Archer bulls eye champ
Dies, buried with top marks in
Cemetery’s dead centre
haiku by Ken e Hall
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Six Word Story...BULLS EYE CHAMP
Archer....buried in cemetery's dead centre.
poem by Ken e Hall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cemetery Drive
cemetery drive,
covered in mist,
driving down the road,
so cold,
the crypts and tombstones cast dark shadow,
the bats and the wind,
grimly howl,
cemetery drive,
a place of shadow,
cemetery drive,
tall dead trees,
comfort the dead,
black roses grow along the road,
they fight the cold,
and give the living hope,
the living hope their hearts never stop,
and they'll never have to call cemetery drive home,
and tend to the shadows and black roses
poem by Catie Belle Stark
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It just meant a lot because it's something I've always wanted to do. I've always wanted to be a Senior National Champ. I was Junior National Champ in 2002, so now to be the senior champ is great.
quote by Carly Patterson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Over With A Revolver
It's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Closure too so many traumatic events.
From the mountain into the great valley is the descent.
The weight is so heavy.
Yet I'm still dragging it.
Sooner or latter we all have let it go.
And this time it is all I know.
It's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Such devotion has been through such a roller coaster ride.
An ocean tells me secrets of making a disposal.
Time to get rid of the time when you made your proposal.
An identity I must hide.
Let smoke and mirrors reflect the biggest lie.
An illusion within the eyes.
It's already over.
It's already over.
Oh my god it's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
I blame no one.
I blame everyone.
A fault can not be defined by a single event.
An preposterous idea that it was something that you could prevent.
The poison was already in my system.
It spoke in demon tongues.
A evil energy already breathing among the living.
My heart was already gone.
It's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
It's already over.
It's already over.
Oh my god it's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Of all emotion.
The tears will never fall again.
A mother is cradling a already forgotten grave.
The death to the foolish moth willing to enter flame.
A forsaken child of god is one that does not know he has sinned.
A sentence of unknown hurt and pain.
An experience of the insane.
He sits upon the killing fields with bloody hands.
For him this is no game and it will have no easy ending.
It's already over.
It's already over.
Oh my god it's already over.
Revolver in hand so steady.
Oh my god I'm so ready.
All I can see a bulls eye right above your head.
Trust me when I say your dead.
Snuff out before you even know what's going on.
An absence of all emotion.
Of all emotion.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Bull Fighting
Bullfighting
Early morning on the flatland between Portugal and Seville a cockerel crews,
its hoarse wakeup call carries for miles. Vaqueros are already on the grassland
separating bulls form a herd; the bulls are five years old and have been chosen
for the bullfight. Within a week the selected bulls will be dead, slaughtered on
an arena of sawdust and sand, they have been allowed to roam free for years.
Most animals only live a few years, mostly in a pen, and never see grassland
before they are killed. How can meat eaters demonstrate, call for the abolition
of bullfighting? This sport, the only one, where an animal has a chance to kill its
assassin. I’m on a bus heading for Seville to see bullfighting, yes, I do admire bull
fighting; if lucky I might see one of the chosen bulls kills the toreador.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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A Toxophilite
The target ranged at 100 yards,
The bow, strung ready to yield,
The power entrusted in its pull,
Sends the arrows down the field.
Each one with red coloured feathers,
Each alloy shaft balanced for speed,
The string is drawn, then with tension held,
It shall surely the 'bulls eye' feed.
Like a bullet sprung from a barrel,
The arrow flies out of sight,
And then a 'thud' as it hits the butt,
It's a game that can't help but excite.
A steady stance, and strong muscled arms,
Are needed to perfect the aim,
With a quiver and bow sight, you can become,
Archer, Toxophilite, Bowman, the same.
A very ancient skill, this was, way back,
Battles fought, by brave stalwart men,
The bow and the arrows, were weapons of war,
One would not have liked, living then.
But these days it's a great sport to tackle,
Achievement is always one's claim,
And a score in the 'Centre' is well worth the wait,
Archery is a wonderful game.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Autumn's Surcease
I gave you hurtings
so that you might feel
Winter in your Soul.
