Mr. Nobody
there's a dead man
in a box down at the
funeral home... nobody
came to see...
but hell, nobody came
when he was alive....
nobody called, nobody wrote...
and Mr. Nobody went about
his days, doing what you do
to get by... cooking small meals,
and drinking black coffee....
watering his plants, walking
his dog, sitting in his chair....
staring at old photographs
of children grown and moved....
and of the woman he loved
for forty years... buried beneath
a tree down by the church...
now he lies in the box, still,
cold, and lifeless... no voices,
no tears.... his dog wandered off....
there's nobody to bury nobody
in the world where nobody lived
and died...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes
Jack
Jack was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day, and his hands were tougher than sole leather.
He married a tough woman and they had eight children and the woman died and the children grew up and went away and wrote the old man every two years.
He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun telling reminiscences to other old men whose women were dead and children scattered.
There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy on his face when he lived—he was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun.
poem by Carl Sandburg
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The Day Old Shep Died
it's been thirty years,
that he's been gone,
the day he died, brought tears,
all day, i played his song.
for nine long years,
i loved him and he loved me,
the day he died, broght tears,
toward the end, he could barely see.
when he died, i was seventeen years,
my child hood died that day,
the day he died, brought tears,
during his youth, we were always at play.
him and i was, so close in years,
when i got shep he was five and i eight,
the day he died brought tears,
he always ate his meals, off our plate.
he died at eighty-four in human years,
he lived to a ripe old age,
the day he died brought tears,
for this poem, he set the stage.
i can't believe, its been so many years,
i think about him, all the time,
the day he died, brought tears,
but old shep, was all mind.
of all these many years,
no dog has taken the place of old shep,
the day he died, brought tears,
i'll always remember, that dog with pep
in memory of old shep 1946-1960 written june 21,1990
Here Lie's The truth
“Here Lies the truth”,
On Her tombstone this will be wrote.
It was never spoke when She was living,
So also in death, it will be unspoke.
By Her it was never said
it was as though pulling out Her soul,
So here lies the truth and herself dead
Both has died in sadness and woe.
Here lies the truth,
Not once by her was it cried,
Not in the days that she was living,
Not even in the day that She had died.
She must of believed that it was a sin
To open Her heart and listen to the word
So She closed her heart and locked it shut,
And She never believed in no one but Her.
Here lies the truth,
It lived but a very short life,
Though the Woman died of years of age
The truth though, never had a chance to try.
Everyone She knew had learned Her lie
They never believed a word that she said
So when She finally tried to speak the truth,
Her heart stopped; and She laid dead.
Here lies the truth
It lived but a very short life,
It was loved by neither Child or Man,
For they believe its living was but a lie.
So here in the grave it will lay dead
As it had lived in this woman's soul,
Never again will it be uttered or thought of,
Never till the end of time will it be thought of or known.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Time To Sit
A time to sit, the doctor said.
The room silent,
the walls a dull grey,
painted God knows when.
The chair uncomfortable,
hard on the arse.
You look around,
cock your ears,
sniff the air.
Tell me, the doc said,
do you hear voices?
The carpeted floor
beneath the feet.
The shoes touch it.
You push hard down on it.
Not springy.
A small window high up
lets in light. The air is stale.
Body smell, sweat.
As if many have sat here
just like you on this chair.
The mind is a complex thing,
the doc said, layer upon layer
of memories and sensations
are buried there.
As if you didn’t know.
He spoke with an Irish lilt.
Just like you. Softer though.
Photographs were on his desk in his room.
You gazed at them as he spoke.
The wife of his some posh bit,
clothes aplenty, eyes just staring.
And two kids staring at you
from another photo: well fed,
nothing much wrong with them.
No screw loose, all right in the head.
The sitting in the room does you no good.
The voices are back,
never been away.
Good day, good day, they say.
poem by Terry Collett
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To See, Again, the Stars
The cold was penetrating
within their shattered room.
Grandmother was bedridden
She could not be moved.
Her sixteen year old Grandson
Brought food that he had scrounged
For nine days they were trapped there,
buried beneath the mound.
