The parting of the partner.
I lost my dear wife at a tender age.
I collected addresses for funeral.
I conducted the cremation
I went to my village to be called on.
I made over things held by her.
I had been too busy to weep.
27.10.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Related quotes
No posthumous gratitude
I had taken down addresses of the persons
Close to my father as he told in deathbed.
All were informed; none came to the funeral.
Yes, he was not there to note their absence.
10.11.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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How important a woman is!
Visit a funeral where it was of a man.
Visit a funeral where it was of his wife.
Take attendance and count the mourners.
It will tell how important the woman had been.
19.01.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Dying Gamblers Story
In a little secret Gambling house in a city known for fame
There sits a man of tender years his head bowed down in shame
That young man told a story as sad as can be
And if you will but listen this is what he said to me.
A year ago I had a wife but she was called one day
And as she lay so near to death she pressed my hand to say
I'm giving you my wedding ring to cherish all your life
And with these words the reaper called away my loving wife.
Soon I started gambling til I never had a thing
And on a hand I thought would win I bet my dead wife's ring
I drew the card and looked at it, Oh God I cried aloud
I've lost my dead wife's wedding ring to this drunken jeering around.
When he had finished speaking he bowed his head and sighed
And we who heard his story knew that he had died
But that dying gamblers story didn't mean a thing
Too bad they said, dealt the cards, and bet his dear wife's ring.
poem by Kenneth T. Schofield
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Weep Day
I never went to the tropical island
Though everybody said they saw me there
And it wasnt me you punched a hole in
At the west german protest march
Simultaneous events dont happen
We are isolated temporally
And a part is never called the whole thing
Though it bothers us to know its so
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
I didnt write the words you hear me singing (didnt write the words you hear me singing)
I didnt sing the line before this one (didnt sing the line before this one)
You are not the one I was addressing (you are not the one I was addressing)
That person took a train to africa (africa)
Where he met the consulate from belgium
Who is now a buddhist in a cave
Who is pitching for the oakland raiders
Striking out the batter she became
Every man is made of two opinions
Every woman has a second half
And its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Yes, its samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man (samba time for tambo and weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day for urine man (weep day for urine man)
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep day weep day
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
Weep (weep) weep (weep) weep (weep)
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Funeral Pen
My Funeral Pen writes for me
All of these words that set me free
The pen that I shared for Mourners to sign
The pen that I wrote to turn back time
The pen that I wrote the Funeral Plans
While Families cried I held their hands
This pen has been held ever so tight
By many seeing darkness yet others seeing light
This pen holds memories dear to my heart
Bringing togetherness
Yet Families torn apart
Song - The Church Hall in Drummore
She’s sitting down beside the wall
When the music starts to play
I’m walking slowly ‘cross the hall
And I'm lost for words to say
I know her name and nothing more
But there’s something in her eyes
We’re in the village of Drummore
In the Church Hall side by side
Some kind of spell falls over us
It's the nineteen seventies
We’re oh so young and lost for love
And we gently start to kiss
Her lips are soft; she holds me tight
And we’re seized by tenderness
But something took me off that night
From her sweet and tender lips
From time to time I think of you
In your village by the shore
And how the years so quickly flew
Since we kissed then touched no more
I caught your eye in Mill Street once
And we said a warm hello
It turned my thoughts to love and chance
In the church hall in drummore
(chorus)
I held you in my arms that night
A short and precious time
And you were more than you’ll ever know
So long ago dear in Drummore
When I was 14 -years-old, I made this PowerPoint presentation, and I invited my parents into my room and gave them popcorn. It was called 'Project Hollywood 2004' and it worked. I moved to L.A. in January of 2004.
quote by Emma Stone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The funeral
My death would be a piece of news,
Or utmost a surprise or a relief
And in no way a pain or a grief.
Inmates would be busy for my dispatch,
Some would weep and some would be gloomy
As they are there supposed to.
Heirs would be busy in sorting my things.
To see me off, all are busy;
Thank God, I am not there to see.
08.02.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Workbox
See, here's the workbox, little wife,
That I made of polished oak.'
He was a joiner, of village life;
She came of borough folk.
He holds the present up to her
As with a smile she nears
And answers to the profferer,
''Twill last all my sewing years!'
'I warrant it will. And longer too.
'Tis a scantling that I got
Off poor John Wayward's coffin, who
Died of they knew not what.
'The shingled pattern that seems to cease
Against your box's rim
Continues right on in the piece
That's underground with him.
'And while I worked it made me think
Of timber's varied doom;
One inch where people eat and drink,
The next inch in a tomb.
'But why do you look so white, my dear,
And turn aside your face?
You knew not that good lad, I fear,
Though he came from your native place?'