I sometimes placed upon your heart
virgin olive oil
to succor it.
I piled high
in your eyes
Love and its Laments
as your cool wind
blew
down the Solstice.
I carried your
leaden comments
to the cemetery
where I buried them
with the other
dead things
and
I blew you
my last
Summer Kiss
for the luck
I know
you'd need.
Your last leaf
fell
from your waterless tree
revealing that
Summer Kisses
have no truck
or need
for rusty
dead leaves
carpeting
a Winter Soul;
twice dead
now skipping even
Autumn's
surcease
before your Winter blows.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I have two brothers buried in the military cemetery in Texas. I don't want to see any more of that.
quote by F. Murray Abraham
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As Though You Have Known It Forever
there is no such thing as done
everything is always unfinished
you think a bud dies, it does not
you think that the twig that you cut
remains cut
like a dead end of the road
that is always not the case
you think that the body of the man that we buried
is all that is,
that is not the real case
a story shall be borne it gives a bud and a twig another start
a poem is written it marks a new understanding
and the grain of sand becomes another planet
a drift wood becomes another one's dream of a bridge
it is not just the seed it is also the covering
not just the ring that you see but another one's marriage
a view can be immortalized in a painting
or even when the painting rots itself all colors cracking
there is always something that remains unsaid
it is
what is always unfinished
the one that we know but which we never uttered
the one we uttered but which we start to doubt and not really know
oh it is like a wheel of a bicycle
like the ring that you keep on wearing
like a hemisphere that you have traveled
over and over
as though you have known
it forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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visiting the cemetery
buried in each of us
the unease about death
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Ottomans
Will the Sun
Ever rise again
O'er this cemetery
Where the Romantic
Is buried alive? This
Appian Way, Death's Expressway
Exclusively for de la Artist?
I hope not-
it hurts to see my compatriots
Die and go unappreciated Like this. My
Persecution never ends. This Orwellian
World wants me dead. My pain
drains itself away onto paper
Exactly (like a carbon copy) in the the style of how
My blood spatters the canvas.
(2 July 2008)
(Justin, Texas)
poem by John Parsons
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Three Friends
There were three friends that buried the fourth,
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes,
And they went south and east and north—
The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead—
The strong man fights but the sick man dies—
"And would he were here with us now," they said,
"The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes."
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Cemetery In My Mind
Locked in the mall in a state of fright
Looking for salvation in a car headlight
But you cant have what you cant buy
Tomorrow is better than yesterday,
Tomorrow is better than today,
Tomorrow is better than yesterday they say
Cemetery in my mind
Cemetery in my mind
This must be my time
Wake work drink sleep retire
Tide comes up way too high
You can fall but can you rise
Cemetery in my mind,
You can fall but can you rise
Theres no pulse no sign of life,
Cemetery in my mind.
song performed by by Midnight Oil
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If Looks Could Kill
What d'you want?
You've got nothing to say
and you can't
hide that look of dismay
Why pretend?
You only want revenge
It's been said
I'd be dead
If looks could kill
Where'd you go
with that threadbare crowd
still in tow?
Do they appreciate your
tales of woe?
Droning on and on
Lost your thread?
I'd be dead
If looks could kill
You think you're acting
in self-defence
but you're fooling no one
and you never will
The only crime is irrelevance
No wonder you're worried
I'd be dead and buried still
If looks could kill
Welcome to a unique event
where we see what you represent
Flaunt that look
of 'Let battle commence!'
It changes nothing
and it never will
And on that matter of self-defence
I'm not worried
I'd be dead and buried still
If looks could kill
If looks could kill
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Creature
A shadow glides above my plate
And all I see is birds migrate
Going south, remember me
When you fly above the sea
Autumn dies serene and slow
The lamp stands in a gentle glow
The silence rules, the evening grows
And the moon is far below
In me twist a sudden cramp
In my heart I hear it stamp
Marrow and blood encircle me
My blood stream chokes on gall and spleen
What will become of you
Since you have forsaken me
Not one tear I have in me
I am numb to my memory
Ill believe than that youre dead
First I felt bitter, I made amends
But I see you in a new light
You only have my contempt
So Ill believe than that youre dead
Second youre a loser, I spit on pretence
And I begin to wonder, and I begin to understand
That, youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds and kind of dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Dies.