All around the cries grew weaker,
Fainter, fainter then died down….
For nine days they were buried
In the wreckage of their home.
They were the sole survivors
Enduring there alone.
His father never gave up hope
That they would be found alive.
Their rescue made news worldwide
It was tears of joy he cried.
They emerged into the twilight
Of a sunset, bloody red.
Two saved, out of ten thousand,
Spared, to see the Stars Again.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Buried Alive By Love
Again the burden of losing
Rests upon my shoulders
And its weight seems unbearable
Your tomb is where your heart is,
I should have told her
But within me hid a secret so terrible
To cry is to know that you're alive
But my river of tears has run dry
I never wanted to fool you, no
But a cold heart is a dead heart
And it feels like Ive been buried alive by love
If I should die before I wake
I pray no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
Rescue me with your smile
If I should die before I wake
I pray no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
Rescue me with your smile
The kiss of vanity you blessed me with, spiritual woman,
Face the gods of war insatiable
Your home is where the dark is, I should have told her
Embrace the fire indestructible
To die is to know that you're alive
And my river of blood won't run dry
I never wanted to lose you, no
But a cold heart is a dead heart
And it feels like Ive been buried alive by love
If I should die before I wake
I pray no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
rescue me with your smile
If I should die before I wake
I pray no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
Rescue me with your smile
And they say to cry is to know that you're alive
But my river of tears has run dry
I never wanted to fool you, no
But a cold heart is a dead heart
And a deserted soul is gone
A cold heart is a dead heart
And it feels like Ive been buried alive by love
If I should die before I wake
I pray no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
Rescue me with your smile,
If I should die before I wake
I pray no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
Rescue me with your smile
I've been buried alive by love
Ive been buried alive by love
Buried alive by love
I've been buried alive by love
I've been buried alive by love
I've been buried alive by love
song performed by by H.I.M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Another Kind Of Epitaph
The time I died first, there were days upon days
while you cried, remembering my unique ways.
I rose up and up high above the cemetery wall
while then I could fly and everything beneath looked small,
but back to mother earth I had to go, where I felt the new rain
while very slow, worms on me started to gnaw without any pain.
When my next funeral came, you graciously wanted to put me to sleep
you did not want the general type of burial where they would bury me deep
but to the fire you wanted me to go, to experience the flames of hell
and over the sea, the veldt my ashes you did blow and with tears wished me well.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Questions......
lady, (lady in black
gown, black hat, and
hand-gloves)
why do you want your
coffee black?
why do you always want
bitterness?
why always alone
sitting on a chair facing the sea
and drinking the salt of
the breeze
with your black coffee?
why sip bitterness
when
to my mind, coffee would be
better with cream
and honey
with someone beside you
facing the sea and
savoring the salt of the sea
with that black coffee of yours?
lady, why mourn
when joy is just around the bend?
why can't we be alone
together?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Her Hands Are Stronger Now
she greets you by the door. She knows you are coming.
Her heart pounds for you.
She shows the room. It looks for you for many years.
Now she brags the room is alive.
she opens the window and lets the air
and the trees know that you are here finally.
they all talk about you know.
they nod, you are no longer a dog.
Or a parakeet.
The chair opens its arms for you.
You take your seat.She asks you if you miss coffee.
Black coffee, without sugar.
You look around. There is nothing changed here.
20 years ago, all the structures are faithful
to their positions.
They miss you and like to embrace you.
She is restrained like a dam.
No tears this time.
Not even some tears of joy.
She knows why you are here.
The room, the tree and the window,
the floors are blind.
She knows that this will be the last time
of your compromise.
She is dead 20 years back
when you told her
about the truth.
How can she feel like the room, the floor,
the tree and the window
How can she be as foolish as air and cloud?
Her hands are strong now.
They write her name, her signature to sorrow.
Her heart notes the final statement.
Life is over.
