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Dead Things

Rating: 5.0
Stored bodies crumpled
in haphazard piles
Exhibiting
varying levels
of decay
Rotting and putrefying
Baking a feast for the
larva hatched from eggs
Developing the wing spawned pupa,
ready to flutter away…
...to a new space

A graven stench
permeates the atmosphere
imprisoning the living
behind its foul bars

Providing perverse
comfort and peace
Home Sweet Home
to the wretched and
the unreleased

Furnished from
vast catalogues of issues
eternally bouncing
on a grief-staged
parade
Mail-order
Store bought
Hand-me-downs
and even some pieces
Custom-made

Denying the forgotten
ironic connections
While still craving the
desire to move
far, far away

An identity
hope
happiness manufactured
a catalyst for memorable moments
nurturing life and living
controlled by an
uneducated
unspiritual
desperate
yearning for
a better day

Tagged for ownership
But bankrupt and
unable to afford
the price to pay

Dysfunctional
exhibitions of
responsibility

Stunting
well-meaning
gestures
of care

Empty boxes
Strewn without compassion
Symbols of overwhelm

Stress personified: felt, tasted, and worn

Ignoring the
salvific beckoning
to walk away
and nix the mourning
so to
Let the dead
bury the dead



~ D²,4.21.14,7: 17 PM
Deborah Dalton
Friday, June 27, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: christian
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
This is a part of a collection of poems and prose chronicling the poets response to messages shared from Palm Sunday 2014 to Palm Sunday 2015, 'Life After the Resurrection'.

'So what do we do? Keep on sinning so God can keep on forgiving? I should hope not! If we've left the country where sin is sovereign, how can we still live in our old house there? Or didn't you realize we packed up and left there for good? That's what baptism into the life of Jesus Christ means.' ~ Romans 6: 1-4

On this bright and cheery Easter Monday, I am sitting here reflecting on the transformative beauty of The Resurrection and,18 years ago, DJ Kool recorded a song at the Bahama Bay Club in Philadelphia that is jubilantly ringing in my head 'Let me Clear My Throat'.

It is a party-starter rap over the instrumental mix 'The 900 Number' (from the album Master of the Game, produced by The 45 King,1988-Tuff City Records) which in turned sampled a horn riff after the first 10 seconds of Marva Whitney's 'Unwind Yourself' (from the album It's Your Thing, produced by James Brown-King Records) .

Why?

Because I now feel like I am standing at the divine genesis of the formation of my voice. I believe that everything that I have been doing (or endured) up to this point has been a deliberate method of clearing out debris and warming up my ‘cords' so I can now publically and authentically express.

Anybody who uses their voice as a tool knows the importance of throat clearing in order to project a strong, in-tune voice. And mine was being hindered by the mucus like impaction of dead things that I refused to bury. Things that I refused to reach a peaceful acceptance of their demise.

There is no Resurrection without a death. Death must be recognized and properly dealt with for new things to appear.
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