Died Of A Rose
A reporter he was, and he wrote, wrote he:
'The grave was covered as thick as could be
With floral tributes'-which reading,
The editor man he said, he did so:
'For 'floral tributes' he's got for to go,
For I hold the same misleading.'
Then he called him in and he pointed sweet
To a blooming garden across the street,
Inquiring: 'What's them a-growing?'
The reporter chap said: 'Why, where's your eyes?
Them's floral tributes!' 'Arise, arise,'
The editor said, 'and be going.'
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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War Dead
As the sun sets tremulous,
The carrion church wardens,
Shadowy paradoxes, stand sentinel.
The pale eyed dead look on silent
At this memorial to conflict.
These stark floral tributes;
Wreaths woven in blood red
These poppies of sacrifice,
To the slaughter of wars past.
They do not glorify war.....no,
But honour the long dead.
(in memoriam Rupert Brooke)
P H Brookes Copyright 2011
poem by Paul Brookes
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John M. Church
I was attorney for the "Q"
And the Indemnity Company which insured
The owners of the mine.
I pulled the wires with judge and jury,
And the upper courts, to beat the claims
Of the crippled, the widow and orphan,
And made a fortune thereat.
The bar association sang my praises
In a high-flown resolution.
And the floral tributes were many --
But the rats devoured my heart
And a snake made a nest in my skull.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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I sent The World Well Lost to one editor who rejected it on sight, and then wrote a letter to every other editor in the field warning them against the story, and urging them to reject it on sight without reading it.
quote by Theodore Sturgeon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Forgotten Dead
In this city of death
Sculpted stones lie prone or tilted
Like crooked teeth much decayed.
Fallen markers and forgotten names.
The RIPs of the dearly beloved
Lie here muddied.
No floral tributes laid.
The forgotten dead.
Laid here by the equally forgotten
Man's construct de-constructed.
Scattered.
Demolished.
Marble words once carved deep
Now weather worn or greened with moss
Are muddled, becoming a problematic script,
No translation,
An undecipherable code.
Soon the words will be dust.
Erased from memory.
Mixed in earth.
Lost.
poem by Paul Brookes
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A change around
Nothing has changed around
Everything is in order and nicely found
There is no dramatic change or any deviation
There is no abnormality in question
Everything is there as usual
Even if we notice as casual
There may be slight variation in nature
Any change is welcome for the future
What a lovely morning with fine dews
Show of magical spell for the views
Its slow disappearance from the scene
No where it can be presented or seen
Golden rays falling delicately on the ground
Birds present melodious melancholy with sound
Human life comes to awareness with emergence of the day
Surely to look forward and find some way
With day light to it s full zenith
Entire world is heaving under the beneath
Many new arrivals with meeting of certain deaths
Some where floral tributes and some where floral wreaths
Change is always integral part of the system
No one can even slightly alter them
It is already beautiful and nothing more to add
It is in your hand to feel so good or even bad
There is no disharmony and looks so congenial
We got to accept it and offer no denial
It is human psychology to present something new
It is for others to accept it or take it for review
The sun can’t be shadowed by human being
Such foolish orders can’t be accepted even from king
Anything thought or acted contrary
May make it redundant and unnecessary
Add some color or fragrance
See and feel it in everybody’s presence
You have no other way than to fall to its dictates
You may have immense pleasure as it indicates
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mr. Reporter
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
Hey, mr. reporter,
I'll believe all that you put down.
I'll believe the sun is going up,
Even though it's going down.
Hey, mr. reporter,
Don't you twist my words around.
I'll kill you, i won't let you,
Distort my simple sound.
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
Did your daddy stop you playing
With your friends when you were young?
And is that why you run down
All the young folks have their fun. [?]
The reason i am stupid,
Is because i read you every day.
You misquote all of the true things
Because they rub you the wrong way.
Hey, mr. reporter,
How 'bout talking about yourself?
Do you like what you're doing,
Or is it that you can do nothing else?
