Life comes to the miners out of their deaths, and death out of their lives.
quote by Mary Harris Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Young Dead Soldiers Do Not Speak
The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
Remember us.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.
poem by Archibald MacLeish
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People have their own deaths as well as their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall differ in our nothingness.
quote by E.M. Forster
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother Of A Miners Child
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
She is my light
In this place where the darkness never ends
Shell guide me where the tunnels twist and bend
Shes the only one who listens when I tell her
I got less than I can spend
She knows the pace
Oh mother of a miners child
Was away the coal dust from my face
When the night shifts done
Shell be waiting by the table when I come
Searchin for another dream to chase
Oh mother of a miners child
I know that you still think about the day
When well be movin on
Remember dear old daddy and
The promise that I made to carry on
Sometimes I smile
In the cage where the cables softly hum
Id curse that old straw boss to the bone
But the mother of a miners child
Is waiting for her paycheck to come home
Come saturday
And he is just a miners boy
I hope that he will find a better way
She is my flower
And she blooms for the one who loves her best
The miners stop to watch as she walks
They know her love is not for sale
She will never fail me cause I know
I watch her grow
And the mother of a miners child
Waits for me beside the kitchen door
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Death is.....
Death is peaceful
Death is sharp pain in my heart
Death is feeling sadness
Death is deppresion
death is when my loved ones have gone away
Death is when i give up the fight
Death is when i cant think about whats right
Death is a good thing on my behalf
Death started when i gained life
Death is where ill go
Death is near
Death is what i see
Death lives inside of me
DEATH WILL STOP MY MISERY
poem by Angelique Paniagua
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Father Death Blues
Hey Father Death, I'm flying home
Hey poor man, you're all alone
Hey old daddy, I know where I'm going
Father Death, Don't cry any more
Mama's there, underneath the floor
Brother Death, please mind the store
Old Aunty Death Don't hide your bones
Old Uncle Death I hear your groans
O Sister Death how sweet your moans
O Children Deaths go breathe your breaths
Sobbing breasts'll ease your Deaths
Pain is gone, tears take the rest
Genius Death your art is done
Lover Death your body's gone
Father Death I'm coming home
Guru Death your words are true
Teacher Death I do thank you
For inspiring me to sing this Blues
Buddha Death, I wake with you
Dharma Death, your mind is new
Sangha Death, we'll work it through
Suffering is what was born
Ignorance made me forlorn
Tearful truths I cannot scorn
Father Breath once more farewell
Birth you gave was no thing ill
My heart is still, as time will tell.
poem by Allen Ginsberg
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I'll be knocking at deaths door
I will be knocking on the door
Knock knock knock
Knocking at deaths door
Begging to be let in.
I'm near to deaths door
An overdose
And slit wrists
Along besides me.
Knock knock
Please let me in
deaths door
Please open
Please let me in
I hate my life
I cant cope
I'm desperate
plase let me in
Deaths door has opened
Now I've left it all behind
I'm in deaths world
Im gone
Im free
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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Death
Death is a gift from heavens above,
Death is something you can not run from,
Death is something you can not regret,
Death is a wish,
A wish you might soon to regret,
Death can scare you,
You can not cheat death's design,
Death is not a game,
Death is something you might not win,
When you number is called you know death is calling for you,
Theres no pain, No more regrets, No more broken hearts,
Someday soon we all will die in deaths arms.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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Death is when....
Death is when my loved ones must depart
Death is a sharp pain in my heart
Death is this feeling of permanent sadness and pain
Death is when my loved ones have gone away
Death is the call to heaven or hell
Death is an eternal mansion or cell
Death is the lesson i need to learn about
Death is a loss, without a doubt
Death is this unhappy feeling i have
Death is pleasant on my behalf
Death is the day i end my life
Death is when i give up the fight
Death is happiness to the world around me
Death started when i gained my life
Death can be helped along with this knife
Death is where i shall go
Death is close, i kno
Death willl come fast
Death is vast
Death is what i see
Death lives inside of me
Death is joy to me
Death has come for me
Death is gonna take me
Death will stop my misery
Death loves my company
Death ends the pain
Death takes me on that train
Death is near
Death is finally here
Man and God
Men die; dogs die; flies die; germs die.
They die but duration varies.
News dies, songs die and fashions die.
They die but at different spells.
God makes creatures and their deaths.
God is not sorry for such deaths.
Man made creations and not for their deaths.
Man is nervous for such deaths.
07.06.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Death
'Death is our eternal companion,' Don Juan said with a most serious air. 'It is always to our left, at an arm's length . . . It has always been watching you. It always will until the day it taps you.'
-Carlos Castaneda
My death
looks exactly like me.
She lives to my left,
at exactly an arm's length.
She has my face, hair, hands;
she ages
as I grow older.
Sometimes, at night,
my death awakens me
or else appears in dreams
I did not write.
Sometimes a sudden wind
blows from nowhere,
& I look left
& see my death.
Alive, I write
with my right hand only.
When I am dead,
I shall write with my left.
But later I will have to write
through others.
I may appear
to future poets
as their deaths.
poem by Erica Jong
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Death won't come..
Death is what I crave as I am no good at anything…
Death is what I want as I am such a horrible person…
Death is what I deserve as I ask questions to what peaks my interest…
Death is what I should have because my head spins with total bewilderment of what has been said to me…
Death is what I seek as I make so many people lives miserable..
Death is what should happen as I am not who people want me to be..
Why won’t death come to me, I am not worthy of life…
Please sweet death, seek me out…. I cannot continue life, as I know it…
I beg of you death, come and seek me out, where are you death…?
