Warning Signs
If years have passed and your children are grown
The mortgage is paid and you have a second home
And in the garage are Mercedes’ and Jag’s and parked
At the dock is a yacht.
If you find your wife in a black tennis dress
Her face all covered by a gossamer shroud
At the funeral of an old friend,
You had better check around for emergent webs,
And a bright red spot on a shiny black bug
The next funeral your attend
Could well be your own...
poem by Stephen S. Yeandle
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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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I Don't Even Know You
Friend,
Once upon a time you were my friend
and the day I knew you played a plot
to demean me thru a sting mission
and the day you confessed that
you plotted behind to chase me out
for your own survival
you died as my friend
and I threw your corpse to a graveyard
and I saw you lie there cold and dead
without any respect or dignity
a human deserves
I did not wait for your funeral
that I left with a clergy
and when I walked alongwith
my pure earth I looked back
at your funeral pyre there I could see
only black smoke like the blind,
black spots of your brain and mind
which killed you and your inner vision
Oh Friend? ? ? ?
I am in peace now and I feel
I don't even know you.....
poem by Rema Prasanaa
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The Little Black Cormorant
By inlet and islet and wide river reaches,
By lake and lagoon I'm at home,
Yet oft' the far forests of blue-gum and beeches
About the broad ranges I roam,
'There's a strange, sombre bird with a hook in his beak.'
'Tis the little black cormorant raiding your creek.
And woe to the fisher and woe to the fishes
A gourmand I freely confess
When I come a-searching for succulent dishes,
Arrayed in my funeral dress,
Then the fishermen rave, and in anger they speak:
'There's a little black cormorant coming up creek!'
But I'm quick and I'm cunning, as many a greyling,
A blackfish, a trout or a bream
Has known to his sorrow when down I go sailing
To hunt him beneath the dark stream.
To my cavernous maw then they all come alike,
And 'tis death should the little black cormorant strike.
But I am an outlaw. I'm hunted and harried,
I'm banned from the havens of men.
And woe is to me if to long I have tarried
A shot o'er the waters - and then,
There is reason indeed for my funeral dress,
For, alas, here's a little black cormorant less.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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His Funeral Is Mine
He is just a young man,
With little knowledge of his own future.
Little did he know,
His funeral was coming in days time.
Years have passed him by,
And little did I know,
I fell in love with him,
He fell in love with me.
Little did we both know,
Too little.
I figured out from his unhappiness,
His marriage was the day of his funeral.
I know the right thing to do is to stay away from him,
But he's too charming,
He has me locked in his magic spell,
His funeral has become mine.
As I fall asleep each night,
I remember the minutes in his presence,
As I know he is spending the night
With his wife..
poem by Petra Tawfik
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Dem Bones!
My Husband's Grandmother,
who had reached the grand old age of 98 years,
died one 23rd of December,
and as her funeral couldn't be organised
until the 6th of January, the following year,
her Son asked the Funeral Director,
to explain what was happening to his Mother
over the Christmas period.
The Funeral Director in his severe black suit,
with a face even more severe,
placed a hand on the Son's shoulder, and said,
'Don't you worry, Mr Taylor,
we have a Skeleton Staff in over Christmas'.
This is a true story, but we found it to be so hilarious.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Dying is a Heavy Responsibility
Dying is such a huge responsibility
I'm not sure I'll even attend.
Will there be sad tears
or none at all;
or worse approbation
and the silence of the resentful
or will there be laughter and love.
Who will do my eulogy
and will it be someone
I would choose
or will it be some hated brother in law?
Dying is such a responsibility.
Will they dress me in dignified black
could I have a last cigarette
or a last run around the block?
Will I lay there
surrounded by hypocrites
who never lifted a finger in life to help
now tearfully they genuflect;
for some of them
I just might
reach out my hand
and slap a face
that would shake up the congregation.
But who would have to pay for the services?
Dying is expensive, at least 5,000 dollars or so
probably more.
Why waste all that money on
hungry worms?
Dying involves financial decisions
Who will attend my funeral
who will the pallbearers be?
