A Wake In the Barrio
Funeral wakes in our barrio
Are simple but picturesque
Amidst boiling cauldrons of
Rice porridge with strips of tripes
A gathering of mourners intone their grief
While downing jugs of native grog
The sakla master shuffles the deck
Cards bearing luck not auguring death
Children past bedtime hours scaring
Each other while hiding under the casket
Wilted floral wreaths line up the walls
Like sentinels with nauseous breaths
The honored one somber in slumber
Indifferent to the homage paid him
The widow worries about the collection
Fingers the knotted hankie bulging with coins
Will there be enough to pay in the morrow
The brass band engaged to liven the sorrow?
Oh, but her eldest will arrive from LA tonight
Bringing US aid, then there's nothing to fear
Picture yourself behind the coffin's misted glass
A life well led but ended with trifling ceremony
Funeral wakes in the barrio will always be the same
As if I care, but I wish they can do better on my turn.
Related quotes
Forest Lawn
This song appears on three albums, and was first released on the take me to tomorrow? album, and on the changes album. it has also been released on the an evening with john denver album as a liv
Sion.
Oh lay me down in forest lawn in a silver casket
Put golden flowers over my head in a silver basket
Let the drum and bugle corp play taps while the cannons roar
And sixteen libertied employees sell souvenirs from the funeral store
I want to go simply when I go
Theyll give me a simple funeral there I know
With a casket lined in fleece
And fireworks spelling out rest in peace
Oh take me when Im gone to forest lawn
Oh lay me down in forest lawn they understand there
They have a heavenly choir and a military band there
Just put me in their care Ill find my comfort there
With sixteen planes and a last salute theyll drop across in a parachute
I want to go simply when I go
Theyll give me a simple funeral there I know
With a hundred strolling strings
And topless dancers with golden wings
Oh take me when Im gone to forest lawn
Oh, come, come, come, come
Come to the church in the wild wood
Kindly leave a contribution in the pale
Be as simple and as trusting as a child would
And well sell you the church in the dale
To find a simple resting place is my desire
To lay me down with a smiling face comes a little bit higher
My likeness cast in brass will stand in plastic grass
While hidden weights and springs tip its hat to the mourners filing passed
I want to go simply when I go
Theyll give me a simple funeral there I know
Ill lie beneath the sand
With piped in tapes of billy graham
Oh take me when Im gone to forest lawn
Rock of ages cleft for me
Forests lightly higher fee
Oh take me when Im gone to forest lawn
Amen
Words and music by tom paxton
song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Don't Forget to Write Your Funeral Plan
Michael Jackson's 'SMILE' played, as the coffin entered everyone stood tall
Mum's poem was read and felt by all
The Mourners were smiling at the photo's of Mum
As the DVD played, no one was glum
Happy pictures were played of Mum's life with a tear
To the tune of the music 'If I Lay Here'
Friends got up for the Eulogy
Wonderful Words spoken of Mum... Now free
Free to move on, to follow a new life
Happy if Dad, finds a new wife
Everyone looked like they were enjoying the moment
In a room full of love; as if Heaven sent
For Mum was so kind and by all adored
Yet sadly the Funeral Conductor looked everso bored
He looked like he had something better to do
This was just a job and he really didn't care just who...
Who had died Or who was grieving
About the life of this person or the world they were leaving
So... Make sure you write.. Your Funeral Plan
It saves pain for the family, A real helping hand
You can choose your Funeral Home, coffin, Cemetery and your music too
It will take away some pain Of losing you
Widow of Massacre
Some said she lost,
None said she crossed,
Nothing was known clear
Something about her was fear.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
If asked, she never say,
because witness you can pay,
She lost hee husband,
Then lost her hand.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
Behind her, there're stories,
Behind stories, there's worries,
Her village was ambushed,
And in bullets, washed.
Everything, though said,
She's a widow of massacre.
She survived the claws of wild,
After death of her single child,
Finally she ran to this village,
Where we paid her homage.
Everything, though said
She's a widow of massacre.
poem by Buyunde Acura Sylivester
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
My own funeral, I'd like to be laid out in a coffin in my own house. I would like my coffin to be put in the double parlor, and I would like all the flowers to be white.
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.
Demised Creature
So far beneath the surface
The coffin surrounding
Air slowly escaping
Mouth going dry
Eyes glazing over
The dream feels surreal
Crying out so loud
No one hears a thing
Ignoring her every scream
Blood in her veins slow
Skin peals from her pink cheeks
They were the death of her
Where have you been?
Your late to my funeral
How could you?
When you put me in this coffin
My life was nothing
Not even a tear of remorse
You broke me down
Brought me back as a creature
heartless, soulless, breathless
Then my existence was ripped
Just kill me, put me out
My flame has already died
Where have you been?
Your late to my funeral
How could you?
When you put me in this coffin
poem by Jennifer Ottinger
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Twilight at a window
A funeral procession
Only the dead person's Kith & Kin?
No long hearse and they carry the cardboard casket
on their bony shoulders towards the pauper's graveyard!
And he sees through his shattered window
Perhaps the poor man's wife cries behind
And the children not aware of the mysterious death
play on the road?
