Best Pallbearers Poems
Summer’s Fall
Slow bleeding trees stand,
pallbearers to a failing Summer’s
last warm, moist breath.
Cold moon casts shadows into
early darkness, on flowers shivering
in chilling soil. Thus does Autumn’s
beauty shield us from our pain.
John G. Lawless
9/6/2014
for PD’s One Autumn Night(in just 7 lines) – Poetry Contest
Off to Nain, Jesus, his disciples and the crowd.
See the gate! Approach the fate of Nain.
Coming out of the gate, a widow, and a crowd.
Her only son was being carried out of Nain.
This son of Nain, was in a wooden box.
The widow’s only son carried through the gate.
Tears of the earth touched the heart of heaven.
Jesus stands before the gate, “Don’t cry.”
Moving amidst two crowds, Jesus touches.
He pierces eyes & ears. The crowd is silenced.
Jesus touches the coffin of the widow’s son.
The pallbearers stand still as sentry guards.
Later penned, “Jesus wept,” when Lazarus died.
Just for now, his heart goes out, “Don’t cry.”
“Young man, I say to you, get up!”
The dead man sat up and began to talk.
The son of Nain, the widow’s son, began to talk,
and God’s only son gave him back to his mother.
The disciples and two crowds, filled with awe,
“Praise God! Praise God! Hallelujah! Praise God!”
The news spread. “God has come to help his people.”
The good news spread throughout Judea and vicinity.
One crowd going in. One crowd going out.
Both stopped in their tracks as a miracle occurred.
The fate of Nain was in the hands of God. He said,
“Don’t cry.” This Christ will wipe tears from our eyes.
Later crowds would dissipate. They would abandon
a broken body upon a wooden cross, that of Christ.
The crowd would mock, “He saved others. Why
did he not save himself.” He was our salvation.
The crowd didn’t believe it. The crowd couldn’t see it.
Saving, you better believe it. Christ is the sacrificial lamb.
The lamb resurrected. The news spread.
The good news spread. Hallelujah! Praise God!
Luke 7:11-17 inspiration
'Round about eight o'clock each evening the massive iron gates are closed.
The moon's mellow glow shines upon spectral scenes that are now exposed!
Phantoms that by day lie peacefully in their graves now freely roam,
Reliving mortal dramas when the earthly stage was their home!
I've never witnessed such things but I've heard from reliable sources,
That nigh midnight a spectral hearse travels about drawn by ebon horses!
Six ghostly pallbearers march behind the hearse chanting a mournful dirge,
As they escort the macabre procession and at a gloomy crpyt converge!
A specter desperado is seen dodging 'mongst the moss-covered stones,
Chased by a sheriff, his moldy funereal shroud flapping about his bones!
"Crazy Bob" Womack who discovered gold up around Cripple Creek,
Sits on his stone guzzling booze and gazing wistfully t'ward Pikes Peak!
Pat Brady, Roy Rogers' old sidekick, races about in his jeep, "Nellybelle!"
Rebel soldiers scramble from their graves and loose a fearsome Rebel Yell!
A gorgeous young wraith clad in white wafts to and fro seeking her lover,
Adding to this eerie scene, perched in ancient oaks, owls hoot and hover!
Ghostly apparitions peer from windows of the haunted chapel on the grounds.
Grinning skeletons rise from musty tombs rattling about making their rounds!
Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Romana" resides here in her special nook.
She leans against her stone observing all, perhaps researching another book!
9/22/1983
I drove your shining,Cadillac, Daddy!
The lead car to the cemetery.
A stuffed bear, your Borsalino,
In the August, back window,fino!
You, in the hearse, a few feet behind..
Tears on the, wheel, almost went blind.
Silent pallbearers, waited, white gloved.
Upset was I,.into earth, you'd be shoved.
Priest stands in prayerful solemnity,
Oh,God, take not my Father from me!
Family, friends around the grave stood,
Then, gone, into the silent, earth's hood.
You, who presented me as a debutante.
Beside myself, now, not nonchalant.
You left me to a world,full of want.
For your lost love, I always have sought.
A few days later, I came to sing you, your song.
The one you sang, though many years long!
"Daddy's Little Girl", you sang to me,
When I, was still the star in your tree!
Lyrics
Bobby Burke and Horace Gerlach
1949
" You'e the end of a rainbow, my pot of gold.
You're Daddy's little girl, to have and hold.
A precious gem, is what you are!
You're Mommy's bright and shining star.
You're the Spirit of Christmas, our Star on
the tree.
You're the Easter Bunny to Mommy and me!
You're sugar, you're spice, you are everything nice...
And you're Daddy's little girl!"
"""""""""""""
Song is also on. You Tube
Still love you, Daddy!
Panagiota's First Elegy
Dedicated to you, Dad!