Perhaps I will slink off to die alone
and save myself
and others a lot of trouble.
I think I rather leave a few bucks
and have the mourners have a party;
after all
who says a solemn mass
and boozing don't go together,
even Jesus
liked his wine.
So if I go
by disease, accident, lifestyle, or crash
it would be nice if I could get some help
with all that responsibility.
Wonder if I could get someone to die for me
and save me all the trouble;
It could happen.
You can get anything, I understand, for a price.
Besides who really wants to go to a funeral?
Me least of all
especially
if it is my own.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Procession
A sinuous black worm,
the funeral procession
of black limousines crawls
toward the cemetary.
The headlights on the
hearse stare straight ahead
like zombies’ eyes,
illuminating the way.
Automobiles passing
the opposite way pull over,
some passengers hushed,
some restless.
Burdened with baby's breath
gladioli sprays and black lace,
a funeral is solemn
departure—a journey
before the journey
after the journey.
poem by Sonny Rainshine
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Mr. Nobody
there's a dead man
in a box down at the
funeral home... nobody
came to see...
but hell, nobody came
when he was alive....
nobody called, nobody wrote...
and Mr. Nobody went about
his days, doing what you do
to get by... cooking small meals,
and drinking black coffee....
watering his plants, walking
his dog, sitting in his chair....
staring at old photographs
of children grown and moved....
and of the woman he loved
for forty years... buried beneath
a tree down by the church...
now he lies in the box, still,
cold, and lifeless... no voices,
no tears.... his dog wandered off....
there's nobody to bury nobody
in the world where nobody lived
and died...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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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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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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The Lord of Stripes
In my dreams
I take the paws
Of a lonely tiger
And together we dance
My love, I’ll find you
Ablaze in a funeral pyre
We swim together
The tiger and I
Through cities
Made of emerald
My love, I’ll find you
Ablaze in a funeral pyre
Lions watch jealously
As the king of the jungle
Is passed over
For the lord of the dance
My love, I’ll wait for you
Ablaze in a funeral pyre.
poem by Jeffrey McCambridge
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His Funeral
MULTICOLORED umbrellas
marching the black road
towards his final resting place
this is his funeral
people cross the bridge
of the blue river
the day is bright
and the grief is light
He must have
IF he were still alive
Disliked it
He wants black umbrellas all along
Black suits
Blue flowers
A rainy day
He wants his departure to be sad
He has many unfinished business
Too may sins still
Without the penance.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe
-- How hard for me, the splendor of this crown and robe,
amidst my shame --
-- In stony Troezen will be an infamous calamity,
the royal staircase will grow red with disgrace,
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
and for the mother in love,
the black sun will rise.
-- O, if hate would boil in my breast --
but see, the admission itself
has fallen from my lips.
-- Phedre burns in a black flame
in broad daylight.
The funeral torch fumes
in broad white daylight.
Dread your mother, Hippolytus:
Phedre -- night -- watche s over you
in broad white day.
-- I have stained the sun with black love . . .
Death from a bottle will cool my ardor --
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
-- We are afraid, we do not dare
relieve the king's grief.
Wounded by Theseus, night
fell upon him. But we,
with a funeral song bringing home the dead,
will pacify the black sun
of wild and sleepless passion.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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HIS FUNERAL (edited)
MULTICOLORED umbrellas
marching the black road
towards his final resting place
this is his funeral
people cross the bridge
of the blue river
the day is bright
and the grief is light
He must have
IF he were still alive
Disliked it
He wants black umbrellas all along
Black suits
Blue flowers
A rainy day
He wants his departure to be sad
He has many unfinished businesses
Too many sins still
Unforgiven
And needing the penance.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Seeds
Well a great black river a man had found
So he put all his money in a hole in the ground
And sent a big steel arm drivin down down down
Man now I live on the streets of houston town
Packed up my wife and kids when winter came along
And we headed down south with just spit and a song
But they said sorry son its gone gone gone
Well theres men hunkered down by the railroad tracks
The elkhorn special blowin my hair back
Tents pitched on the highway in the dirty moonlight
And I dont know where Im gonna sleep tonight
Parked in the lumberyard freezin our asses off
My kids in the back seat got a graveyard cough
Well Im sleepin up in front with my wife
Billy club tappin on the windshield in the middle of the night
Says move along man move along
Well big limousine long shiny and black
You dont look ahead you dont look back
How many times can you get up after youve been hit?
