Funerals
Force a group of dwellers to speak,
They surround us as competitors
With the funeral games, what they are due.
The death is nearly surprise, always great,
Beginning an arrest of mood, forming fully.
This is like playing dice and being rewarded,
Pushing pens and reading books of gravity.
The harvest is gathered, the grain in the barn,
But hair stands on the head with the awe for eternity.
May the throat be a jar of fruit, to be consumed
And the funeral is now on, the forming of society.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Star Of This World
There’s a star in this world, around it all
Or is the moon and sun a feeding ground.
The singing has a death, monstrous energy,
That died last year and waved at the crowd
So much forming on the surface of the Earth.
After so many seconds effects gathered of this reply
To the gods of the planets, of the solar tree.
This tree and plant regulated our life and form,
Like a perfume in the air, fully forming like life.
Once the temperature had exceeded the limits,
Knowledge of times and spaces emerged from physicists.
The stars above claimed miraculous brethren
Internally bleeding from the wounds of our sun.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Never Mourn At My Funeral
Never mourn at my funeral
Because i'm not dead but sleeping
And relaxing on Abraham's bossom
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in view to mourning
But within you, you're here to mock
Because my poetry has once expose your secret-deeds
Throw my body where you please
Or let it be dismembered
Never mourn at my funeral
You the insect that bites my daffodils
And you who want my fish to swim on a dry earth
Throw me on a stormy sea
Where Jonah fell
But its a glorious shame
I can never sight the river bank of Joppa
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in my maker's name
Just to bless my end
Go thy way and search for lust souls
Wear them a garment pure as snow
Before they lie low with me
And journey hell eternal
Never mourn at my funeral
But mourn for we're debtors of death
poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
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Funeral Procession
I saw a funeral procession today:
No one I knew had passed away,
But as the cortege passed me by,
I felt as though I wanted to cry.
Gone were the teardrops of rain:
Left were the teardrops of pain.
It took me back, to the death of my Dad:
To how I felt then - so extremely sad.
I've always been such a sensitive soul,
And feelings of empathy took ahold.
I halted my journey and stood to one side;
My feelings of sadness, I could not hide.
I bowed my head as a mark of respect;
My mood, this encounter, really did affect.
The funeral cortege was very soon gone,
And, with my own journey, I carried on.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Writing The Words
I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.
I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.
I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.
I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.
I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.
So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.
poem by Rachel Brewer
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Night Funeral in Harlem
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Where did they get
Them two fine cars?
Insurance man, he did not pay--
His insurance lapsed the other day--
Yet they got a satin box
for his head to lay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
Who was it sent
That wreath of flowers?
Them flowers came
from that poor boy's friends--
They'll want flowers, too,
When they meet their ends.
Night funeral
in Harlem:
Who preached that
Black boy to his grave?
Old preacher man
Preached that boy away--
Charged Five Dollars
His girl friend had to pay.
Night funeral
In Harlem:
When it was all over
And the lid shut on his head
and the organ had done played
and the last prayers been said
and six pallbearers
Carried him out for dead
And off down Lenox Avenue
That long black hearse done sped,
The street light
At his corner
Shined just like a tear--
That boy that they was mournin'
Was so dear, so dear
To them folks that brought the flowers,
To that girl who paid the preacher man--
It was all their tears that made
That poor boy's
Funeral grand.
Night funeral
In Harlem.
poem by Langston Hughes
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Lilacs At My Funeral
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m dead
Lilacs in my coffin
Placed gently by my head
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m gone
Lilacs to help send me
On my journey home
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs for my grave
Lilacs instead of roses
Think of the money you will save
1978
www.dakotaraeaustin.com
poem by Dakota Austin
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I Saw Her
I saw her eyelids revealing my secrets
For she forgot the idea and the door
Was an ostrich for the pens of the sages,
For the portal closed and we commended
The professors with eyes and eyes.
This lying partnership extended
Into the very heart of man's offspring.
Men call the bridges
As we also are people with intelligence
Which hurts the passion of the potential man.
I understood with crimson light
The fight for a liar to win,
And to parade the innocence I have kept
Forming within my prism and sign.
This day, this day shall mask a crowd
Fulfilling me once I am over,
Their rage is secret and my pen tastes no
Death on the night we answer.
Eyes of an elf are too strange as the depths
And the demons stir wild forming my
Froth in the brain,
This pours into my mind any time now.
poem by Naveed Akram
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What Is A Barn?
A barn is many things-
A barn is a fun place
To run, romp, and play.
It is also a place of refuge,
On hot or stormy days.
A barn is a storage place
For all your tools, grain, and hay.
It is also a place to unwind,
When you have had a tough day.
A barn becomes God's sanctuary,
When you begin to pray
It is also a place of work,
When work is needing done.
A barn is a place
Where freindships can be made
It is also a place
Where new life is born.
A barn is a place
To try with all your might
And finally when its doors are closed,
'Tis safety from the night.
A barn is a place for horses,
And it is a place for cows
A barn is also a hayloft,
Full of little meows
A barn is the Inn
Where our Savior was born
God, our Savior,
Christ, our Lord.
A barn is a work place,
A barn is a play place
A barn is a great place
A barn is a training ring...
A barn is..
Well, when it comes right
Down to it,
A barn is everything!
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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Angry Ache
My anger rests tonight forming,
Of west and east the buds do grow,
I crazily ride from the aching.
This angle is abandoning,
My flowers are the bushes below,
My anger rests tonight forming.
How heaven waits for abhorring,
This land is home, the bread and dough,
I crazily ride from the aching.
