Death Of A Pig
death of a pig
does one cry when a pig dies?
my nephew who always has
sex in his mind,
though still having milk on his tongue
calls me that a pig has died
and he says, it is my pig,
the one that loves mud
and eats left-overs you know,
an hour ago
but still warm to be
butchered again,
i ask him, are you crying?
he says, why should he when it is
still warm and can be butchered again
for another pretended kill,
and i am not surprised
because next to sex, what he has in
mind is food,
not death, not the burial of a pig,
nothing about decency of a funeral,
health or plain
sanitation
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Seeker
I free my heart from this decaying shell,
To soar and seek that Love I once possessed,
But butchered by my blind desires.
I free my thoughts from this corrupted mind, To take release, and by release, to cleanse them
Of their sordid lies.
How can it be that by this short and light-less path,
Through forests thick with foul regret,
My failures find their peaceful grave?
Can it be that Love is that eternal?
That it's loss may only be a fleeting thing,
That yet, may be reborn upon this bed of wasted years?
Shall it be that Love's sweet smiles,
And longings warm caresses
May be adorned with Phoenix feathers?
Is it so, that Death shall serve up pure forgiveness,
That I may see the light shine in those eyes again?
If this is so, then Death I welcome you, but chide you for your slothfulness.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
poem by Owain Glyn
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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
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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A Fresh Endeavour
So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.
I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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Let it Kill
let it kill me and if it doesnt let it try again and again and again till i die, then let it try again and again and finally let it kill me if not then let it try again till i die of pain cause this pain i cannot take, so let it kill until i feel death creep up the corner, let me die with honor or without it just let me die, so let it kill me again and again and if not let it try until i die, for this life i cannot take i have lost all faith so just let me die, let it try to kill me dont set me free come on kill me i refuse mercy or sympathy all i want is death so please let it kill let it send me to death as fast as things go past, let it kill, let it destroy my soul and leave it not whole for i want death, i want death again i say i want death let it kill and if not let it kill again and again till death is all that remain, let it kill
poem by Adens Kamwi
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A Search For Death
off they went three foolish greedy men
in search of death to kill him before they die they mean
onward they went with neither food nor spleen
but for a bottle that soon dried up of wine
everywhere they went they asked of him
but all they heard as they searched in vain
was his name on everyones lip and mane
on the way an old sage they met
whom to a cave yonder directed this set
undearneath the cave, gold coins they met
oh! what a booty all three said and meant
no more looking for death
as momentarily they forget their quest
among themselves off they sent
one to find food for them at least
oh! how deep mens mind are led
for behind his back two in greed
decided to kill the other and share the gold
the other on his way, also in greed
decided to kill the two to have the gold
oh! foolish greedy men
in the end found death but not when they expected
for the other, the two killed
and ate the poisoned food he brought
oh! what a fate befell em all
as all three trussed up and very dead
found death when least expected
poem by Hamid Kareem
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Man Your Garbage
Your the left over that no one eats
You just rot in the fridge
Until someone throws it away
Your the dirty dishes that no one
Want to clean up
Cause the left overs are still in the pan
Your the trash that stinks up the house
Your the junk that I need to throw away
But don't have the heart to
Your everything that I don't need
And yet your still here
Stinking up the place and rotting away
It's time to start cleaning up the place
And I'm gonna start by
Throwing all your stuff out the window
So don't be surprised if all your stuff
Is in a with all of left overs
And dirty dishes
And the trash
And the junk
All the stuff that's garbage
Including all your stuff that crowds up my place
Norma-Jean
Oh my gosh its August again!
And for all that are and were?
I think of one,
Orphan Angel,
Norma-Jean,
An Icon of one,
That became what,
The 1950's wanted,
Then died because,
Of,
Pressure and pain,
Of,
Fame and fortunes,
Now here it is August again,
The first week and the beginning,
The first week and the ending,
For,
Norma-Jean Mortensen,
Norma-Jean Baker,
Norma-Jean Dorherty,
Norma-Jean Di-Maggio,
Norma-Jean Miller,
Marilyn Monroe,
A week of celebrating her birth,
A week of remember her death,
A week of what and who she was,
A child born,
And orphaned off,
And what ended up,
A pawn in the idles game,
Of fame and fortune,
With scandel and ruination,
Her Birthday,
And Death Anniversary,
Each in the beginning of August,
Oh my gosh its August again!
