A Burning
It all tastes like funeral ash to me;
exquisite feast set out in banquet hall.
Tonguing down the bile, a bitter dark sea,
A casket'ed table for bearers pall.
It was a long time coming, we sigh sips.
Now we gather 'round plates of dust
Scooping the dry mulch between our lips,
as our gray eyes flicker off the rust.
From a distance the feast looked amazing,
Staring through the cherry-stained estate glass.
And we rammed against hall doors, complaining
of the plundered spectral treasure amassed.
So we say Grace at the table of ash.
Our stolen jewels worn like funeral sash.
poem by Aurin Squire
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Related quotes
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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A Border Ballad
OH, I haven't got long to live, for we all
Die soon, e'en those who live longest;
And the poorest and weakest are taking their chance
Along with the richest and strongest.
So it's heigho for a glass and a song,
And a bright eye over the table,
And a dog for the hunt when the game is flush.
And the pick of a gentleman's stable.
There is Dimmock o' Dune, he was here yesternight,
But he's rotting to-day on Glen Arragh;
'Twas the hand o' MacPherson that gave him the blow,
And the vultures shall feast on his marrow.
But it's heigho for a brave old song
And a glass while we are able;
Here's a health to death and another cup
To the bright eye over the table.
I can show a broad back and a jolly deep chest,
But who argues now on appearance?
A blow or a thrust or a stumble at best
May send me to-day to my clearance.
Then it's heigho for the things I love,
My mother'll be soon wearing sable,
But give me my horse and my dog and my glass,
And a bright eye over the table.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Ode To A Strict Lifestyle Of The Past
'twas the cruel time
with grandpa when dropping a grain
of rice on the table cloth is such a big crime
when you like to eat but you cannot swallow
the food
when you like to drink but the water tasted
as bitter as bile
when the conversations on the dining table
are shallow as affection is strange
as nothing becomes more important
than a future
not be be bound in the house anymore
when papa did not do anything
when mama simply sobbed
and stayed silence
and surrendered everything to God
all we waited is the blackness of the night
black because death is indifferent
because time is not a rescuer
of those who sank into
the bottom
of despair
i recall all these cruel times now
upon a grain of white rice
upon a coffee deprived of milk and sugar
upon a bread without the butter
upon a naked table
scratched with a knife
stained with tears
i look over the window
and stare at the black butterfly merely passing by
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Winter Evening
When snow falls against the window,
Long sounds the evening bell...
For so many has the table
Been prepared, the house set in order.
From their wandering, many
Come on dark paths to this gateway.
The tree of grace is flowering in gold
Out of the cool sap of the earth.
In stillness, wanderer, step in:
Grief has worn the threshold into stone.
But see: in pure light, glowing
There on the table: bread and wine.
poem by Georg Trakl
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Tinted Images
I remember tinted images
yellow and stained
in old wooden frames.
The glass was scratched and wavy.
They sat on a table next to a lamp
painted with naked cherubs.
The couch and chairs were covered in plastic.
I never asked why.
One day my father spilled his beer
no one panicked and I understood.
There were stories after dinner
with coffee and cigarettes.
I was young and don't recall them now.
We don't tell stories after dinner;
no one smokes anymore.
I have pictures in polished frames.
My couch is stained and the chairs are worn.
On a table next to the lamp
the one with naked cherubs
are the tinted images in the old wooden frames.
When the lamp is lit
I can see myself in the glass.
poem by Ronald Shields
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Meditation Sixty-Two
Second Series
Canticle 1: 12: While the king sitteth at his table,
my spikenard sendeth forth the smell thereof.
Oh! thou, my Lord, thou king of Saints, here mak’st
A royall Banquet, thine to entertain
With rich and royall fare, Celestial Cates,
And sittest at the Table rich of fame.
Am I bid to this Feast? Sure Angells stare,
Such Rugged looks, and Ragged robes I ware.
I’le surely com; Lord, fit mee for this feast:
Purge me with Palma Christi from my sin.
With Plastrum Gratiae Dei, or at least
Unguent Apostolorum healing bring.
Give me thy Sage and Savory: me dub
With Golden Rod, and with Saint Johns Wort good.
Root up my Henbain, Fawnbain, Divells bit,
My Dragons, Chokewort, Crosswort, Ragwort, vice:
And set my knot with Honeysuckles, stick
Rich Herb-a-Grace, and Grains of Paradise,
Angelica, yes, Sharons Rose the best,
And Herba Trinitatis in my breast.
Then let thy Sweetspike sweat its liquid Dew
Into my Crystall Viall, and there swim.
And, as thou at thy Table in Rich Shew
With royal Dainties, sweet discourse as King
Dost Welcome thine, My Spiknard with its smell
Shall vapour out perfumed Spirits Well./p>
Whether I at thy Table Guest do sit,
And feed my tast, or Wait, and fat mine Eye
And Eare with Sights and Sounds, Heart Raptures fit:
My Spicknard breaths its sweet perfumes with joy.
My heart thy Viall with this spicknard fill,
Perfumed praise to thee then breath it will.
poem by Edward Taylor
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Troubadour, For Clyde, Dwight, And Tim
the troubadour...
sleeps neath the willow that weeps,
wipes stone dust from his lips,
passes out pieces of heart.
for a glass of wine,
a quiet corner table...
he unfolds his souls,
and the tales of his lives.
catch a D chord,
on a blue night B minor.
loves gained, loves lost,
like stardust on his hat.
his worn boots a prayer,
that common people know.
the light in his eyes,
unlocks doors and heals wounds.
his voice left hanging,
smoke from factories long gone.
his footprints fade,
but not the scars on his heart.
a song, a twinkle,
and back on the road...
leaving photographs of memories
to kiss you goodnight!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Funeral...
i went to the funeral,
and listened for the bells.
the church was empty,
no cars in the parking lot.
the hand on the door,
seemed familiar, but not.
the voice in the casket,
both grey, and cold.
the mind packed boxes,
fingers buttoned and unbuttoned.
the candle fell from the table,
unlit and unnoticed.
even god was distant,
and the tide failed to come in....
the man stood up and walked out,
never to return!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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After Mary Ranney's Service
The night after the funeral
I am still not free
Haunted in part by her memory
The realization of early death
Only yesterday it seems
A partner at the pre-service table.
