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A Problem With Living Too Long

A godlier man, there never lived -
My dear old Uncle Fred,
And throngs should fill the funeral home
When word comes that he's dead.

For the numbers at the funeral home
Are a measure of one's worth;
The sum of all the lives one's touched
While here upon the earth.

But few will visit the funeral home
When my Uncle passes on,
For he's lived so long that those he's touched
Are already dead and gone.

poem by Lone Dog
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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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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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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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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coming Home

It's a long and lonely highway.
When you're traveling all alone.
I was on my way to nowhere.
But now i'm coming home.
I'm coming home.
I've been running through the fire.
I've been running for so long.
If i took it any higher.
Baby i would be still be gone.
But now i'm coming home, coming home.i'm coming home.
Coming home, coming home, i'm coming home.
Well my home was really never.
On a far and distant shore.
If i stayed away forever.
I could never miss you more.
And so i'm coming home,coming home.i'm coming home.
Coming home,coming home,i'm coming home.
I think of all these years gone by.
Never even wondered why.
I never touched the ground.
All the time that's come and gone.
All the nights i've been alone.
And now i'm homeward bound.
I heard the thunder over canaan.
And i've heard the angels cry.
And their voices came revealing
"as you live,so will you die."
I'm coming home,coming home,i'm coming home.
I'm coming home,coming home,i'm coming home.
Coming home, coming home, i'm coming home
I'm coming home
I'm coming home, coming home, coming home...

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Man of Worth

Dear Uncle Fred's the type of man
Who to his neighbours gives a hand.
A man who would not deal in lies,
Who never could a soul despise.

An honest man and one so kind
That he should be the first in line
To proudly pass through portal's great,
When trumpets blow at Peter's Gate.

When God decides that Fred should die,
Then, in the parlour where he lies,
His friends will flock to bid farewell
To one who lived his life so well.

But when it's time for me to go,
And in a wooden box I'm stowed,
The visitors will be but few
Who come to say a fond adieu.

And herein doth the moral lie,
Comparing Uncle Fred and I,
A man who I have much admired
And wished his traits I had acquired.

To judge a person's worth in life,
And if for others he caused strife,
Just count the friends that bid farewell,
And by that method you can tell.

poem by Lone Dog
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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This Is What You Wanted

Death is hard to understand,
Cause you have to be,
Dead to understand it.

Just like my uncle,
I am dead.
I'm with him now.

I can finally breath,
I can finally run,
I am finally free.

You should be,
Happy too,
Cause you don't have me.

Just like you wished for,
I'm dead,
And gone forever.

You don't even cry,
Or come to my,
Funeral.

You don't look happy,
You look bad,
You look sad.

You've got another girl,
All the money in the wordl,
And too many cars.

You said you loved me,
But you always hurt me,
And never said sorry.

I'm happy,
You aren't,
But you should be happy,
ANd I should be sad.
Cause this is what,
You always wanted...

poem by Dragon Crenshaw
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What if it were true?

Hector, Ajax and Hercules
and other heroes such as these.
All suffered from the same disease.
They thought they were invincible.

Now every one of them is dead.
I know this from the books I’ve read.
Unlike my ancient Uncle Fred.
Who thought it might be possible.

To find a way to stay alive
a certain method to survive
Towards this end then he would strive
Although it seemed improbable.

A coward too afraid to die.
Although he was clever guy
well versed in ancient history.
He thought he could be comfortable.

If he could find a vampire who
he thought could be persuaded to
make him into a vampire too
and grant him immortality.

I half believed when I was small
My uncle often came to call
but always late after night fall.
Which made me feel uncomfortable.

But now I take a different view.
I don’t believe his tales were true
Nor do I think my siblings do.
I think it is impossible.

By bright sunlight I am certain
but after dark I think again.
What if my uncle Fred did gain
his wish for immortality.

I hoped that he was telling lies
and so it came as no surprise.
To find one single rule applies.
Vampires do not seek publicity.

Real vampires do not advertise
They consider it’s not wise.
Although my uncle really tries
his stories cannot convince me.