(Elizabeth II 1926-2022)
Are we - crow, blackbird, sparrow -
aware of what's occurring?
We cannot tell, they assume,
but gape and gaze from up here.
This is a land with a departed monarch.
We - sparrow, blackbird, crow -
flit or sit above the richness
of that marching red regalia.
Thousands of arms stretch, sinews strain,
cameras are held aloft
to catch the start of this queen's obsequies,
such elegance, such grace.
We - blackbird, crow, sparrow -
observe orb and sceptre on the magnificent pall,
witness the splendour, the spectacle,
delight in the sound of vocal souls.
Millions have viewed that coffin.
We - crow, blackbird, sparrow - see them gaping, gazing,
with its eight pallbearers, in their blood-red flame,
as this Abbey welcomes what they carry.
(Sep 2022)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Coronation for a King" of May 2023)
The church of Saint Ann is by the river
Fifty sad mourners standing at its gate
A cold December chill made them shiver
Ice on the roads caused the hearse to be late.
Twenty minutes late, then it did arrive
Six pallbearers shouldered the coffin in
The mourners couldn’t wait to get inside
Leading the mourners were the next of kin.
A lovely service and the choir sang
Readings were read by friends and family
The service now over the church bell rang
All made their way to the cemetery.
The coffin was lowered, more prayers were said
Then on to the wake for hot soup and bread.
Written on 13th July 2018
I would like my funeral now, before I die.
Pallbearers unnecessary, but I would like a blue sky.
I will bring the food, the people, and I will rent the hall.
Grave service unnecessary, too bleak and all.
I would like my funeral now if you please.
It is a gorgeous day, and there is a beautiful breeze.
Family unnecessary, I will bring my own kinds of friends.
Only positive speeches, approved by my bestie, Dog Mends.
Do not try to put anything past that fat cat.
She will not be bothered, or care where I am at.
I would like my funeral now, this very sweet day.
I want to listen and approve what you say.
“I feel my life so empty. It is preferable to fill a tomb to being doomed to live out a life that is empty” ~ By Poet.
Darkness encompasses my space.
My future is seen so bleak where feral beasts hide.
Not even a glow worm to throw light.
I see no chance of deliverance.
Through the mazy depths of gloom, I wade,
Struck with the pestilence of rejection and hate.
Hopes are now like shredded threads,
Frayed away from a rope.
I seek shade under a leafless tree.
I hold on to a crutch as a prop.
I curl up like a helpless embryo,
Floating and whirling in lucid agony.
Shutters of Distress is about to close in
Before that, I should invite death.
Lying in death is preferable to living with death.
I must cross this cursed field.
My tomb I see under a humble stone.
I shall rest there, no more haunted by the fret of life.
It could be just a mound of earth,
My lone resting place in a deserted corner
Where no one will ever visit this nondescript.
Where no one comes with a bouquet of blooms,
Where dandelions may sprout from cracks,
To honor this mongrel of a man.
* * * * * *
In the absence of pallbearers and a hearse
I totter carrying my orphaned corpse,
And walk the deserted road,
Inching my way to my grave.
The end of a life
And the last of a line
None there to mourn her
But the priest and the pallbearers
(and the crows in the trees)
No tears for her passing
Only rain and howling wind
Cineres cineribus, pulverem pulveri
For Deb’s Bilingual contest
*Ashes to ashes, dust to dust/Cineres cineribus, pulverem pulveri
First person shooter,
on a hate tour of duty,
swinging a bullet sling blade
Buying a death row ticket,
worth fifteen minutes of fame
First person murder shooter;
womb-to-the-cradle-to-the-grave robber,
using your Automatic Revolver
to solve your anti-social mental problems
Sharpen that sling blade
on a coroner grindstone wheel
Gather the scythe-shredded corpses
from the harvest killing field
Take the bullet-riddled body bags,
with warm blood dripping still ...
and kevlar
coffin
bury them on Tommy Gun hill
Guns and Roses —
Automatic Revolver 15 bullet salute
Let the gun pallbearers put ‘em in the ground,
and the saltpeter pew mourners
put the rose flowers on the graves
AR-15 bullet salute ...