Game is over.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From A Poet's Desk....
i have days filled with images,
smells, sounds, tastes...
images that talk without speaking,
that ache, that cut, that bleed...
small things, never noticed, or forgotten.
remember staring at sunlight dancing
in pine sap, alone in the woods, a small boy.
the way my bare feet felt in the creek,
the way my mother talked about god,
as if they were intimate friends.
the day my best friend's brother died,
we were about seven, i think he was five...
the freckles on the face of the girl i loved,
in the fifth grade...
and the day of mourning, alone in the woods,
when her family moved away.
the day President Kennedy was murdered...
the streets i walked at night as a teenager.
the questions, always the questions...
the call i took the night
my grandfather drowned.
the funeral when my brother died...
old frame houses, wood chopped, gardens tilled...
the way factories smelled, the stink of the jail cell.
passion, sweet passion, the body of my lover,
and music, always music....
classical, blues, rock, country, bluegrass, folk...
i loved them all!
dimlit bars, silent libraries, thumb stuck out
on endless highways... going, always going...
the feel of the wind at my back.
going up, and coming down,
shaking the monkey off my back.
and one by one those i loved died...
leaves fallen from the tree...
sleeping in empty churches,
or deep south drunk tanks....
the days each of my children were born,
and each time i lost it all...
a thousand prayers, a thousand doubts,
and moments of pure faith....
black and white, and all the colors
of living in tiny slivers....
i thank each and every memory
with eternal gratitude...
images of a life lived,
that throb and haunt the night!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Anger Of Old Men...
who am i then?
is there nothing left?
the splintered leg
of the coffee table,
the doorknob broken,
the place on the edge of the yard
where the dog likes to piss?
do old men's bodies
crumble into the shadows
of all the things they've died for?
how many plates filled?
how many cups poured?
how many fires tended
against the night?
how many hands held?
how many dreams buried
beneath the tree that stands?
how many conversations
with pictures on the walls?
lonliness breathes,
with a stink familiar...
the tv drones like gnats
flung against the bulb...
the world's gone mad,
and everything i thought i knew,
is buried on the hill!
even the name on my shirt has faded,
coffee cups stacked in the sink.
the hands fumbling with buttons,
are both cold, and alone...
and the body on the bed,
is no body at all.
the vine grown into the gutters,
rain water falling on pavement cracked!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Buried Alive By Love
I carry the burden that pulls your
Wrist upon my shoulders
And this weight seems so unbearable
Your tomb is where your heart is,
I should have told her
Everything made it seem so terrible
To cry is to know that youre alive
But my river of tears has run dry
I never wanted to fool you
But a cold heart is a dead heart
And it feels like Ive been buried alive by love
If I should die before I wake
There aint no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die, rescue me with your smile
If I should die before I wake
There aint no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die, rescue me with your smile
Yesterday was the first time youre so much colder
Then you got someone insatiable
Your home is there in the darkness,
I should have told her
And embrace the fire indestructible
Well to die is to know that youre alive
And my river of blood wont run dry
I never wanted to fool you, no
But a cold heart is a dead heart
And it feels like Ive been buried alive by love
If I should die before I wake
There aint no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die, rescue me with your smile
If I should die before I wake
There aint no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die, rescue me with your smile
Oh,it seems to cry is to know that youre alive
And my river of tears has run dry
I never wanted to fool you, no
But a cold heart is a dead heart
And its dead since oh youre gone
A cold heart is a dead heart
And it feels like Ive been
If I should die before I wake
There aint no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die,
Rescue me with your smile, oh, baby
If I should die before I wake
There aint no one my soul to take
If I wake before I die, rescue me with your smile
Ive been buried alive by love
Ive been buried alive by love
Buried alive by love
Ive been buried alive by love
Ive been buried alive by love
Ive been buried alive by love
song performed by by H.i.m. (his Infernal Majesty)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not 'God'?
Scattered wings of butterflies
Gathers on my grave tonight
The name that scars the stone
Lifeless as my buried bones
shivers...
At the touch of your lips.
Sitting in your knees
The wet cold ground
Is the only touch you get from me now.
I know you are crying.
The weight of the tears
Pushing me
Deeper and deeper into the heart
I left behind
To swear
and wish revenge
on this so called 'God'.