I know my uncle’s very old.
And that he cannot stand the cold.
From stories that my parents told
concerning his longevity.

My father says he will not die
My mother says that’s all my eye.
But still I wonder sometimes why.
He’s lived so long. It seems to me.

Just possible he’s told the truth.
The secret of eternal youth
springs from some ancient vampires tooth.
The bite of immortality.

I know that in reality
vampires are just a fantasy.
That people can live naturally.
Far longer than seems possible.

No body knows the reason why.
Examined scientifically.
It seems that everyone must die.
No one can live eternally.

But Uncle Fred refuses to.
I can’t believe his tales are true.
He sleeps all day as vampires do.
at his age it’s permissible.

I tell myself it makes no sense
for Fred to keep up this pretense.
I have to do in self defence.
I find it much preferable.

To believing Uncle Fred
Is exactly as he said
A member of the living dead.
That would be truly terrible.

18/08/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Diadochi

When word was brought that Alexander was dead
In Babylon, gossips said it was not true;
For if that demigod spirit had shed
So vast a corpse, its corruption then through
The whole world would reek; men from Carthage
To India would pause and sniff the air,
That by the stench declared the End of Age
Like an incense-wafted funeral prayer.
Yet he was dead, and in time earth did stink
With the metal tang of blood. Forty years
His funeral games were held, and men did think
His dying crueler than his life. More tears
And blood they shed, his diadem to strive,
Than he had spilled in Asia, when alive.

poem by Mark Sauer
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Home Now

I'm hanging out with me
And you're a vacant chair
A chosen compromise
This space we rarely share

And if you lived here you'd be home now

So what you givin' up for me?
And what shall I give up for you?
Aimless expectations passing by

If you lived here you'd be home now
If you lived here you'd be home now

And to make it real
I need to have you here
I need to have you
I need to hold you

Barren wasted heart
Neglect of normalcy

And if you lived here you'd be home now
Oh if you lived here you'd be home now

And to make it real
I need to have you here
I need to have you
It can't be sincere
Unless you spend time here
I need to see you...

Supervision is what I need
Some consistence

song performed by by No Doubt from Return Of Saturn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Funeral Note

Life on a lonely pillow,
The thoughts of the morrow to sleep at last;
Not a drum was heard at his funeral.
Of a funeral note,
Darkly as the dead of the night;
But its deep heart is full of dead men bones.
Fruits,
Sweet rejoice;
The flowers of that garden say it all.
Of error, ignorance and strife;
Like the barbarians at play,
Where the earth takes the dead away.
Of error, ignorance and strife;
Like a corpse within its grave,
Ready for the earth to swallow it.
Hear and hail,
Wear and wail;
Like the earth's decaying leaves where,
Life's lonely pillow shares the funeral note.
To all the overgrown sons,
To all the overgrown daughters,
With flowers and azure moss;
The impulse of your strength is like,
The Atlantic's level powers at sea.
Uncontrollable!
Like mourners with sad songs;
Their eyes are heavy and dim,
Broken with remorse like that orbed maid;
Where the moving-star shines dead,
And the thoughts of man die easily.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Uncle Toad Said

Uncle toad sittin by the old south gate
Waitin them boys they bin stayin out late
Uncle toad thinks theyre way out of line
Maybe they think he is past his prime
Uncle toad said better straighten up right
When uncle toad spoke it was not a pretty sight
Uncle toad lived in the wood out back
Lived in the shade of a utility shack
He looked in at the big brick housr
At the girls as quiet as a mouse
Uncle toad said you had best get it right
When uncle toad spoke it was not a pretty sight
Uncle toad tucked in the compost pile
Out by the back door look at him smile
He said kid stop drinkin that brew
Plan while ya can or the jokes on you
Uncle toad said better straighten up right
When uncle toad spoke it was not a pretty sight
Uncle toad sittin by the swimmin pool
Sits in the sun when the weather turns cool
Sits in the sun when the girls walk by
Maybe they think hes a little bit sly
Uncle toad said you had best get it right
When uncle toad spoke it was not a pretty sight
Uncle toad sittin by the cool mill race
All day long with a grin on his face
He said boys you had better not try
Kissin em girls cause I wont stand by
Uncle toad sittin by the wrought iron fence
Lookin at the moon like it dont make sense
We say toad heres lookin at you
Hopin you get your wish too
Sway to the left, sway to the right
When uncle toad spoke it was not a pretty sight