Well I swear if I could spare the spit
Id lay one on your shiny chrome
And send you on your way back home
So if youre gonna leave your town where the north wind blow
To go on down where that sweet soda river flow
Well you better think twice on it jack
Youre better off buyin a shotgun dead off the rack
You aint gonna find nothin down here friend
Except seeds blowin up the highway in the south wind
Movin on movin on its gone gone its all gone
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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.
The Last Duty
ı t is two days or three
since with soil we covered thee
we gathered here
in your mother city
from all over the country
may be the unı verse
to perform our last duty
in fact you are doı ng your last duty
perfectly
you gathered friiends together
after so many years
a peculı ar thing too
just notified me
they have cut the lonely poplar
that shoot
from the root
which were a friend to me
my friend in winter
in my loneliness..lonelihood
in my all days on foot
but the plum tree
side by side
very very oldy
has blossomed already
adorned with green leaves
with white flowers as bridals
what a peculı ar thing too
lı fe goes on as always
after the death's gloom
like these
even of my relatives
and dear friends
this year
spring has come a little bit earlier
it is may be
two days or three
we gave to the soı l thee
life for me
a turmoı l though
how many beloved
ı have entombed
..buried
ı do not know
ı cannot remember
waiting his turn
someday someone may be me
will be buried too
you lie in a mosque yard
in the coffin covered with our flag
crimson and white
wi th in the middle a crescent
on a white marble stand-bier
your son
your grown up son tall watching
your wife and daughter in black weeds
weeping
first the noon prayer
and then
the funeral prayer in the graveyard
imam asked for the acquı ttal of claim
we have no claim on you
farewell my friend
that is life they say
what we can say too
the last order from above has come
we are accustomed to these day by day
iti is two days or three
20th march 2010
a new life is beginning for me
without you
fires burn in me
may be the new spring
the river sakar will flow without you
the bungalow
near the sinop black sea will miss you
it is two days or there
since we buried you in soil
life is toll moil and pell mell
and turmoil
so long
farewell
my friend
we will miss you
how can we bear this turmoil
without you
never knowing
we are still waiting for you
each day
as the next day you will rise be coming
good my friend..so long
poem by Metin Sahin
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When She Dies (edited)
with all that she did
denying to her children what they ought to deserve
she will not get the funeral she asks
no one weeps
but for civil society's norms
for a while she will wear the black veil
he will wear black sunglasses
and then he will be back to drinking at night
she will be wailing in the desert
the moon shall hide behind the dark clouds on a cold evening.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When She Dies
with all that she did
denying to her children what they ought to deserve
she will not get the funeral she asks
no one weeps
but for civil society's norms
for a while she will wear the black veil
he will wear black sunglasses
and then he will be back to drinking at night
she will we wailing in the desert
the moon shall hide behind the dark clouds on a cold evening.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Meganom
1
Still far the asphodels,
grey-transparent Spring.
Meanwhile, the sand rustles,
the wave foams.
But here, like Persephone,
my soul joins the gentle circle,
and in the realm of the dead,
there were no seductive, sunburnt arms.
2
Why do we trust the boat
with the heaviness of the funerary urn,
and conclude the festival of black roses
over amethystine water?
My soul rushes there,
to the cloudy cape of Meganom,
and from there the black sail will return
after the funeral.
3
How quickly clouds rush by
in a sunless row and
flakes of black roses drift
under this windy moon.
And, a bird of death and sobbing,
the enormous flag of remembrance
is dragged along the mournful border
behind a cypress stern.
4
The sorrowful fan of past years
unfolds with a rustle.
My soul rushes there,
to the cloudy cape of Meganom,
where with dark trembling,
an amulet was buried in the sand,
and from there the black sail will return
after the funeral.
poem by Osip Emilevich Mandelstam
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