BY: SARAH GAMUTAN

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Miss Pollack’s Lamentation.

embrace our hearts of

men and women, and

evoke their everlasting

memories; their selfless unforgettable

bravery, loyalty,

remarkable heroism,

admirable humanism,

notorious strength,

callous and

eternal love,for

days to come

and always from

your loving soul.

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at A Day to Remember.

Demoniac souls whisper of certain human decline.
They are the haunting calls which lead our minds to madness.
Demons of negative thoughts try to shadow the divine.

Angels sing songs peacefully of our holy design.
Their divine keeping our minds focused on happiness.
Let the power of positivists among angels shine.

Evil a wicked and cunning scheme of tempting sweet wine.
Be careful of how much it contaminates the wholeness.
Demons of negative thoughts try to shadow the divine.

Humankind will always find a way to cut the vile vine.
Mother earth will replace evil with vines of fruitfulness.
Let the power of positivists among angels shine.

Humans by nature are both demons and angels combine.
Hope the demons loses to the angels’ of holiness.
Let the power of positivists among angels shine.
Demons of negative thoughts try to shadow the divine.

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Demons and Angels.

by Robert M. Hensel

http://wheelierecord.tripod.com

Rights:  The author grants visitors to this website the right to use the above poem  for memorial services etc. as long as the author is given full credit for his work.

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Let it Be.

A star has been plucked from the sky.
The sky is now dimmer.
It happened on June 25th.
A day, we will always remember.
Never again to see Michael’s smile light up the skies.
Never again to see him moonwalk across the stage as his fans cries.
Never again to hear him sing Billie Jean.
To the roaring sound of his fans’ screams.
A brother of the sun has been taken away.
But in our hearts his music will always stay.
Michael Jackson will now dance among the clouds.
And in the heavens, you will still hear him singing loud and proud.

- Written by Lamar Cole

This poem was originally posted on Free Poems. If you would like permission to use this poem, please see this post for the author’s terms and conditions.

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Goodbye Michael.

A great beauty has passed from this life.
Of good times and sometimes toil and strife.
Some will say that she went to a better place.
Look at the blue sky or a white cloud, you will still see her face.

Movements like those of a gazelle in flight.
Hair that shone like gold on a moonlit night.
Eyes that could touch your soul.
And essence like that of a red rose.

Farrah, you fought hard to stay here on earth with us.
But when God calls you, go you must.
Whenever we feel a summer breeze or April rain.
It will seem like you are near.
And in our hearts, your memory will always remain dear.

- Written by Lamar Cole

Originally posted on Free Poems.  If you would like to use this poem, please visit this post for terms and conditions.

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at For Farrah (Fawcett).

Granny chose they dress me up in my favourite suit,
But this time there will be no return journey.
My brothers have put me in a box,
I am on display in the Living Room.
Living Room, what am I doing in the room of the living?
But they cannot hear me,
Because I cannot speak.

I hate this fake smile plastered on my face by the mortician,
It makes my Maggie cry.
Besides, what’s there to smile at?
And what’s Maggie doing calling out my name?
Can’t she see that my ears are blocked with wool?
I cannot hear her.
Look at little Krystal;
Does she even know I will not be opening my door for her?
Not tomorrow. Not ever. Never. No more Deshi!
Even Simon is here and he is crying.
Are those tears for me or for the twenty
Thousand shillings that now I will never be able to pay back?
But at least he comes near me unlike Olive
She has chosen to day to be afraid of me.

I thought I was mush loved at my place of work;
Where is my boss and workmates taking this box that am in?
Oh my! Oh my! Its 4PM!
Time for me to begin that dreadful journey
Jack fruit trees and banana plantations.
I so hate this path,
Mother took it and never came even though it was so close to our house.
You don’t believe me?
Then what of Aunt Harriet, Aunt Eva and Aunt Bernadette?
Little brother Douglas and Maggie’s Henry;
They all never came back!
I hate this path. I hate it! I so hate it!