song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Funeral Bell

The funeral bell is ringing a reminder of our mortality
Farewelling a deceased soul one day 'twill ring for me
Ringing in the stillness of this cool Autumn day
Across the rural city in the morning damp and gray.

The funeral bell is pealing for one a last farewell
And few sounds sadder than the slow peals of the loud funeral bell
Above the streets and houses it echoes to the sky
For one bound for her or his last resting place the cemetery nearby.

The peewees in the town park distinctive in their call
And the magpie on a wattle pipe on this cool morning in the Fall
And for one who will not breathe again the eulogy is read
And the funeral bell is tolling in memory of the dead.

The funeral bell is ringing for one a last goodbye
And on the clock of our mortality the hours just seem to fly
Respect to the departed is all that we can pay
And for each and everyone of us a final night and day.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Blind Rower

And since he rowed his father home,
His hand has never touched an oar.
All day he wanders on the shore,
And hearkens to the swishing foam.
Though blind from birth, he still could row
As well as any lad with sight;
And knew strange things that none may know
Save those who live without the light.

When they put out that Summer eve
To sink the lobster-pots at sea,
The sun was crimson in the sky;
And not a breath was in the sky;
The brooding, thunder-laden sky,
That, heavily and wearily,
Weighed down upon the waveless sea
That scarcely seamed to heave.

The pots were safely sunk; and then
The father gave the word for home:
He took the tiller in his hand,
And, in hi s heart already home,
He brought her nose round towards the land,
To steer her straight for home.

He never spoke,
Nor stirred again:
A sudden stroke,
And he lay dead,
With staring eyes, and lips off lead.

The son rowed on, and nothing feared:
And sometimes, merrily,
He lifted up his voice, and sang,
Both high and low,
And loud and sweet:
For he was ever gay at sea,
And ever glad to row,
And rowed as only blind men row:
And little did the blind lad know
That death was at his feet:
For still he thought his father steered;
Nor knew that he was all alone
With death upon the open sea.
So merrily, he rowed, and sang:
And, strangely on the silence rang
That lonely melody,
As, through the livid, brooding gloam,
By rock and reef, he rowed for home--
The blind man rowed the dead man home.

But, as they neared the shore,
He rested on his oar:
And, wondering that his father kept
So very quiet in the stern,
He laughed, and asked him if he slept;
And vowed he heard him snore just now.
Though, when his father spoke no word,
A sudden fear upon him came:
And, crying on his father's name,
With flinching heart, he heard
The water lapping on the shore;
And all his blood ran cold, to feel
The shingle grate beneath the keel:
And stretching over towards the stern,
His knuckle touched the dead man's brow.

But help was near at hand;
And safe he came to land:
Though none has ever known
How he rowed in, alone,
And never touched a reef.
Some say they saw the dead man steer--
The dead man steer the blind man home--
Though, when they found him dead,
His hand was cold as lead.

So, ever restless, to and fro,
In every sort of weather,
The blind lad wanders on the shore,
And hearkens to the foam.
His hand has never touched an oar,
Since they came home together--
The blind, who rowed his father home--
The dear, who steered his blind son home.

poem by Wilfred Wilson Gibson
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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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I had a thought on your funeral...

Eighty years of life
on this Earth
Was it worth?
I had a thought on your funeral.

Eighty years ago in heaven
when you were just the soul
and wanted to forever become
a part of this whole
You urged God to grant you a life
And promised
you would this time achieve your goal
But did you keep your promise at all?
I had a thought on your funeral.

