadly say:
'Alack, and had he lived, as like as not
He'd reigned with Bent!' I should not care a jot.
If I should die in some by-way obscure,
And you should come across my silent corse
In its last sleep, my spirit would - be sure
Know no remorse.
'Twere better that I thus had ceased to live
If life with Bent were the alternative.
I say, if I should die, and all alone;
And, dying thus, escape the wiles of Bent;
O'er my remains I'd have you make no moan,
Nor yet lament.
But let relief be mingled with your woe;
And murmur o'er my clay, ''Twere better so.'
Nay, if you came, as in my bier I lay,
And sald, 'Who knows? If this had not occurred'
I should arise in my grave-clothes and say,
'Don't be absurd!'
And, being safely out of Tommy's reach,
I'd probably get out and make a speech.
I'd tell you, 'Better have a monument
Above my head and, coffined, lie at rest
Than live in some Cabinet with Bent
Upon my chest.'
And, having said all that was to he said,
I should continue being very dead.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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My Darling
my love for her always boils down to
money, credit and ATM cards, and
trips and vacations,
expensive clothes, and flashy cars
and a modern house
in the suburbia
she slides
my ATM card, relies on my credit card,
and plans my trip to islands with white sands
and expensive margaritas
she imagines the next trip
in Hongkong, Singapore, Thailand
China,
and Austria, and i jokingly add
the North Pole
just to check how white are the glaciers
and how warm is it
inside the igloo
and the United States of America
Las Vegas, and Texas
and visit some of her friends
in Chicago and California
not to mention her New Yorker
friend from Tondo
expensive dreams of my darling
but i do not really mind,
she will soon pay for all of them
you bet.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Days of 1908
That was the year when he stayed
Without work, for a living played
Cards, or backgammon; or borrowed and never paid.
He was offered a place at a small
Stationer’s, three pounds a month. It didn’t suit him.
It was not decent pay at all.
He refused it without hesitation;
He was twenty-five, and of good education.
Two or three shillings he made, more or less.
From cards and backgammon what could a boy skim;
At the common places, the cafés of his grade,
Although he played sharply, and picked stupid players.
As for borrowing, that didn’t always come off.
He seldom struck a dollar, oftener he’d fall
To half, and sometimes as low as a shilling.
Sometimes, when he got away from the grim
Night-sitting, for a week at a time or more,
He would cool himself at the baths, with a morning swim.
The shabbiness of his clothes was tragical.
He always wore the same suit, always displayed
A suit of cinnamon brown discoloured and frayed.
O summer days of nineteen hundred and eight, I recall
The picture of you, and out of it seems to fade,
Harmoniously, that cinnamon suit discoloured and frayed.
The picture of you has preserved him
Just as he would take off, would fling down
The unworthy clothes, the mended under clothes,
And remain all naked; faultlessly beautiful; a wonder.
Uncombed and lifted up his hair was;
His limbs a little sunburnt
From the morning nakedness at the baths and on the beach.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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Expensive clothes are a waste of money.
quote by Meryl Streep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Autumn Burial
A small crowd stood around the grave;
my presence being one of them.
With our heads bowed downward and our
Predominant, black and white clothes
We all resembled king penguins
in the early autumn morning.
The breeze increased and blew the brown
Dead maple leaves around our feet,
some aptly onto the casket
deep within the newly dug grave.
Other than the wind, the silence
Is deafening except for an
occasional cough from the group.
The eulogy begins “Here lies ….”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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