It's simple,
I died.
poem by Serban Raducu Bogdan
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Good Girl
Look at you, sitting there being good.
After two years you're still dying for a cigarette.
And not drinking on weekdays, who thought that one up?
Don't you want to run to the corner right now
for a fifth of vodka and have it with cranberry juice
and a nice lemon slice, wouldn't the backyard
that you're so sick of staring out into
look better then, the tidy yard your landlord tends
day and night — the fence with its fresh coat of paint,
the ash-free barbeque, the patio swept clean of small twigs —
don't you want to mess it all up, to roll around
like a dog in his flowerbeds? Aren't you a dog anyway,
always groveling for love and begging to be petted?
You ought to get into the garbage and lick the insides
of the can, the greasy wrappers, the picked-over bones,
you ought to drive your snout into the coffee grounds.
Ah, coffee! Why not gulp some down with four cigarettes
and then blast naked into the streets, and leap on the first
beautiful man you find? The words Ruin me, haven't they
been jailed in your throat for forty years, isn't it time
you set them loose in slutty dresses and torn fishnets
to totter around in five-inch heels and slutty mascara?
Sure it's time. You've rolled over long enough.
Forty, forty-one. At the end of all this
there's one lousy biscuit, and it tastes like dirt.
So get going. Listen: they're howling for you now:
up and down the block your neighbors' dogs
burst into frenzied barking and won't shut up.
poem by Kim Addonizio
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Woman Oh Woman
Search through the years
And you wipe away the tears
To find a woman, not a girl
Just that feeling, like the beginning of the world
Beginning of the world
And your love flows down like a river
'til it reaches down to the sea
And it's then you start to thinking
Will the water, will the water cover me?
Woman oh woman
Don't bury me alive
Just make me feel i've the right to survive
Woman oh woman
I hope that you can see
This is nothing like our love was meant to be
Love was meant to be
You search through the years
And you wipe away the tears
To find a woman, not a girl
But a feeling, like the beginning of the world
Woman oh woman
Don't bury me alive
Just make me feel i've the right to survive
Woman oh woman
I hope that you can see
This is nothing like our love was meant to be
Woman oh woman
Woman oh woman
Woman oh woman
Woman oh woman
Woman oh woman
Oh woman
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sitting by the Fire
Barren Age and withered World!
Oh! the dying leaves,
Like a drizzling rain,
Falling round the roof -
Pattering on the pane!
Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
Ghosts of other days,
Trooping past the faded fire,
Flit before the gaze.
Now the wind goes soughing wild
O'er the whistling Earth;
And we front a feeble flame,
Sitting round the hearth!
Sitting by the fire,
Watching in its glow,
Ghosts of other days
Trooping to and fro.
Oh, the nights - the nights we've spent,
Sitting by the fire,
Cheerful in its glow;
Twenty summers back -
Twenty years ago!
If the days were days of toil
Wherefore should we mourn;
There were shadows near the shine,
Flowers with the thorn?
And we still can recollect
Evenings spent in mirth -
Fragments of a broken life,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Cheerful in its glow,
Twenty summers back -
Twenty years ago.
Beauty stooped to bless us once,
Sitting by the fire,
Happy in its glow;
Forty summers back -
Forty years ago.
Words of love were interchanged,
Maiden hearts we stole;
And the light affection throws
Slept on every soul.
Oh, the hours went flying past -
Hours of priceless worth;
But we took no note of Time,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Happy in its glow,
Forty summers back -
Forty years ago.
Gleesome children were we not?
Sitting by the fire,
Ruddy in its glow,
Sixty summers back -
Sixty years ago.
Laughing voices filled the room;
Oh, the songs we sung,
When the evenings hurried by -
When our hearts were young!
Pleasant faces watched the flame -
Eyes illumed with mirth -
And we told some merry tales,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Ruddy in its glow,
Sixty summers back -
Sixty years ago.
Barren Age and withered World!
Oh, the dying leaves,
Like a drizzling rain,
Falling round the roof -
Pattering on the pane!