The aim of your taking birth was
Service, contribution and asceticism
You instead chose
Hoarding, platitude and hedonism
God prescribed
Love, joy and compassion
On your life you inscribed
Jealousy, gloom and repression
I had a thought on your funeral.

Childhood’s dawn wiped out in dependence
Lust devoured on the morning of adolescence
Youth’s noon you squandered
due to fear and apprehension
Dusk of old age got totaled in
egotism, vanity and pretension
I had a thought on your funeral.

I asked myself
Was I any different from you?
Was I keeping my own promise to God?
The response from within came in negative
My heart did not give the nod
Seeing you sleeping in God’s lap
with a performance that was dismal
Your funeral appeared to me
as God’s signal
And I realized I had a chance to change
before I reached my own burial.
I had a thought on your funeral.

(30.08.2011; New Delhi; India)

poem by Anshul Gupta
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I Wish To See My Dad More

My dad

When I come home
I think about my dad
When I come home
I want to see my dad
When I come home
I want to hang out with him more
When I come home
I think off all he’s done for me
When I come home
I wish to be with everyone
When I come home
I want to hang out with my dad
When I come home
I want to see my dad
When I come home
My mom comes home at 5
When I come home
My dad barely comes home
When I come home
My dads at the bar
When I come home
I see my dad drunk
When I come home
Sometimes I wish he was dead
When I come home
I want my dad to be not drinking
When I come home
I want to see my dad
When I come home
“Wait maybe I will not come home” said dad
When I come home
I think about my dad
When I come home
I wish my dad would be home and waiting for me like he used
When I come home
That’s what I want to see
When I come home
I want someone to hang with him

poem by Alex Cinctre
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Electric Funeral

Reflex in the sky warn you you're gonna die
Storm coming, you'd better hide from the atomic tide
Flashes in the sky turns houses into sties
Turns people into clay, radiation minds decay
Robot minds of robot slaves
lead them to atomic rage
plastic flowers, melting sun,
fading moon falls upon
dying world of radiation,
victims of mad frustration
Burning globe of oxy'n fire,
like electric funeral pyre
Buildings crashing down to a cracking ground
Rivers turn to wood, ice melting to flood
Earth lies in death bed, clouds cry water dead
Tearing life away, here's the burning pay
Electric Funeral
Electric Funeral
Electric Funeral
Electric Funeral
And so in the sky shines the electric eye
supernatural king takes earth under his wing
Heaven's golden chorus sings,
Hell's angels flap their wings
Evil souls fall to Hell, ever trapped in burning cells!

song performed by by Iced Earth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Electric Funeral

Reflex in the sky warn you you're gonna die
Storm coming, you'd better hide from the atomic tide
Flashes in the sky turns houses into sties
Turns people into clay, radiation minds decay
Robot minds of robot slaves lead them to atomic rage
plastic flowers, melting sun, fading moon falls upon
dying world of radiation, victims of mad frustration
Burning globe of oxy'n fire, like electric funeral pyre
Buildings crashing down to a cracking ground
Rivers turn to wood, ice melting to flood
Earth lies in death bed, clouds cry water dead
Tearing life away, here's the burning pay
Electric Funeral
Electric Funeral
Electric Funeral
Electric Funeral
And so in the sky shines the electric eye
supernatural king takes earth under his wing
Heaven's golden chorus sings, Hell's angels flap their wings
Evil souls fall to Hell, ever trapped in burning cells

song performed by by Black Sabbath
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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As My Uncle Used To Say

I've thought a power on men and things,
As my uncle ust to say,--
And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!
W'y, they ain't no use to pray!
Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set
A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet,
And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_,
As my uncle ust to say.

They's some don't know their A, B, Cs,
As my uncle ust to say,
And yit don't waste no candle-grease,
Ner whistle their lives away!
But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme
No ringin' song fer to last all time,
They can blaze the way fer the march sublime,
As my uncle ust to say.

Whoever's Foreman of all things here,
As my uncle ust to say,
He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer,
And our round-up, night and day:
And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west,
And north and south, and worst and best
I ain't got nothin' to suggest,
As my uncle ust to say.

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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