Deceased poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best deceased poems ever written. Read all poems about deceased.
Among the market greens,
from the ocean
MOTLEY I count the only wear
That suits, in this mixed world, the truly wise,
Who boldly smile upon despair
And shake their bells in Grandam Grundy's eyes.
When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.
I will sing you a song of Los. the Eternal Prophet:
He sung it to four harps at the tables of Eternity.
At the behest of witchdoctors headhunters are on the prowl.
They're watching, waiting, stalking, and avoiding detection;
in the hope of an ambush with a brutal ferocity.
Their gruesome machetes as sharp as
I guess it was my aunty's fault
That before I was six years old
It were my looks that made me happy
She just never stopped praising me
I ate my fill of a whale that died
And stranded after a month at sea. . . .
The black snow runs down from the rooftops;
A red finger dips into your brow;
Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room,
They are a lovers’ dying mirrors.
The Last Winter Storm
Every year, at the scheduled arrival of March,
Mother Nature became seasonally enraged,
I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end;
Goddess and maiden and queen, be near me now and befriend.
Thou art more than the day or the morrow, the seasons that laugh or that weep;
I lay here on this grassy hill
Looking up at the sky
There's a cloud shaped as a daffodil
And a spotted hound up high.
That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court,
nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables;
When Faith and Love which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body’s fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
There was a certain gentleman, Ben Apfelgarten called,
Who lived way off in Germany a many years ago,
And he was very fortunate in being very bald
And so was very happy he was so.
Plague pits were charnel houses
Cauldrons where hapless citizens
Too quickly dead and in such numbers
Feel so out character from start of my time, Hear my life through voices bout my choices embarrassing times, Try to get better guess I'm lesser than what was implied, I'm not as good as they thought I would've turned out too stressful my time, It's like they saw my future such a loser seemed better at times, Became the too damn strange version of me, 'Why'd i get with the times? ' Still wish I could go back and just rewind, And make the best of choices but I carry all of my time, Feeling till I am deceased I'll steady decline, Just wishing that I was better than what I've been every time
when we use life as the measure for grace don't we think there's a fault to that reasoning? I mean some of us have deceased loved ones; would that imply that they were deficient in that? need I remind us that we are "human beings"? it's clear that there's a process to becoming a "being", how is that for "work in progress"? LOL. grace is what patterns the human existence. this is deep! this is my artistry! this is my thought! this is my poem about grace! (MPAG) .
All souls day
is not only an
I see a person whose eyes are flooded with tears,
And those tears are shed for the deceased of his beloved,
The years they lived together still ring in the memory of the living,
Yet those memories can't bring back the deceased to life.
Loving family not deserving of their grieve
Pain apparent on teary faces the mourner's gallery weep
Standing room only each one of us connected by the touch of the love of the one that's passed
On the roadway by where many of the deceased of Warrnambool lay
The cars, buses and trucks pass to and fro every day
And though the noisy traffic to them is quite near
In the quietness of the dark earth the dead does not hear
When the last breath of life from the body has gone
Does the soul of the mind in some form live on
Time does not wait on the young or the old
It ticks on and on as we are often told
Each day we do live one nearer to our last
On looking back the Seasons time does go so fast
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