Write a funeral poem

Write a funeral poem

This was the instruction ringing in my ears as I watched the sea take on shades of subtle green. A sea seen against an overgrown thistle with purple-spiked heads. I turned to see who had triggered the initial instruction, but in the dying light, all I could make out was a dark shape that slouched off in the direction of my own home. And this fact seemed to liberate me to walk further, even during approaching night, down to the sea where the sounds of breeze were part of the changing shades of colour working their own language for me in the direction of the poem that had been required. Not so much seeing readable words but more seeing the aforementioned shades moving across a blank page — or were they moving across a translucent layer of attenuating skin?

I spoke to myself as if I were a different person, and that person spoke back to me who thought me equally different from him. Or should it have been equally different TO him? I never knew what the rule was. Being a poem, it did not seem to matter. Poetry was created so as to break rules of expressing thoughts and make them as if they had never been expressed before. The sea seemed to agree as it lost its latest colour to the darkness. I was now much nearer the sea, so it was hard to see it as a sea at all, having become a strange fluid slushing at my feet. Its shingly undertow articulating…

He was born to write this,
He was born to write that.
Each word to hit or miss,
Dots making commas flat.

You know I know you know
The moments getting slow
Punctuation flown
Rhyme and reason blown

Into the shades of tide
Into a night so wide
A slow swish of time
A misrule of rhyme

You did not hear it
You did not fear it
As you at least reached home
With his fine final poem

 

[Nemonymous]

Write a funeral poem…

I could not remember what a poem was
Let alone a funeral
Even though a funeral was the last thing
I should have remembered
Being on the other side as I am
Immediately after the funeral
As I write this
In broken lines
To mimic a poem
And so the poem as concept re-lives
As does the funeral itself
About which it’s written
Burnt to a cinder
Like this poem!

 

[Zaharoff]

An Ingrate

An Ingrate

Dead and gone, like I care.
Yours was a life half lived, never risking a dare.
Worse than that, one which irks me still,
You forgot all about me - I'm not in your will.

 

[Mortarion]

I know this reply comes a bit late, but for others seeking inspiration for funeral poems, sometimes the most heartfelt words come from within. It's also a reminder that considering funeral arrangements in advance, like opting for low-cost options such as cremation, can ease the burden on loved ones later. Planning ahead allows for thoughtful reflection and personalization of the final farewell.If you're still searching for information or exploring funeral options, I've found some useful insights at https://newrestfunerals.co.uk/. They offer a range of services and resources to guide you through the process with compassion and understanding.

 

[Nemonymous]

FINAL VERSION

Write a funeral poem

This was the instruction ringing in my ears as I watched the sea take on shades of subtle green. A sea seen against an overgrown thistle with purple-spiked heads. I turned to see who had triggered the initial instruction, but in the dying light, all I could make out was a dark shape that slouched off in the direction of my own home. And this fact seemed to liberate me to walk further, even during approaching night, down to the sea where the sounds of breeze were part of the changing shades of colour working their own language for me in the direction of the poem that had been required. Not so much seeing readable words but more seeing the aforementioned shades moving across a blank page — or were they moving across a translucent layer of attenuating skin?

I spoke to myself as if I were a different person, and that person spoke back to me who thought me equally different from him. Or should it have been equally different TO him? I never knew what the rule was. Being a poem, it did not seem to matter. Poetry was created so as to break rules of expressing thoughts and make them as if they had never been expressed before. The sea seemed to agree as it lost its latest colour to the darkness. I was now much nearer the sea, so it was hard to see it as a sea at all, having become a strange fluid slushing at my feet. Its shingly undertow articulating…

He was born to write this,
He was born to write that.
Each word to hit or miss,
Dots making commas flat.

You know I know you know
The moments getting slow
Punctuation flown
Rhyme and reason blown
Into the shades of tide

Into a night so wide
A slow swish of time
A misrule of rhyme

***

I could not remember what a poem was
Let alone a funeral
Even though a funeral was the last thing
I should have remembered
Being on the other side as I am
Immediately after the funeral
As I write this
In broken lines
To mimic a poem
And so the poem as concept re-lives