Guns and Roses —
giving society another senseless violence eulogy
Guns and Roses —
weapons of war killing innocent children of peace
Guns and Roses —
ricochet death purchased with capitalist ease
No background check to vet tranquilize
the uncaged rage,
wearing a Second Amendment disguise
Empty thoughts and prayers,
full of politician hypocrisy
Thirty pieces of silver tongue lip-cluckers
offering a gun lobby: no gun control policy
A paid, no-money-back Judas apology
Snake oil teary talk rubbed on dry soul skin,
allergen empathy-free
Guns and Roses —
sacred shell religious philosophy
Guns and roses —
kinetic death violence theology
Gun manufacture worshipers
love deifying the work of their hands
They love to praise their golden trigger head
silver handle arms
brass chamber belly
lead barrel legs
paper green toes idol
Saying: Let your scimitar banana-shaped heart
always remain sharp
And may your lead scythe sling blade soul
never be dulled
Guns and roses —
waxy ears don’t hearst hear it ...
bulletproof hearts so iceberg smoking cold
Guns and roses —
plastic carnation petal spirits ...
metal detector salvation black market sold
The old kings are about to lose their crown,
young upstarts are about to swat them out of the way
Father time has knocked another aging champ down,
it's really sad to see greatness turn into mediocre play
Start making the funeral arrangements,
and don't forget to publish a fond obituary
Bring a shovel to the postgame press conference,
there's gonna be a lot of bodies to bury
On this cold, early October night,
when this last game end,
the mourning will surely begin
The eulogy is set ... check
Pallbearers in place ... check
Open the doors, and bring around the black hearst
The champs are toast,
they just went from first to worst
They went from the top to the bottom,
and it happened real fast
They went from the front to the back,
from number uno to dead last
Ah, well ...
Nothing last forever,
greatness always gets over-the-hill
When you still compete past your prime,
there comes a time, you're gonna have to pay the bill
So tip your cap to the old boys;
remember all the exploits they did,
how they once made a lot of noise
As the last man on deck steps up to the plate,
give a standing o to this team of former greats ---
Ex-champions who stayed in the game too late
Just the vicar
four pallbearers
and nine mourners
gathered at the graveyard
for the funeral of my husband’s best friend
In line with strict regulations
we stood apart wearing masks
whilst the camera rolled recording the service
for those who were unable to attend
I had to fight the urge to go over
to give his distraught wife a hug
as she bent down to kiss the coffin
before saying her final farewell
Then ... I couldn’t stop the flood of tears
at not being able to comfort her
My heart aches
that we couldn’t console his wife at her time of great need
that his son and daughter had to watch via zoom
that his many friends couldn’t gather to say goodbye
and we couldn’t give him the send off he truly deserved
Just nine mourners allowed to attend ...
my heavy heart still aches
Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
04/25/21
The heavy rain was unforgiving with an air of forboding on this grey and miserable November day.
At the cemetery entrance the chapel bell tolled ten times to herald the arrival of the hearse.
On the bare trees and perched on their skeletal branches were three black ravens watching.
The black clad mourners and the six pallbearers carrying the ornate casket now made their way to the freshly dug open grave.
Written on 18th February 2020
After googling poe realised the lines were too long
so not for contest.
I’m famous but they’ll never know me
I will never publish my poetry
and risk public violence against my honesty
Though fame was always my destiny
Freedom fighters died so my voice could be as loud as the colour of my oppressor’s skin
Yet still my sound cannot be heard over the valleys and mountains that still separate us
From our orthopaedic mattress to their plastic covered sponges
that prevents their tears from seeping in as they cry each night for emancipation.
Mothers of children who walk distances we drive
for an education that is a right to each
Yet they still have to struggle for.
Suffer for.
Barefoot on dry soil with cracks wide open yet still expected to feed the same stomachs that fail it.
Scorching heat on their back as we rub sun screen and block the burning fires of truth that we are no better,
Bank accounts that make us smile during the day and at night we toss and turn and never find sleep troubled souls of imprisonment.
Peace be upon your heart dear brother detached from the same cord of the same brother today is your enemy
The cord of creation from Adam and Eve until Madam met Steve
No, that wasn't just to rhyme Steve was the garden boy
that’s when skin colour mattered.
What religion speaks of wealth and colour?
and hails it more precious than the poverty they suffer.
When the pallbearers whisk you around like a light feather carrying you back to where it all began,
nothing but dust and ashes
no lights or camera flashes
Or your pompous tongue lashes
did I mention the fake eyelashes.
When we race for the finish line what awaits us in the end?
Education is freedom
Ignorance is illiterate
but who weighs our intelligence?
Against who or what?
The rich versus the poor
How did you get rich?
The rich versus the poor
How did you stay poor?
The rich versus the poor
What defines such?
Form:
There goes a lonely soul in a coffin
carried by pallbearers which step forward with slow-pace
a funeral leader goes with black umbrella up
the brass band follows:
the trumpet vomits blood from its shredded heart,
one step forwards leaning to left
the trombone steps backward heaving a heavy sigh,
two steps leaning to right;
when the saxophone scatters wandering spirits in the air
the spirits twist their bodies with the sax yearning for lost paradise;
the tuba, on the verge of tears, struggles to advance out of breath,
keeps swaying its bulky body trying not to fallout from the line.
The enchanting melodies of Dixieland,
appeal not only to the mourners but
curious bystanders ears as well.