And for all that are and were?
I think of one,
Orphan Angel,
Norma-Jean,
Now an Icon embossed,
When in the books,
Of one left to be,
And raised here and there,
Orphan Angel,
Norma-Jean,
Went and became,
What all just made out of her,
And only her few close friends,
That told it right,
Of who was,
Norma-Jean,
And still she is famed,
Yet,
Not until she is long, long gone,
Did we really find out about,
Ophan Angel,
Norma-Jean,
From those that remained so quiet,
Till,
They too passed on as well,
Cookies in the sky,
With warm milk of milky way stars,
And warm company,
Of high above,
With,
Cool diners images of where they meet,
To discuss their fame,
And troubled fortunes,
And the marks on life,
They left behind,
With,
Trials and blazes,
As each and everyone of them,
That too went out,
Just,
Like Norma-Jean,
Will too enjoy,
Just as in life,
Warm Cookies and warm milk,
And the company,
Of.
Norma-Jean.
R.I.P.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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Kill Instincts To Smile At Death!
Don't kill animals, you are more animal than human,
more and more you learn,
You find animals live in you, Kill their instincts in own your mind,
Humanity and love are that strange light,
in which instincts dry and die and vanish,
you need not find and kill them,
Or you need not banish!
Patience and compassion grow quick and wide,
Under them how can weeds like instinct and ego grow?
Don't kill your desires, not allow them to kill you!
be better gardner of own mind,
neither prune them,
nor water
Only plant good virtues and thoughts and take care of deeds,
Care and nurture only love,
Like to live like peaceful dove,
Love that takes care of them remove all pests and weeds!
Don't kill the time, use it well
Some day time may bring you the death,
Do well here, living satisfied,
Welcome your new friend, with a warm hand,
'Hello, my dear Death, how do you do? '
Take this body and mind and everything,
They were always yours, and you are the real owner,
I was that homeless, nameless, formless, tenant,
But never I was hopeless or
Faithless!
And I am that vacating, and you need not force me out!
You could see me,
who I am
Unlike my past lives,
I am now not even that absolute soul of universe,
I am awaken to sleep in my awareness!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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It's Death Again
It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009
The Reign of Death
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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To The Funeral
I came home to the funeral,
Liking the battles of weeping,
For the burial had no impulse,
A little man was about to see us.
He altered the scene for times
That altered us as people of death,
The death was supposed to be wrong,
That death altered the pleasure.
May we see black colours
And then white colours of surrender,
The matter was to sympathise with,
Starting to last for a decade.
Let his return be to our eyes,
And let the kitchen come for food;
The whole battle with the deaths
Brought a doctrine of belief.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A Crying Monk
Once there was a monk
with peaceful mind without junk.
At funeral, he usually preached,
pacifying the people with grief,
saying one would leave,
when one's life ceased,
crying and weeping was no need,
Buddha's teaching one must heed,
One's karma would lead
to either heaven or hell indeed.
One day, the monk's mother died sudden death.
He cried violently without catching the breath.
The funeral attendents consoled him,
to stop wailing and tear flowing.
He said it couldn't help,
he now experienced sorrow and grief by himself.
Punishment
There never really was a place of sanctity
For you, the mortal entity.
You thought you had prosperity,
The while you thrived and were.
Angels don't exist, you see.
You lived without a guarantee
Atop your brutal Earth.
Still, you had a birth.
And whither now, your crying whim -?
Answered by a tearing limb-?
Are you contrite; your valour slim?
And will He care...?
'Tis down to Him.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter,2009
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
Death has come, has death Death has come, has death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Black Bordered Letter
An’ SO ’e’s dead in London,
An’ answered to the call,
An’ trotted through the Long Street,
With ’earse an’ plumes an’ all?
We was village boys an’ brothers—
We was warm as we could be,
In the milk-walk an’ the fried fish,
Up in London, ’im an’ me.
We was warm,
We was warm,
As we ’ad always been;
We never ’ad a dry word
Till she come between.