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Which editor? I can't think of one editor I worked with as an editor. The various companies did have editors but we always acted as our own editor, so the question has no answer.
To, for, about, because of, Spike Milligan
Spike, we talked of you today.
You’ll have to live with that now, I guess -
it seems that everyone has
a place in their hearts for you.
So, like a heap of ‘floral tributes’,
they’re all individual, but
it makes a very great pile
For myself, it’s that look on your face
that stays – as if you found life just so great a thing
that it stupefied you, wondering
how to confront it – whether
to laugh at it or cry for it
(both of which you did so well,
that perhaps it didn’t help you much
to decide between, so, lucky us, we got both by turns..)
and on your face, that quizzical appeal
to the rest of us, to help you to decide
how to confront life…or sometimes, should we even try? ..
When you see, in theatre foyers,
those two masks of tragedy and comedy,
it could say underneath –
‘To Spike Milligan, who knew both’
and perhaps people would notice them more and think.
And though you laughed and cried
at our mortality like
a philosopher who was also
a stand-up performer with tears of absurdity in his eyes,
it seems we’ve decided that
despite how you may be feeling now,
we’ve decided in our mortality
that you’re immortal.
I guess
you’ll just have to live with that.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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My wake, my funeral, my celebration
Death
could be full of surprises.
I'm not Irish; but if you were to do
the full Irish thing - take my corpse out of the coffin,
dance wildly round the room with it one by one -
it'd make my day;
I'd remember it all my, death
and I bet you would too.
Though perhaps the tango would be a bit too far.
The funeral:
the not-too-many invitations should say
'Dress code: happy'. That I'd really like to see.
So I'll be standing at the lych-gate
like a reporter from the local rag
checking you in.
But if you don't attend - that's OK. I wouldn't like to die
a hypocrite; there'll be plenty of folk I shall be meeting
whose funeral I didn't attend, believing as I do
that funerals are for family and just those friends
who wouldn't miss it for the world.
Forget the flowers - I'd rather see flowers live until they die,
like me; not wither like day-brief memories,
as floral tributes flat on the slab like beached dolphins.
Sing the old favourites. And if you don't know the tunes or words,
I'm gently sorry for you - it's good to have them to remember, somewhere back there in the mind.
And if you must have little speeches,
I think I'll just take a stroll round the graveyard during that bit;
praise only makes me regret more what I didn't do.
Then if you're so busy that you leave after the service,
that's OK - but I'd like to think the best were still to come -
the 'do' afterwards - ah, I'll join you for that:
make it a good one; no food is too good
for the living. I'd like to be the one
handing round the plates of goodies;
whose forearm you gently touch in passing
to murmur a brief word about being missed
which may be truly meant
or found to be true.
I'm not really conversant with this recent 'Celebration' thing
though it seems an excellent idea, so positive:
I'd like it, then, to be like that of my beloved friend, John:
where rather than just summon up memories and
share them with each other,
we seemed to be basking in the indescribable privilege
of his friendship
and his love;
which I guess in my case as in his would thus be truly
eternal.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Living in the Heart's Memory
A gentle touch upon the forearm
with a hand, gloved or warm with life,
outside the church door;
turning away from the open grave;
by that concrete place
where they lay the floral tributes
by the cemetery chapel;
or later, as you hand the food around;
a gentle touch upon the forearm
or a hand sought for to squeeze and hold; or
man to man, they favour a shoulder briefly gripped,
as if that’s the pressure point
where empathetic camaraderie should be applied;
the single sentence of consolation,
sometimes so well rehearsed, it comes out awkwardly –
‘she’ll be much missed…’
‘you have so many memories…’
‘he’ll always be there in our hearts…’
‘if there’s anything…’
they’ve been through this, themselves,
or fear the time they shall –
…‘words must be said,
but yet there are no words for this;
accept then, these few words
in lieu of that deep silence
which is itself in lieu of words…’
* * *
measured, immutable, as precise
as any equation of the calculated world,
the heart’s memories:
every moment that our heart in many years
opened to them, the heart has stored.