Frosty Age and cold, cold World!
Ghosts of other days,
Trooping past the faded fire,
Flit before the gaze.
Now the wind goes soughing wild
O'er the whistling Earth;
And we front a feeble flame,
Sitting round the hearth:
Sitting by the fire,
Watching, in its glow,
Ghosts of other days
Trooping to and fro!
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Folks
The old folks dont talk much
They talk so slowly when they do
They are rich they are poor
Their illusions are gone
They share one heart for to
Their homes all smell of tyme
Of old photographs
And an old fashioned song
Though you may live in town
You live so far away
When youve lived to long
Have they laughed to much
Do their dry voices crack
Talking of things gone by
Have they cried to much
A tear or two still always seems
To cloud the eye
They tremble as they watch the old silver clock
When day is through
Tick tock oh so slow
It says yes it says no
It says I wait for you
The old folks dream no more
Their books have gone to sleep
The pianos out of tune
The little cat is dead
And no more do they sing on a sunday afternoon
The old folks move no more
Their world become to small
Their bodies feel like lead
They might look out a window
Or else sit it a chair
Or else they stay in bed
And if they still go out
Arm and arm, arm and arm
In the mornings chill
Its to have a good cry
To say their last goodbye
To one whose older still
And then they go home
To the old silver clock
When day is through
Tick tock so so slow
It says yes it says no
It says I wait for you
The old folks never die
They just put down their heads
And go to sleep one day
They will hold each others hands
Like children in the dark
But one will get lost anyway
And the other will remain
Just sitting in a room
Which makes no sound
It doesnt matter now
The song has died away
And echos all around
Youll see them as they walk
Through the sun filled parks
Where children run and play
It hurst to much to smile
It hurts so much
But life goes on for still another day
As they try to escape the old silver clock
When day is through
Tick tock oh so slow
It says yes it says no
It says I wait for you
The old old silver clock
Thats hanging on the wall
That waits for us all
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.
He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.
Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.
From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.
'A Bishop,' he said, 'is the top of his trade:
But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason came
And carved on stone Fidele's name;
But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
Was a dog that never had lived or died.
So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed,
Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
And, laying the floor anew, they found
In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells
No more of him the story tells;
Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
And died and was buried a century since.
And whether his view was right or wrong
Has little to do with this my song;
Something we owe him, you must allow;
And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
The marble still his memory keeps:
Remember, when the name you spell,
There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
An ignorant fellow, of humble lot---
But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Cup of mocha
You never liked
the taste of mocha
You said it was
coffee laced
with chocolate lies
I always loved it
when the chocolate
masked the coffee
Just enough, and
let it linger nice
A lie coated truth
But, truth nevertheless...
The warm cup of mocha
Stands and grows cold
outside in
Dreams, forgotten,
lie dormant
new, old within
I stretch over the table
as across continents
To hold your hands,
to cup some warmth into;
a coffee grown cold,
a life grown old
We always shared
the mocha
you sipping
seeking the coffee
While I taste
the chocolate,
wait with the coffee
We stare athwart
Our love’s passion,
no longer an obsession
It retains within us ties,
Coffee mingled with chocolate lies
You always said
“Serve me poison,
with a smile,
I will drink it too.
Please, don’t lace it
with chocolate as with
coffee you do.”
You never liked
the taste of mocha
Yet, you always
drink it with me
As you sip,
your eyes crinkle
and I smile too, with you...
poem by O. Sudhir Janardhanan
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The Diadochi
When word was brought that Alexander was dead
In Babylon, gossips said it was not true;
For if that demigod spirit had shed
So vast a corpse, its corruption then through
The whole world would reek; men from Carthage
To India would pause and sniff the air,
That by the stench declared the End of Age
Like an incense-wafted funeral prayer.
Yet he was dead, and in time earth did stink
With the metal tang of blood. Forty years
His funeral games were held, and men did think
His dying crueler than his life. More tears
And blood they shed, his diadem to strive,
Than he had spilled in Asia, when alive.
poem by Mark Sauer
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