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Posts Tagged ‘funeral’

george h w bush

No matter if one’s good or bad,
Or simply incompetent,
It takes the same amount of earth
To bury a president. 

But when one’s loved for who he was
E’en more than what he did,
It takes a flood of heart-felt words
Before the body’s hid. 

And so for him whose life is o’er,
They buried him for days –
With earth quick-sprinkled at his grave
But waves of words of praise.

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© Dennis Allen Lange, 2019.

 

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raven

On Friday, cars were parked along the road.
The next day saw their silent numbers swell,
Drawn there as if they’d heard the black bird’d crowed,
Pulled by the pealing of a solemn bell. 

That Sunday was the same, but Monday more.
They filled the drive, parked curb-side by the house.
The street was narrowed by that swelling shore
Which forced a car to creep by like a mouse. 

By then, I knew what I had not been told,
The dreadful news for family and friend –
That Winter’s wind had blown, and growing cold
Was some soul who’d been sick but could not mend. 

Days later, I passed by; the cars were gone.
The mystery was solved for I could see
The novice widow walking on her lawn
With only her small dog as company.

He’d built my house and now he is no more.
My house still stands; ‘tis he in disrepair.
We mortals, not the mortar, go before.
We each will leave our all to Earth, our heir.

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photo by Guenter M. Kirchweger at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/omDmxpC/raven

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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My ole Mistiss promise me,
W’en she die, she’d set me free.
She lived so long dat ‘er head got bal’.
An’ she give out’n de notion a dyin’ at all. 

My ole Mistiss say to me:
“Sambo I’se gwine ter set you free.”
But w’en dat head git slick an’ bal’,
De Lawd couldn’ a’ killed ‘er wid a big green maul. 

My ole Mistiss never die,
Wid ‘er nose all hooked an’ skin all dry.
But my ole Miss, she’s somehow gone,
An’ she lef’ “Uncle Sambo” a-hillin’ up co’n. 

Ole Mosser lakwise promise me,
W’en he died, he’d set me free.
But ole Mosser go an’ make his Will
Fer to leave me a-plowin ole Beck still. 

Yes, my ole Mosser promise me;
But “his papers” didn’ leave me free.
A dose of pizen he’ped ‘im along.
May de Devil preach ‘is funer’l song.

 

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