I lived round Windsor Terrace,
An’ ’im across the wye,
An’ when I sailed a emigrant
We never said good-bye!
He wos better than a brother—
Wot you Bushmen call a mate.
(Did he reach the rylwye stytion,
As they told me, just too late!)
We was warm,
We was warm,
As pals was ever seen;
We never ’ad a dry word
Till she come between.
I meant to go back ’ome again,
I meant to write to-night;
I meant to write by every mail,
But I thought ’e oughter write.
An’ now ’e’s left North London—
For a better place, perhaps—
She’s flauntin’ in ’er widder weeds,
With eyes on other chaps.
We was warm,
We was warm,
As we ’ad always been;
We never ’ad a dry word
Till she come between.
Oh! tongues is bad in wimmin,
When wimmin’s tongues is bad!
For they’ll part men an’ brothers
World oceans wide, my lad!
There was seven years between us,
An’ fifteen thousand mile,
An’ now there’s death an’ sorrer
For ever an’ awhile.
We was warm,
We was warm,
As two was ever seen;
We never ’ad a dry word
Till she come between.
poem by Henry Lawson
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On the Same Road...
that night i passed by the road
leading to the house where i live,
someone died on the road
i did not mind i am heading for home
this morning while going to the university
another body sprawled on the road, another dead body
there is a crowd of people
curious but not mourning
i do not stop for death
i am going towards mine and we who are still leaving cannot really be lucky
everyday we are dying
we simply have to wait for that fate
ful time
it is our turn we do not have to anticipate it
every hour
a part of us dies
it is enough sharing this moments of death
and so i said
i cannot stop for another person's death
destiny has once taken him
and there is nothing that i can do
i am also just merely passing by...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Numbness Along the Road Leading to Our Destiny
that night i passed by the road
leading to the house where i live,
someone died on the road
i did not mind i was eagerly heading for home
this morning while going to the university
another body sprawled on the road,
another dead body
there is a crowd of people
curious but not mourning
i do not stop for death
i am going towards mine
and we who are still living cannot really be surely
lucky
everyday we are dying
we simply have to wait for that fateful time
it is our turn we do not have to anticipate it
every hour
a part of us dies
it is enough
sharing these moments of death
and so i say
i cannot stop for another person's death
destiny has once taken him
and there is nothing that i can do
i am also just merely passing by...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Whenever God Shines His Light
Look at the ivy on the old clinging wall
Look at the flowers and the green grass so tall
It's not a matter of when push comes to shove
It's just an hour on the wings of a dove
I dig it when you're fancy dressed up in lace
I dig it when you have a smile on your face
This inspiration's got to be on the flow
This invitation's got to see it and know
It's just warm love
It's just warm love
And it's everpresent everywhere
And it's everpresent everywhere
That warm love
To the country I'm going
Lay and laugh in the sun
You can bring, bring your guitar along
We'll sing some songs, we'll have some fun
The sky is crying and it's time to go home
And we shall hurry to the car from the foam
Sit by the fire and dry out our wet clothes
It's raining outside from the skies up above
Inside it's warm love
Inside it's warm love
And it's everpresent everywhere
And it's everpresent everywhere
Warm love
Warm love
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Health Deteriorated
Health deteriorated and nobody care it.
And we say health is wealth.
The health worker the doctor all paid
And the patients died
And all are apathetic towards health.
In this Hitech age cholera measeales
Malaria are the cause of our death.
Common man died due to diseases
Died due to hunger due to neglect
By our own man and we all remain silent.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Lonely days
A final no in the flex of life
Making love without sex in life
I did it dear with you in mind
You made it easy for me to find
Your faults were my faults
My wounds you did salt
Like a snail on trail on the trail to death
So soften the blow
And allow mother nature to go one step further
Allow her to nurture my ego so butchered
A final yes in the life we flex
Krishna's Meal
Kanha eats in Yasoda's lap.
some he eats, some he drops,
as the ladies of Nandgaon watch,
some he eats and some he puts
in Nanda's mouth,
this joy is beyound recount.
some he eats, some gives to gopas,
butter in his hands, curd in doniyas.
The joy of Yasoda
the three worlds cannot account.
the meal is over, Kanha washes,
for Sur the left-overs count.
poem by Sant Surdas
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