This need is great then absorbing,
As medals awe me once fellow,
My anger rests tonight forming.
Then finally, wind aborting,
The land is praised embryo,
I crazily ride from the aching.
To see this birth so accessing,
I rode to winter to follow,
My anger rests tonight forming,
I crazily ride from the aching.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Around Here.
His battered old suit
simply his best
by not being worn
hangs on a hanger
waiting for a Sunday
or a christening or a funeral
to come ‘round
but nothing ever comes ‘round
‘round here
...only an occasional Sunday
or the funeral
that is your own
your last chance
to wear your best
now that Eternity
tired of all that time
settles into
your death
like a well worn
suit of clothes
and the occasional Sundays
go on & on
without you.
Yep, nothing happens much
‘round here
‘cept Death
and Life is glad
of the rest.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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Our Eyes And Ears
Yet we revise our papers for the pleasure
Of a single marriage, the best secret.
Pleasant places and airspaces shall head
The hair of a sudden astonishing thing.
A slight comfort rewarded us when sold
To eastern eyes, the eyes were hers.
They were ears as well, ears to hide as well,
Forming our basics and finer facts, too distinct.
The pleasure of a menace retells distinction
That seem ill and forgotten, but never.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Relax Orange
if you look for sense
for sure there is none
this is the place of senselessness
like the birth of emotions
and the death of emotions
funeral like things are moving
at times
there are baptisms of fire
when you arrive and you expect
for the sun
inside your room
the moon hanging by your window
or the stars
laid in bed like a twinkling mattress
well, it is a crazy day
the rivers are playing football in the banks
the ocean is praying for rain
like a nun
the mountains are playing bowling
with the hills and mounds
i am not thinking
i am emoting i am not writing i am playing
games that are not familiar with you
it is like
oh well, catch me if you can
don't get mad, we have a lot of them here
and don't be too serious
they are waiting to be listed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Funeral Becomes a Must
Funeral of the Mind
becomes must though should not
Aggregation-and-Aggravation
be in halt.
Funeral of the Heart
becomes must though should not
Affliction-and-Abjection
be in halt.
Funeral becomes a Must!
poem by Roseville Nidea
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Clouds Begin To Hang On The Dryland
on the dry lands where my house stands
today
some clouds begin to hang
on the side of the
big mountains
they are forming rain
gathering all the dew
and mist and
fog
i sent the vapors
of tears
i wait for the clouds
to ripen
and become too heavy
to carry itself
to a distance
and then the raindrops
finally come
sliding on my roof
the waters rise
forming
the river where
all my sorrows
sail
toward the sea
somewhere
or whatever
that place where
everything simply becomes
nothing
unidentifiable
where i am no longer myself
or yours
or theirs
on some marks of
ownership
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Gratitude For Future
If you were great,
Your funeral would pull fewer crowds.
If your sons were great,
Then your funeral would pull much crowd.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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It Is Just A Poem
what i write is just a poem
do not let it disturb you, they are just letters forming words
words forming a phrase
forming an idea to your mind as you read them
it is just a poem, it is just like a movie
let it not disturb you then, sleep and dream
but somehow if it has disturbed you, and you cannot stop it from
disturding you, then let yourself be disturbed and let yourself think
about it:
why are you disturbed?
now, it is not just a poem
it is me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fear's Funeral
I went to a funeral today
Fear died and we buried it six feet deep
Everyone cheered nobody cried
And with fear
Resting in peace – now I can sleep
No, there wasn’t a eulogy
Our thoughts about fear were not uttered
Though I wanted to speak I had so much to say
However I would have just stuttered
It was then I realized how much power fear had
Not even death could
Get in its way
But I had to make sure fear was buried at last
So I attended its funeral today
poem by Tony Haynes
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Woe Here
A sombre and woeful day has arrived for life,
Inside me I speak, and often we stay like spears;
Outside the hazards outlive us, for the storm,
And arrest us O Sun for the acts offered by life.
A woe has arisen on this daylight hour,
Forming hours of enjoyment, of living energy;
Guess the adjustment understood by some,
How guessing is erring I do not know.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Funeral
I want to have my funeral
But first I need to die
But not an ordinary death
You see
I want one filled of surprise
One death that no one would expect
One that’ll beat the rest
Of the
Out of the ordinary deaths
A death that will show the pain I hide
One that will make people tremble inside
To see that a little girl could hide
So much trouble and hate inside her mind
One that’ll have me on a bed
With rose petals all around my head
My wrist all cut up at the vein
A death that’ll make me look insane
It’ll have them saying
“maybe she hit her head”
For the death expressed too much
And set a feeling of depressed
Maybe a death
That’ll have written on my chest
All the things that “you knew best”
All the things I failed to see
Because they never were facing me
A death is called a tragedy
But not when nobody can see
That the tragedy was meant to be
Like the sun is meant to set each day
And how the moon never seems to stay
poem by Jennifer Alejandra
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I’ll Just Be Me
Translucent colours whirl around my mind
forming small pictures that I turn into rhyme.
Some can be funny and others sad,
some speak of growing love
and other of love gone bad.
The colours that inhabit me
are the various shades of life
and our future to partake.
Each day new visions visit
to be scribbled down
some raise a smile
and others raise a frown.
I never know what
each new day will bring
only when it happens
does my mind sing.
Some days I’ll act quite crazy
other days quite sane.
Each day I change personalities
just to suit my mood,
so when you meet me
you’ll never know what to expect
because one day I maybe a baby
just pushing the age of three
or I could be an old man
just turned a hundred and three
and then again if you are lucky
I’ll just be me.
4 November 2009
poem by David Harris
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