'How could I know that good young man,
Though he came from my native town,
When he must have left there earlier than
I was a woman grown?'
'Ah, no. I should have understood!
It shocked you that I gave
To you one end of a piece of wood
Whose other is in a grave?'
'Don't, dear, despise my intellect,
Mere accidental things
Of that sort never have effect
On my imaginings.'
Yet still her lips were limp and wan,
Her face still held aside,
As if she had known not only John,
But known of what he died.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Worst Day Of My Life
My Heart Has Now Shattered
I Should Feel Angered
Watching You Walk Down The Aisle With Her
Is It Because She's Brighter?
I Try So Hard To Hide This Feeling Inside
The Feeling I Died
The Feeling That I Should Be The One Marrying You
You Said That Your Feeling For Her Were True
Is It Because She's More Beautiful Than I?
Please Just Tell Me Why
She'll Never Know You The Same Way I Do
Don't Even Try To Argue
We Both Know Who's Right
I Know This Is Supposed To Be The Best Day Of Your Life
The Day She Became Your Wife
But With All Respect
I Must Say I Object
She Doesn't Love You
Not The Way That I Do
The Day That You And Her Became One
The Day That I Lost And She Had Won
The Day That She Gained Your Last Name
The Day I Lost What Made Me Tame
I Lost You
I Can't Say That This Feeling Is New
For I Have Lost Everything That I Ever Called Mine
No, I'm Not Fine
Not That You Should Care
Life's Not Fair
Especially Because Everything That I Have Ever Lost...
It Was All Because Of Her
The Cheater
The Day She Became Your Wife
Will Forever Be The Worst Day Of My Life
poem by Ivy Strife
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These Things Will Keep Me Loving You
(harvey fuqua/johnny bristol/sylvia moy)
Oh and I know these things will keep me loving you dear
Say it again
These things will keep me loving you dear
A gentle touch upon my face baby
A tender kiss and a warm embrace honey
Oh a few kind words
Spoken so sincere
And I know and I know
These things will keep me loving you dear
These things will keep me loving you dear
Give me your shoulder so I can cry on it baby
Oh give me advice that I can rely on honey
Oh say you love me every day of the year
And I know and I know
These things will keep me loving you dear
Say it again
These things will keep me loving you dear
Oh and I know these things will keep me loving you dear
Oh baby baby
Call me each night on the telephone baby
Oh send me a card when youre far from home honey
Oh hold me close to you baby every time youre near
And I know and I know
These things will keep me loving you dear
Oh, loving you dear
[ad lib to fade]
song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Busy
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the old woman needs help
to find her way home.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the dove is too slow
to fly out of the way.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the children crossing the street
are too many.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy....
I am busy
you are busy
we are...
busy.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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A loss is a relief too
When I lost my wife
I felt that I had lost a leg.
Then I happen to know
That it had got my hands free.
Each loss brings a relief
That vanishes soon the grief.
08.11.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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It's not that I hate women, Dear homegrown comrades
By Ombuge Moses
Dear Homegrown comrades,
It’s not that I hate women
As naught as I may look
As humble as I am
In-fact,
I treasure women
I love women
I adore women
I want to date a woman
Marry a woman
Have children
Have a birth control
Be a village elder
Not a polygamist
As you say it, culture dictates
But the way you do it!
It’s not that I hate women
Dear homegrown comrades
At 12 years
Young girl is sent
A razor to buy
A river to wash
The bush to host
Home not to turn
The cut, so merciless
So inhuman
So painful
The elder women
Steer the process
Culture to maintain
The men are mobilized
Bidding for a wife
A wife at 12
This is not human
It’s not that I hate women
Dear homegrown comrades
The young girl wails
Pain to suffocation
Pain of a bloody cut
A cut treasured by society
Maintained by women
Elderly, to be home
Preparations to make
To make, a wife
A wife at 12
Dear homegrown comrades
It’s not that I hate women
In the bush, she is tied
Tied together, her legs
Urine not to spill
Spilling is bad omen
More cut is initiated
This hurting feeling
As you read
Am hurting
To witness, to victim
Think twice
Upon my letter
It’s not that I hate women
Dear homegrown comrades
Its weeks of heeling
A process of making
Making a wife
A wife at 12
Men continue bidding
Local brew in containers
Highest bidder carries the day
Walking tall, tall they are
Short is the girl
A wife at 12
Dear homegrown comrades
It’s not that I hate women
The man maybe tall, short, thin but not fat
The man maybe 98
Maybe 70
Maybe 48
Maybe 32
Maybe 21
Maybe 13
The wife at 12
The highest bidder
Takes her away
This culture is a pain
The pain has to stop
Dear home grown comrades
It’s not that I hate women
From the bush
The girl is brought
Lead by elderly women
Celebrations underway
Men prepare the meat
A wife is ready
The husband of any age
The wife at 12
The people are happy
Culture is blossoming
Ululations are heard
The animal lost a life
A wife has been made
Its not amusing
A wife at 12
Dear homegrown comrades
It’s not that I hate women
The men are lined
The women Dance
The meat in plenty
The chosen woman
Most, elderly
Reveals the secret
To the girl about husband to be
The girl is to point
Failure result to beating
Hurting the healing girl
Until she chooses
The husband to be
Culture dictates
Dear home grown comrades
It’s not that I hate women
As sun sets
Dust settles
Bones pile
New territory created
Polygamy has ruled
Chosen husband
Highest bidder
98 years of age
Has a new wife
A wife at 12
To pile in a hut
Children to bear
Culture dictates
To this
A risky business
As you call me “the village boy”
Until we change
Dear home grown comrades
It’s not that I hate women
Women to be protect
Educated to be
Marriage when they want
Hard it may sound
To this I rest
In my hat
My skin bed, so cold
Tomorrow not to witness
Dear homegrown comrades
In my heart
Women I love
It’s a mistake to mistake me
Its not that I hate women
Yours,
The village Boy
poem by Ombuge M Moses
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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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Dear Heart Of Mine
Dear heart of mine
have you become like me?
