impregnated with dye…

open graves
on the hillside
no trace
of bodies
within
what
happened
to the bodies
did they
arise
or
were they
just stolen
hallowed ground
or not
or
set upon
a pedestal
enshrined
in clear acrylic
museum masterpieces
evidence of the divine
museums
perhaps
found in
london
or
rome
but
maybe
the bones were
just ground
into medicine
for the common cold
by those
seeking gold
now here’s
a thought
perhaps
all
involved are
seeking gold
their
for-sale-amulets
filled
with crushed bones
or
just
plain sawdust
the profit yield
seems
the same
whatever
the game

mementos…

cities
built
with the blood-soaked mortar
of its youth
high-rise tombstones
mark society’s grave
while
the graves
of the war dead
are placed
beyond
the city walls
marginalized in death
as in life
their
sacrifice
symbolically recalled
once a year
when
the chaos of death
is replaced with
designed tranquillity
a park-like environment
to ease the guilt
of the living
for what they’ve
permitted
their leaders
to steal
from the face
of the earth
life

value added…

war’s futility
or man’s trivial pursues
which opens more graves

holy ground…

digital decoupage cwmartin 2011

will they bury
their corporate lies
next to the dreams
of peace
long rotted
in the ground
of hope
will they place
copper coins
of despair
atop
sky blue eyes
of naiveté
tossing
the white sands
of belief
into open graves
sands
collected
from the arena
of life
where holy words
mold chains
of obedience
to a caesar
long dead
murdered
by a friend
for reasons
clear
to those
in-the-know
unlike those
waiting
under
godless
steeples
while
their god
waits
outside

transient death…

i lie here
in an empty grave
wondering
when
will this
be my home
when
will you come
to visit
bringing tokens
of love
not offered
before
I bore
this mantle
of earth
watching
your tears
flow
more freely
than the love
you offered
when i
reached out
to touch you
these
cold walls
feel so much
warmer
than your
last
caress

the watchmen waketh…

 

beneath the earth
the army of the dead
move in unison
to the rolling pitch
of the underground train
marching to the surface
passing the roach infested
dark alleys of shadow people
the ones who beg for alms
as the hollow souls scurry past
the army must stay its course
headed for their burial abodes
crypts of glass and polished steel
for they have bartered their souls
for transient wealth and fame
a bloodless coup of a nation
where only pleasures of the flesh
are considered worthy
but at night
curtains drawn
flickering news stories
of the anger
of those who sought alms
makes every shadow
move independently
on the walls
a creeping fear
that makes even
the dead
turn
in their
graves 

 

This poem represents my final response to  the third challenge series between Jade and I.  This challenge is somewhat different in that the prompt is now an audio prompt.  Each poet provides the other with five instrumental songs (so that the song’s words do not interefere with the poet’s) from which the poet is to write a poem.  Jade has written her first response which can be found here.