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Every Day Poems

A Poem A Day

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Death Poems

In the name of the father

January 15, 2023 by Every Writer

In the name of the father

by David L Painter

I stood leaning against the aged grey wall
arms folded tightly against my chest
as if to hold in my breath lest it become still.
Yellow streams of sickly light filtered
through the drawn window shades like a
candle’s glow before the edge of day
small darts of dust float in the air all suspended in time
like forgotten memories.

So this is what death smells of.
of decay, of cracked odors that invade the nostrils and leave
their pungent sting before fading off into flaked paint
and hanging wallpaper.
Of a dark chest of drawers holding a treasured
lock of his first- bourn’s hair, a gold watch a token of a
lifetime of service.
All like the fruit of persimmons,
pretty but bitter to the mouth.

A round mirror hangs from a veined wall
reflecting Jesus hanging from a wire
under which the hopefully has come to rest.
The ragged gasps of life blend into the metered rhythm
of a desired rest.

A bedside table piled high with white -caped amber containers
all meant to keep the decay at bay
each administered three times a day.
I close my eyes and half -drift away, holding the faded
black and white picture
that held a man full of life and wishing
that it were still so.

David L Painter is a International published poet. He is a member of Inner circle writers’ group and Penned in the city. His works have been published in Sweetycat press. Piker press, Rye Whiskey Review, Clarendon House. Spillwords Press, The Writer’s Club, and Dyst Literary Journal.

Filed Under: Death Poems

Afternoon in February by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

February 21, 2014 by Every Writer

longfellow1

Afternoon in February

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o’er the plain;
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.
###
Note: It is rare for us to publish a classic poem these days. We would like to more often. Being the end of February and just coming out of a very cold spell, we are happy to see the sun. Longfellow was born in February, so it just seemed like a good idea.

Filed Under: Death Poems, Nature Poems

Why Don’t You Wish Alice a Happy Birthday? by KellyCreighton

October 7, 2013 by Every Writer

kcreighton

Why Don’t You Wish Alice a Happy Birthday?

by KellyCreighton

 

You didn’t have a Facebook page until you died:
your timeline says you were born after your death –
like some superhuman-saviour-reincarnation.
Facebook ask people to get in touch with you;
Write on her wall. Recommend a friend for Alice,
it says. But people pause; they don’t know whether
you get broadband in heaven or not. It would have
to be broadband or better…right? They post the
odd message anyhow, about a really bright star on the
drive to a concert – you would’ve danced like a maniac,
Alice. Do you remember the time we couldn’t stop
giggling in class? Only the good die young. Like you;
who only made teensy mistakes: you were human.
Facebook send your administrators requests to play
Candy Rush: your admins get pissed off ‘cos you died
before Candy Rush became a thing. You probably would’ve
liked it. A lot. Alice, you wouldn’t like half of the people
who write on your wall now. They’re all on your friends list.
Now. You would block them if you knew the password.

###

Kelly’s work is currently and forthcoming in literary journals The Stinging Fly, Long Story Short, Wordlegs and Ink Sweat & Tears.
She is writing her second novel; was awarded second place in the Abroad Writers’ Conference Competition judged by Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Olen Butler, and long listed for The RTE Guide/Penguin Ireland short story contest.
http://kellycreighton.webs.com

Filed Under: Death Poems

Depth Of Perception by A.R. Rodriguez

August 26, 2013 by Every Writer

ar1

Depth Of Perception

by A.R. Rodriguez

You built a coffin of my thoughts
To preserve their depth
The delicacy of your glass hands
Crafts the order of which they are stacked, carefully collecting each letter
As you realize the beauty of my words
Tears of definitions begin to run down your cheeks
Spelling out the mistakes of my life
But as each word overlaps they slowly come undone
And so starts the unraveling of my mind

###
A.R. Rodriguez is a small business owner in Cleveland, Ohio. She has four volumes of poetry and two memoirs. Her material ,in it’s entirety comes from her life’s experience as an orphan who is self educated. In addition to her business she also hosts a monthly literature night at different local venues in Cleveland with an original casts of poets and musicians.

Filed Under: Death Poems

The Epitome of Cool by Art Heifetz

January 28, 2013 by Every Writer

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The Epitome of Cool

by Art Heifetz

I peered through granny glasses
at the standard issue
crew cut frat boys
strolling through the commons
with one bottle blonde
appended to each arm.

I was Sargent Pepper in my
Russian army greatcoat
which nearly swept the ground.
I was Dylan in a long red scarf,
singing in a voice laced with gravel
on MacDougal Street.

I was the epitome of cool.

Go ahead and accuse us
of stealing the last good causes,
of having the lines of battle
so clearly defined
you knew where someone stood
by the length of his hair.

Stoned out of our minds
or recently returned
from bad acid trips,
we laughed hysterically
at jokes we couldn’t explain,
feasting on frozen pies
and dinners of blue meatballs
and red spaghetti
that Seuss would have loved.

I remember the sad-eyed ladies,
their funky frizzy hair
sprouting in all directions
like exuberant undergrowth,
the dark promise of their nipples
clearly visible through
their sheer, flowered tops.
If only I were poor or black enough
to take them in my arms.

Tell us about the sixties, you ask,
as if we were discussing ancient Rome.
I answer with an aging hipster’s sigh,
to truly understand
you’d have to be
at least as cool as me.

###
Art Heifetz teaches ESL to refugees in Richmond, Va. He has had 60 poems published in six countries. You can see his work and leave comments at Polishedbrasspoems.com.

Filed Under: Death Poems

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