We know the mind can span the imagined world –
from travel brochures to the thought of heaven;
yet we forget that greater still, the heart is vast –
there’s all the room for them to live on there,
sustained by every moment of love freely given; for
the whole creation is one single act of love.
[written for a bereavement website]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I was editor of my high school literary magazine and a reporter for the school newspaper.
quote by Jeffery Deaver
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But for me, being an editor I've been an editor of all kinds of books being an editor of poetry has been the way in which I could give a crucial part of my time to what I love most.
quote by Peter Davison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Loves Floral Garden
We may be running circles 'round in time-
And spending moments with one another 'neath the moon-
But it defines the magic that we create while together...
In Springtimes Garden of Ethereal Blooms;
Oh, the gentle majesty of fragrant aroma's...
That peak in the warming sprintime eves-
And the tender love we give unto one another unconditionally-
And all the warmth that we two receive;
It all makes for a tender nurturing relationship...
Borne 'neath New Beginnings Springtime show...
'Neath the awesome splendour of the ebons twinkling gems-
In a Floral Garden-Our love to grow;
We are watered with the Sprintimes gentle rains-
And fertilized with promises of true love to always be...
'Neath the sun and moon we grow forever in love-
Wrapped in the Floral Gardens of Eternity;
poem by Theodora Onken
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Romance Point [3]
ROMANCE POINT [3]
esspeecee … [12.10.08]
O floral bed
En-bosom the,
Foot marks indelibly
-of her.
Bohemian me
Know well,
She’ll efface
Like a
Spry shadow.
Her balmy
Coquette feet will
Gush out,
But to -
Dumfound me
Achefully.
O floral bed
En-bosom foot prints,
My-
Romance Point
For an image
In my sterile cache.
End up
Game of romance
Before the mellow light
O you not
My Romance Point.
Copyright reserved by the Author
.
poem by Dr. Sakti P. Chakravorty
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It's the In Between
It's the in between...
...Before the now
After the today...
...Where i am at peace
In your arms...
...Like a dew covered Rose
In the early morn of day...
...At peace in the serenity
That breezes trhough this way...
...It's not so much the time spent
Or even, the way, you hold me so near...
...It's the in between time spent
That makes loving you so dear...
...It's that special melody playing
In our Garden Of Floral Memory...
...It is not, in the now of today
But more in the petals of Eternity...
...Each velvet Rose petal, dew covered in morn
In the in between, of yesterday...
...And the morrow, that may never, for us, be borne!
(Dedicated to all lovers and those in love.)
poem by Theodora Onken
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Jeduthan Hawley
There would be a knock at the door
And I would arise at midnight and go to the shop,
Where belated travelers would hear me hammering
Sepulchral boards and tacking satin.
And often I wondered who would go with me
To the distant land, our names the theme
For talk, in the same week, for I've observed
Two always go together.
Chase Henry was paired with Edith Conant;
And Jonathan Somers with Willie Metcalf;
And Editor Hamblin with Francis Turner,
When he prayed to live longer than Editor Whedon;
And Thomas Rhodes with widow McFarlane;
And Emily Sparks with Barry Holden;
And Oscar Hummel with Davis Matlock;
And Editor Whedon with Fiddler Jones;
And Faith Matheny with Dorcas Gustine.
And I, the solemnest man in town,
Stepped off with Daisy Fraser.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The fame of heroes owes little to the extent of their conquests and all to the success of the tributes paid to them.
quote by Jean Genet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The reporter wrote with the hope that he would get a by-line in the Times, a testimony to his being alive on that day and all the tomorrows of microfilm.
quote by Gay Talese
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I think, though, that people will read into a reporter's story a bias that they want to see in a reporter.
quote by Garrett M. Graff
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I had - all my life, everybody who knew me thought that I would probably grow up to be a reporter, a newspaper reporter because we didn't have much television in those days.
quote by Bob Schieffer
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