And this pit they are lowering me into,
I don’t even know these men.
Who are they and why are throwing me in a pit?
Now I know I don’t like this pit and I don’t like these men either.
Hey someone, Maggie, please stop them!
You know how much I fear darkness.
Don’t be fooled by the shallowness of this pit,
Its too dark and very deep.
They should not put me down there,
I will never come out!
I will never come back!

This is very strange,
Everyone is throwing dirt at me.
All because the priest said dust to dust and ashes to ashes.
He lied! I have never been dust or ash!
Everyone is wailing even the more.
Are they a bunch of hypocrites?
No, that’s how they show their love for me.

They all bid me farewell even though they don’t know where I’m going.
But Granny seems to know my destination,
She tells me to convey her regards to her faithful departed.
So I am now also departed!

Dressed in my favourite suit
On such a tearful day
And with my loved ones abandoning me in the lonely wilderness,
This surely is my Saddest Day!

- by Luyimbaazi Dennice Vadim

Mention my name when you recite this poem. Its a dedication to my parents and all my faithful departed., Mother

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at My Saddest Day.

Whence old moon pondered
Burning away her silver light
In days of yore she hath decorated
Perched amongst the wandering craven
Weaved tales of tales begotten

“Look on thy lands so tender
They speaketh unto minds moved
Of streaming springs and bitter kings
That hath paved the path of yore

To man his own vengeance and pride
That bloometh redder still than the white pitcher
And though they fought and bled
Through time’s endless days and dusky nights
They learn not, they rise not to the cry of sullen earth

My worn eyes need not recollect time’s age
For time and again, through ages and years,
Man’s ludicrous tale simpers, fleers and recommences
Prances beloved earth through heaven and hell”

by Kalyani Rajalingham

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Tales from the Crypt.

You said that dad always liked to take you fishing.
You had the patience to sit and wait and watch.
Crowds of words didn’t chatter in your head
and the squawk of crows was enough to settle
your need for language.
Your landscape was rural—as factual
as a barbed hook.
Your talent was observation and from the fishing camp
in upward look you knew every girder and rivet in Bonnie’s Bridge.
The low drone of tires biting into the grate of bridge road plate
were notes in your margins of ring-worn cylinders and asbestos brakes,
raining down fiber and fumes into your lungs.
And the tart purple-black of the elderberry
growing wild in the shrub and brush behind you
set upon your plate the small hard seed of being.

You spit washed the world.
And the lines of slender death
that you and dad cast out held a spell into the river
conjuring the Channel Cat.

I remember you telling me
how you once closed your eyes
and saw a whiskered leviathan coming up
through the mud and silt. And how you leapt up
expecting to hear a reel go screaming
and see a flash of hands grab a pole
to set the hook—but there was only dad,
bottle fallen from his hand
mumbling to himself something about the war;
and you settled back to watch rainbows in thin film of oil
floating by from dump of barge bilge water,
being was enough for you,
you had no apprenticeship in the shop of asking why.
When evening settled out of light
your play was the snapping of the fire
and the certain beauty of the stars;
and without a word you would crawl into the
the bed of the old pickup and sleep and dream
of barges with their deep draft sucking
the river under them, revealing the slope of shore to channel.
And of the long wide throat which swallows everything,
the infinite gullet of the Channel Cat.
And you would headless turn
in the Sleepy Hollow of your hard bed
and see in swirls and eddies of consciousness
the yellowing pages of years drift under the bridge,
and your children born,
and grandpa,
and grandma,
and dad,
and mom,
and your beloved Uncle Carl.
wrapped in the
Channel Cat’s whiskers.
And when dawn broke
you would awaken
one half century later
to the screaming reel of now
feeling the swelling in your neck,
and the Oat Cell Cancer
schooling in your lungs.

Your lesson
to sit and wait and watch
rained upon our cheeks
as tears.

© 2009 Dan Kantak

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at By the River.

It seems fitting
that the men you knew in life
perform this task
These are no strangers
struggling with the rocky earth
no hired men with power tools
It is your sons and grandsons
your daughters’ husbands
who make a place for you
with a shovel
and their hands

originally posted at Black Cat Poems

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at The Burial of Carol Joy Beglau.