Embalming
your memory
the funeral
dragged on
Returning
the remnants
that pain
had prolonged
The pallbearers
stationed
each side
of the grave
A grieving
reminder
that time
— had enslaved
(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)
(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)
*Image of Ghana's Dancing Pallbearers by CGTN.
Dance of Deliverance
Portend looms gravediggers ere dusk
Orange descend skies slipping purple
Their courage ascend embolden husk
Almost finished all extend into a circle
Heart mind soul a godsend arabesque
2021 October 27
*2nd Place*
Something Beautiful 5 line rhyme
~~charles messina: Judged 2021 November 11
*In some cultures worldwide, including parts of the USA, there's a festive theme for burials of the recently departed. A celebration of their lives reverberates ceremoniously in a joyous send-off, giving their loved ones a beautiful transition into the afterlife.
Does anyone see the people, perhaps its just a crowd
Does anyone hear thunder, from inside a popcorn cloud
Does anyone smell the fire, after lighting up a smoke
Does anyone taste hunger, before the gluttony chokes
Does anyone feel the pressure, building inside my head
Does anyone sense imbalance, pallbearers of our dead
Does anyone know for certain, oh my she looks so pure
Does anyone rarely mistake, the stale breath of a whore
Does anyone get a laugh, just as we're spilling our guts
Does anyone state the obvious, mankind's going nuts
Does anyone hate another, and feel love for themselves
Does anyone fall over the edge, when left on the shelf
Does anyone recall moments, wishing they'd never end
Does anyone wake up hopeless, a dream's only pretend
Pallbearers filled the bus
Off to funerals in an angry rush
It’s the wicked; they say who have no peace
That’s why the Pallbearers get their release
They chose to capture all these kind
Stifling fear often & following blind
Praising their maker for the coffee they get
For it keeps them alive and physically fit
Gravestones etched and set aside
For those of them who fought and died
I suggest we find away
To corral the ones who have been led astray
Our focal point has been defaced
By all the ones who claimed disgrace
Let’s satisfy their wants and greed
By doling out just what they need
When tyrannical freedom tries earning its place
It’s the Pallbearers who will be leading the chase
So, lock them again in their pristine sleeping cells
Then pray they don’t remember their path out of hell
A masterful dilemma;
Did I mention;
The contention;
Dead overdressed pallbearers;
6 figures;
Un moving vigour;
Did I mention;
Unloved catfished;
Make a wish;
Counterfit;
The dead bury the dead;
Harness harvesting bread;
Only six guest witness;
Last super calls;
Dinner is now served;
Where is the host;
Conducting a roast?
This contention a...
Masterful dilemma;
6/20/20
written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020
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 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.
His funeral
unattended
His pallbearers
—the written word
His gravesite
an ashen memory
His legacy
—in futures heard
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
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
Joe Licon
1904-1920
Who was that coughing at my side?
Which of my manly pallbearers
Leaned upon my casket
On that distant funeral day?
Who was it that yawned,
Loudly, sleepily, lazily,
On the day they covered my bones with dry dirt,
Here in the comfortable darkness,
Of shadowy Mt. Olive Cemetery?
Who was it that said: “I will miss him,”
Even when he began tapping his restless fingers,
One after the other,
Upon the wonderful mohogany finish,
Of my well-made polished coffin?
To whom do I credit for
The distilled drops of sated tears,
Which fell noisily upon the buttercups,
Dotting my newly-made grave?
My friends, don’t ever imagine that we,
the dead are dead,
When you, the living, bury us.
For we can hear your plaintive cries of “O,” moaning;
We can feel your grieving hearts, breaking;
We can taste your “tempest-tossed” tears, slaking.
So, my friends,
Who was that coughing at my side?
Kindly lend him a handkerchief, if you please.
There's not a whole lotta nothing
That can be dug out of the grave
Of this life's buried problems
Of all our past mistakes
You can chisel out the tombstone
Making room for all the dates
Of the didn't go the way we planed
That in the dirt now lay to waste
Call in the Pallbearers
To shoulder it all
To help carry the burden
Of where you left off
Hire professional wailers and mourners
To cry for the loss
But can you really afford
Such an extravagant cost
When all is said and done
The last word the preacher will say
Is there's not a whole lotta nothing
That can be dug out of the grave
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.
Stop the myth that I do live
- send the mourners by
- set them down in rows of ten
with pallbearers on every side
But tell them that though I'm still
and betterI than they
endure the motion in the ground
or gossip in the air
Arrest the myth that I am dead
The Trojan at the door!
The charger - full of headlines knock
Humanity - how deceitful you are.
Nothing lasts forever,
not even November rain.
Not even the tired old bodies
we are given to hold.
I remember how we spoke
to one another,
way back, a long time ago.
Pontificating like priests
delivering our sermons.
We were boys, though
we thought ourselves men.
Ready to challenge and embrace
everything we had been taught.
How could we ever imagine
that real would be so difficult?
Aging. Living. Dying.
Sometimes,
when it is very dark outside,
I am with you again.
Innocent in our importance.
Immortal without a thought.
It is different now.
Understandable.
We have aged.
This is as it must be.
You'll be one of my pallbearers.
Isn't that a boggling thought?
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