Lost and forlorn in reverie?
Have you forgotten all the nights
when your rapid beats were felt?
I have not forgotten his tender touch
that made me want to melt.
Dear heart of mine
what's to become of you and I?
Now so somber,
before so high.
Is there a time in our future
where hope won't die?
You must help me to forget
and to say goodbye.
Dear heart, dear heart please try.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A pious man
A pious man had gone to Burma
From where he came as a destitute,
Ran a petty shop on borrowed money,
Made to marry in late thirties to go
bankrupt,
Bore two sons and a daughter
From his equally poor but virulent
wife,
Became invalid in money and mind,
Lost his wife to his brother in celibacy,
Added one more daughter from him,
Lost the second son in electric shock,
Wandered and laboured for food,
Reaped every kind of humiliation,
And then died, later to be followed
By his wife, leaving the children
To be grown by the remaining father,
Who too died with children spreading
Under different shelters to live
And get married.
I shed my tears thinking that pious man,
Who gave me sweets when I was
Twelve, who begged of me with his Eyes
For money when I started earning.
04.10.2004
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Those Sweetly Given Critiques
Whatever it is that is in your life,
You believe hampers the doing...
Of those things you wish.
Remember this...
You called those shots!
You played the game the way you wanted.
Don't look at me and say I've got it made.
I've got faith and I've kept it.
Those days of my struggles...
I didn't complain.
Nor on a shoulder did I weep.
Whatever it is that is in your life,
You believe hampers the doing...
Of those things you wish.
Remember this...
You called those shots!
You played the game the way you wanted.
In fact,
I remember you telling me to get back.
And 'if' I truly knew anything,
I wouldn't be living where I'm living at.
Or live as basic as I do
'Only one lazy would live like that! '
How vividly I remember those sweetly given critiques!
Don't look at me and say I've got it made.
I've got faith and I've kept it.
Those days of my struggles...
I didn't complain.
Nor on a shoulder did I weep.
When things changed for me,
Because of the economy...
I made adjustments to the way I viewed my life.
You and others who think as they do,
On the other hand,
Can not accept...
You are not the center of the Universe.
You are 'still' in disbelief...
Your entire life has been fantasized.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Song for my Wife
my wife, my beloved wife...
my best friend forever
though it is not our anniversary,
yet there is nothing to celebrate,
I love you so much
I love you every day
until we die together
do you know until now,
we had the best family,
i had two beautiful daughters
my dear wife,
every time i wake up in the morning,
i always see your beautiful eyes
i love the warmth of you body
when ever you sleep in my arms
i feel your love so tender,
o my wife, my beloved wife
thought our marriage is not perfect
all I wish is to grow old with you.
poem by Rey Benipayo
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Hold On
I was doomed riding on top a black horse.
Whatever prize there was I could only observe where the troubles starts.
Where does it end?
I cannot be cured...mmm...but if...
I know life would be different if I held on, held on.
I know I could be something if I held on.
Gave her life away. Put it in my pocket when it should've been framed.
Oh lost it's shine. Gotta' get this out of my head, out of my head.
How could it end...end like this?
I could've been...
I know life would be different had I held on, held on.
I know I could've been something had I held on, held on.
I know I could be something if I held on, held on.
I know life would be different if I held on, held on.
Held on, held on, if I held on, held on, if I held on, held on, if I held on.
song performed by by Pearl Jam
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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