Where are you?
poem by Darla Olsen
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Chilian Brilliance
It is a blessing to witness,
Such bravery and commitment to brilliance.
With the comraderie of expertise.
All eyes were on Chile.
Lifting trapped miners from two thousand feet,
Below the Earth's surface to emerge as if...
This had been scripted.
More than thirty miners had spent sixty nine days,
Without knowing whether or not,
Their lives would be saved.
And as people the world over,
Watched with anticipation...
There were those in 'progressive' countries,
Doing their best to avoid and explain economic devastation.
As TV monitors above and below on Chilian soil,
Were peering to observe...
A togetherness unfold a people unspoiled.
What does this show?
As this endeavor proved to all?
It showed a people who could accomplish miracles,
To solve and achieve what was shown to be unbelieved!
All eyes were on Chile.
Lifting trapped miners from two thousand feet,
Below the Earth's surface to emerge as if...
This had been scripted.
Again this shows what Chilian people already know,
With faith and trust...
No division of politics,
Or economic conflict with a racism exposed...
Were no where to be observed,
When humanity was placed as the number one priority.
And this activity has taught,
A lesson no one could have bought!
Dedicated:
To the people of Chile.
The miners who 'were' trapped.
Their families.
'What a wonderful lesson.'
-lsp-
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Death part 1
Death can strike when we least expect it
Death is a significant event that will change our lives
Death will cause sorrow, depression, grief, and loneliness
Death is like the ending cycle of one's life and a beginning for another
But death can also bring new life
poem by Jeffrey Liminsang
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The Sadness Of These Deaths
THE SADNESS OF THESE DEATHS
The sadness of these deaths
These are not my deaths
But they are deaths
The sadness of these deaths
Oh God What is this world for
All these people gone
The sadness of these deaths
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Death' is when 'You' milk 'It
'Death' is when 'You' milk 'It' and milk it, milked
and you drive it, forever and ever,
upward and upward and never down ward, insane.
Death is two silky hands covered in hot burning oil,
that start at the base and death loves to covers each lamp.
While the flame burns inside the brown paper bag exposed.
Pushing death deep without compassion through the pale
full moon, as death walks around, ignoring your cries.
Heaven for death and coming so close to death you find.
Death makes you come over to your friends house once
again, in your mind while those pearls in the bag,
are laid up on the shelf that you share, with deaths pink pig.
Death moves both horns closer, driven unforgiving together,
one here and one there, ever closer, untiring you are laid out as art.
Death knows when the sky is on fire, say it again and again.
Death and truth, death is like an epileptic seizure,
when more than those silky soft hands,
never moved all the way down,
and a river of hot molten 'death' sprays,
in your hair each black day.
Death is as proud..and as proud of you, Death is,
as you splash it around, all about town,
Death and 'Death's' protein mask so tight, you peel it off.
Death was just the tip of the ice burg and death melted it,
with death's thick and full, red buried, unyielding lips.
'You' love to have your fun with death, as you milk it over
and over, the milk never expires, death never tires,
and many,
many are deaths executions from death's weepy milked eye.
poem by Is It Poetry
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When You Speak In Whispers
when you speak
in whispers
to me
like some
kind
of vespers
like some
code
of the cicadas
i have
actually
second
thoughts
listeni ng
i am
afraid
i always
remember
the kind
of deaths
fit
for my
godfather
lots of
little deaths
and i
ask, which
one
which one
is the
happy death?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Disingenuousness
Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.
Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:
Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!
Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The March of Death
Death death death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death death death
Death death death death death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Cast Aside
When deadly gas invisibly
seeps from some hidden cavity
and overcomes hard working men
They will not see their home again.
This was the kind of tragedy
we used to see quite frequently.
But now King Coal no longer reigns
and miners wives don’t fear the pain.
Of losing men folk to the pit
What is the bloody use of it.
Another kind of tragedy
engulfs ex miners family.
They’re facing life upon the dole.
No longer need to win coal
There are no jobs he can obtain for
those to old to start again.
They gave their lives to old King coal
and spent their lives down yon dark hole.
Their wives now feel a different strain
but miner’s wives do not complain
The did not when their thoughts were filled
with fear of husbands being killed.
I think today their greatest fear
Is when their man gets too much beer
.
Because he’s well and truly bored
and spends more than they can afford.
If she complains he blacks her eye
and then the fur and feathers fly.
Recalling how things used to be
I clearly see the irony.
The cure is worse than the disease.
A tragedy which no one sees.
You will not read it in the press
nor see it on the evening news.
The lasting sense of hopelessness
of men who have nothing to lose.
16-Aug-08
http: // blog.my.space.com/poetic piers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Death Of Life
His death happened a year ago,
Once his heart stopped and had ejected
From the chest, losing his life
And all of everything.
His death praised me as a novice of books,
Reading has a championship,
My heart has stopped too,
Giving me a blood-bath to consider.
My death is the result of deaths,
Births are a rational event,
May considerations arise for the slaughter
Of many devils and demons in this bath called Life.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Deaths gate
There's a gate that I want to walk through.
I want to go to deaths gate.
Where all my troubles will be gone.
No more hartache no more fears.
Just the freedom of tommorrrow.
Without the fears of the day.
Itll keep my demons away.
I want to go to deaths gate.
To end my life and strife.
I dont want to be in this lifetime of hate.
Theres a gate I'll go through soon.
I'll be entering deaths gate.
It wont be an acicedent you see.
It'll be suicide
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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