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Creature
A shadow glides above my plate
And all I see is birds migrate
Going south, remember me
When you fly above the sea
Autumn dies serene and slow
The lamp stands in a gentle glow
The silence rules, the evening grows
And the moon is far below
In me twist a sudden cramp
In my heart I hear it stamp
Marrow and blood encircle me
My blood stream chokes on gall and spleen
What will become of you
Since you have forsaken me
Not one tear I have in me
I am numb to my memory
Ill believe than that youre dead
First I felt bitter, I made amends
But I see you in a new light
You only have my contempt
So Ill believe than that youre dead
Second youre a loser, I spit on pretence
And I begin to wonder, and I begin to understand
That, youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds and kind of dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Youre a creature that breeds its kind and dies
Dies.
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The breeding programs for the bulls have improved significantly. The bulls are at a much higher caliber.
quote by Chris LeDoux
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Cemetery of Hearts
It was a Cemetery of Hearts
laid out in neat rectangular squares
tombstone engravings of individual stories;
of loves lost and betrayed,
tear-ravaged love trysts.
love cuts, severed
or grief-laden,
all buried in Innocent's Ground
from whence they came.
I peered at the writing on first tombstone and then some others:
'He led me on and then made love to my mother
all this to me unknown.' one said
'I died in childbirth alone after having been exiled
from my home to a nunnery.'
'She plotted against me with my best friend.'
'She told me the baby was mine.'
'I died of grief in a sex war and of an affection-less marriage.'
My love and I were shot lying together.'
One said:
'Dead hearts murdered by rage or fear are the worst;
these hearts die gnarled and alone.'
The caretaker addressed me:
'What are you doing here? ' he said.
'I came to bury my heart with the rest of them.' I said.
'Really he said. Let me have a look.
This heart, ' he said is not really dead.
'I can't bury a heart that is yet alive.
that would be murder and wrong;
away with you.
You are premature. Go. Take this heart
and feed it, make it live again.'
I was shocked. To me this rejection was
yet another heart-ache to endure.
'My heart is not dead enough? ' I said.
'That's right, ' he said, yours is merely slightly used
and a little bruised but not dead.'
'
This cemetery is Innocent Ground,
a healing place for deceased hearts,
not ones merely tired and bruised.'
'Go back out there, take some courage from this dream.
The sores on your heart will heal
and be stronger then
for someone else you'll meet.
'You are stronger than you think.
We are really short of space here
we take only the really bad heart cases.'
'Go he said
dive right back in.'
He was right.
'And, ' he said
'Never underestimate the human heart;
it is the human brain that most times
that's wrong and prematurely deceased.'
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Lament Of The Winds
We in sorrow coldly witting,
In the bleak world sitting, sitting,
By the forest, near the mould,
Heard the summer calling, calling,
Through the dead leaves falling, falling,
That her life grew faint and old.
And we took her up, and bore her,
With the leaves that moaned before her,
To the holy forest bowers,
Where the trees were dense and serried,
And her corpse we buried, buried,
In the graveyard of the flowers.
Now the leaves, as death grows vaster,
Yellowing deeper, dropping faster,
All the grave wherein she lies
With their bodies cover, cover,
With their hearts that love her, love her,
For they live not when she dies:
And we left her so, but stay not
Of our tears, and yet we may not,
Though they coldly thickly fall,
Give the dead leaves any, any,
For they lie so many, many,
That we cannot weep for all.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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Washed Ashore In Ages Past
two weeks later a leg
washed ashore
to be buried at
Charleston cemetery
New Zealand
to be buried as
presumably
the partial remains
of an ancestor
who drowned
needlessly
while attempting
to tow a schooner
through narrow
tidal rocky entrance
heroic rescue
of drowning man
none attempted
doomed to failure
a life lost legend
a drowned memory
leg of lost meaning
half history forgotten
until this brief epitaph
to family I do restore
poem by Terence George Craddock
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