A radical film maker with his Cinema team
Takes pictures for his documentary film
'Poor man's rich funeral'
And he gives few notes to the widow as a gratitude,
She must have seen for the first time in her life
That tricky big colored notes?
[How could I have come so far
(And always on such dark trails!)
I must have traveled by the light
Shinning from the faces of all those I have loved.]
-Thomas McGrath, American,1916-1990
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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My fears...
I am not afraid of dying,
But ' twould be no falsehood to say I am afraid of death;
This is my life, this is the irony, the satire-
I can be nude and plain in the concluding embrace of death,
Yet I cannot don the funeral attire.
I am not afraid of committing sin,
Yet, I am afraid of forgiving those who err (and then admit) -
I condemn hypocrisy and all that lies within,
But yet I fear I am a hypocrite.
I am not afraid of the flags in a funeral procession,
As long as they drag behind a coffin within which it is I who is sheathed;
But if I were the driver of the hearse of another,
The flags would signal the toll of one's victory and the silence of another's defeat.
poem by Samah Khan
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Cry of the fatherless son
I will not mourn my father's death
I won't even be struck by his death.
I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,
Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.
As is the custom,
I won't name my first son after him.
My children won't ever see photos of him.
I will not tell them tales
that my father supposedly told me.
His name in my house will never ring a bell,
Neither will he ring my doorbell -
For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,
no matter how old and frail he'll be.
His name in my house shall be forbidden.
But how could I mourn your death?
How would your death strike me?
How could I contribute to your funeral?
Or attend your funeral?
As is custom,
how should I name my son after you?
And how would my children see your photos?
What tales did you tell me,
so I can tell them?
How could your name even ring a bell,
Or you ring my doorbell?
How would I let my dogs loose on you,
An old stranger that I haven't
My eyes set on?
Forgive me.
poem by Kimani wa Mumbi
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Under The Cover Of The Night
living so enclosed
like a dead man inside a coffin
there is no choice
but to sleep and inside the dream
pray more,
the man keeps reciting the prayers
on his fingers
to dispel all fears about death
when he wakes up however
everything becomes a different matter
it is not something strange
but it was the most certain thing that happens
death upon death
death of death
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Meditations on the South Valley, Part XXIII
Pancho, the barrio idiot.
Rumor is that una bruja from Bernalillo
le embrujo. Unshaven, chattering
and nodding to airy friends
that follow him,
he roams the barrio all day.
I see him at least twice a day—
walking on the ditch behind my house,
hours later walking across the bridge.
Harmless, la gente leave him alone
in his own fantasies,
to share his bread with invisible companions,
to speak back to voices
that brim over from his childhood memories.
I have seen him
on all fours in Raul’s field
with the sheep. Or last Christmas
in the tree meowing like a cat.
You always fill my heart Pancho
with delight.
poem by Jimmy Santiago Baca
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No Eulogies For Life
Don't want any funeral,
viewings or floral wreaths,
no eulogies or readings
or statements of belief.
No need for weeping
from any who ever knew me;
nor attendance required
from those who only screwed me.
THIS mortal life is what I lay down
to rest here in this sod;
but all that makes me who I am
has returned back home to God.
poem by Carolyn Brunelle
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Booby Prize Or a Fine Romance? 1
Every once in awhile,
you hear a funny story,
and sometimes you wonder
if what is written there
is fiction or true.
Normally you will not question,
in case it embarrasses or offends.
Well I what I am about to tell you
is it a fib or is it true?
Some thirty-eight years ago,
I went to a funeral of a friend
and ended up with the widow
as a booby prize.
So if I told you that
is exactly how I met my wife,
would you believe me
or would you think I am having you on?
You would be wrong
to think I was having you on.
Because it was at her first husband’s funeral that we met.
It was a few weeks later
a bunch of his friend met, in a coffee bar.
Someone suggested
one of us should take the widow out,
and I drew the short straw
and I got the booby prize
all those years ago,
or was it a fine romance.
I will leave it up to you to decide.
2 July 2007
poem by David Harris
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Doc Hill
I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why?
My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral,
And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled -- scarcely able
To hold to the railing of the new life
When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree
At the grave,
Hiding herself, and her grief!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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A Skeletal Man In A Big Town!
He smells Varnish!
Because he works as a wood-polisher
To a Funeral Caretaker.
He nicely polishes
The Coffins
With his stained hands.
He's the owner's pet
The old underdog not paid well.
There he takes
Three meals free and he sleeps
In an old coffin at the Embalm room.
Shrewd Boss loves him very much!
And given him a promise
That he offers the very best Casket
For his going away!
Poor Man in a late evening
Mutters after gulping an illicit liquor in the town.
'I polish their coffins and see my wrinkled face.
As per the Boss's promise the expensive coffin
I never see while I am going
And if he shows when I am alive
I could have polished it well than others?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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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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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 herd of sheep.
I wake up; the sun wakes up.
As I wake up the sun wakes up.
When I wake up the sun wakes up.
Since I wake up the sun wakes up.
Because I wake up the sun wakes up.
I shall show you the day;
I shall dispel the dark.
I shall show you the night-less day.
I am the seer, the prophet, the son of God.
I am the God incarnation.
The head told; the herd of sheep followed.
12.11.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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