BY: SARAH GAMUTAN

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

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.

“I love you DJ, and I am sorry that it took you no longer being here for me to value that love. If you could only be here now to hold my hand one last time, I know that in that very moment of solitude and stillness, that we would not be afraid of what people have to say to us, and our love. I know you’re looking down on me, with your beautiful sapphire-blue eyes, from somewhere up above. Smile for me, okay? Smile that beaming smile and light everyone’s day. Light every corner that I am backed into, and every turn that is shadowed. I miss you, but I know that you will always be in my heart when I need you. You will never be forgotten, never fade with time. You are my happiness, my hope, my inspiration and most importantly that only man I will ever love…ever. So here’s to you babe, Forever my Bousa. I love you Baby-babe, You live on in my heart.”

Everything written within this Post is copyright of Jon Rodger Weston Dinnebeil. This may be used for presentation only and not for submission to publishers or other websites and Not to be altered in anyway. If used for reading, Must credit original author,  (Jon Rodger Weston Dinnebeil).

09/29/09

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Our Love Still Burns.

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).

To my love while where’re apart
I wake up nightly in the dark
I reach to find you… but you’re not there
Your beautiful smell has left the air

Now my room is dark and lonely
I start to cry for my one and only
I close my eyes to see your face
Then back to sleep with no embrace

My dreams are vivid and colorful too
The things they lack are me with you
And In the morning when I wake
That’s when my heart… begins to ache

An empty bed is where I am
Then the tears they fall again
I look at your pillow… without a wrinkle
No lovely face with eyes that twinkle

To see your face…and then embrace
Is something that will never be replaced
And now that our love has truely ended
I pray my heart…will soon be mended

Ken Coleman ©

http://kencolemanpoems.blogspot.com/

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Empty Room.

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.

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.

You showed me life
Revealing the secrets

You read my soul
Unwarranted love

*******

You took a path
I could not follow

A right reclaimed
and granted
a thousandfold

*******

Time, re-created,
Is now a gate onto the future

And beyond that gate
Your future has now begun

by Els van den Eynde

This post was originally published on In Loving Memory Poems at Daring Time.