Yet from the closure of candle, bread and wine
Words from her 'bunco' circle friend ring:
'Mary, it was not your time! '
poem by Bill Grace
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My city hall
At the foot of my city hall lay stairs to nowhere
My city hall holds flags that have lost meaning
It’s become a place for bureaucrats to lay waste in my city
No open doors for citizens so where do I go
With my problems a glass bottle may work
But it won’t float where needed
But maybe the finder can do more than me
Because my city hall isn’t open to the public
poem by Ronald Speight
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Red Rose and Chardonnay
A dinner with chardonnay
Plates of love whilst piano play
A love song of long ago.
She sat by the table
A hands folded like napkin in array
And red roses on the table
Of two love birds
Today are their anniversary.
She excused herself
As the waiter arranged the table.
Today is their day
But her lover has another.
She waited for an hour
For he promised to surrender
The love he has for her.
She begged him not to part
But…he’s not here.
Nor his shadow emerged
Red rose and chardonnay
are now abandoned- by the table.
She exits in the moonless sky.
poem by Tess Rockenstire
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Glass Rose
a glass rose
with broken edges,
sits alone on the table
in an empty room...
sunlight stolen
from crusted shades,
glints on the petals;
the raw edges shimmer,
almost to touch!
gathering dust,
frozen by time....
a glass rose....
almost to touch!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Living Word!
Love and peace,
Sodium Bicarbonate and the Living Word!
And like the common table salt in our rooms,
But you are now under pressure! !
Because of the coming feast.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Away With Funeral Music
AWAY with funeral music - set
The pipe to powerful lips -
The cup of life's for him that drinks
And not for him that sips.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Death of a kitchen
Empty room across the restaurant hall
Not even a fly buzz.
The waiter is lying upon a table.
Of square blood patterns' cloth
The chef, has hung himself.
The porter run away with the mouse wife.
While the pan dance in the rust water.
Cupboard of Cockroaches.
poem by Luca Menin
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Feast or Famine
Neither feast nor famine
should show its fickle face.
The wine for some
and for most just a trace.
A few bitter drops of bitter liquid
lapped up by their thirst
and why?
Because others must come first?
And who decides this unfair thing?
Must not be the one whose praises we sing.
And who shall stop this unfair thing?
Must not be any that call themselves King.
Neither feast nor famine
should ever be allowed.
And those that feast should hunger
and feed the starving crowd.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Table of Contents
Quick like a flash those reactions,
When a feeding on one's table of contents...
Is rumored to be shared with those less fortunate.
Those whose resources have provided the feast.
And that feast is threatened to become decreased,
By those who gorge themselves,
In an exclusive frenzied treat!
Quick like a flash those reactions,
When a feeding on one's table of contents...
Is said to be spent at someone else's expense.
Those depicted as pitiful creatures.
Those who others deceive and leech.
So a gathering of those to impose their selfishness...
To ensure their interests aren't deprived of nourishment.
Leaving leftovers for the hungery to fight over.
Although deny they discharge a disgraceful decadence.
A decadence they say,
From them did not originate or create to stay!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.
Frederick Buechner in Wishful Thinking (1973)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Round Table
we have this round table
and we put all our hands
on it when we eat and
drink and just talk for
hours and hours and
listen. And we ask what
is happening: Karding
broke a leg and Delia
is looking for the money.
Always it is the money.
Always she is short of
the money. And there
were jewelries hanging
on her neck and arms
and fingers, and we all
ask at this round table:
what is happening?
Nothing, don't mind at
all, this is just a part of
the round table, some
wine glass that broke
and must be swept at
once. We keep away the
sound of a crying pig.
We eat pigs here at this
round table. Then we shifted
the talk about our dead
parents. We pray. We
remember we keep on
saying this. We finish eating
the pig. We drink a very
cold water. Our throats
are irritated and we step
out of the room wanting
to pull away our tongues.
when we come back the
round table is empty.
and we laugh about a
joke that we remember.
our childhood games
the river, and the boat
that father made for us.
we turn off the tv and we
begin to talk about the
beautiful flowers in mother's
old garden, the secret one.
we agree. we miss it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Everyday Life And Chocolate
Everyday life and Chocolate.
A sweet shop in the middle of nowhere, I had bought a box of chocolate,
but had no money, the owner took my sack of hay given to me by a farmer
to make a mattress, as payment. Now I sleep on top of a big kitchen table
for fear of rats. When I get up at night to drink water, I can hear them
hissing under the floor board. The candy man’s daughter is dying, she has
always been in love with her image and can’t bear the thought of parting.
from her mirror. Last night I fell off the kitchen table, dreamed I was back
at sea and my ship was pitching and rolling, bet it gave the rats a fright.
The phone rang it was my mother, couldn’t hear what she said, bad line
between heaven and earth. Went to the candy man’s daughter’s funeral
the casket was decorated with colourful sweets and expensive chocolate,
the sermon was light hearted the priest looked as he was on a high. I don’t
eat chocolate anymore, but live on raw carrots. So slim you are fat people
tell me; my diet is carrots I say and the rush to the green grocer to buy some,
but they continue to eat sweets. Things are looking up the farmer gave me
another sack of hay and a rat catching terrier, and every morning it puts
the night’s catch on the kitchen table.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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