Requiem

[Leanne]

On the day of his funeral,
fourteen mourners stood in the sun
and thought it might rain.

"It's such a bloody waste," his brother said.
"Such talent, such potential, and for what?"
"For poetry," their mother sobbed. "He thought
the world would listen. Oh, how wrong he was;
so sad. We tried to tell him." And they had.

Poetry is dead, they said. A poet cannot feed his family.
Being of no further use, he died in the spring and,
left alone with such abundance, the cat ate him.

Fourteen mourners left his bones interred
with his worthless words. By the grave,
each had carefully positioned their Hallmark platitudes,
as floral wreaths wilted in the heat.

[Keith]

Hi Leanne
I like the voice in this, a bystander at the grave side allowing us to listen in on the comment then giving us commentary, the Rhymes are very subtle and I also enjoyed the irony of the platitudes not sure if you meant it but I read the last line as a summation of our poets life. Thanks Keith

[Leanne]

Cheers Keith

[Erthona]

A funny poem LA, gave me a good laugh. I always enjoy a poem about the fruitlessness and stupidity of devoting oneself to such a pathetic endeavor as poetry. Poets are like court jesters, except jesters generally lived longer, were more respected and made a reasonable salary. Instead of the song saying, "What kind of fool am I" it should say "what kind of poet am I". Granted, it is not nearly as poetic

Dale

[Leanne]

Many thanks, Dale -- thanks for being fruitless and stupid like the rest of us poor saps

[rowens]

I don't think I'll even get a burial. Leanne, on the other hand, will probably have streamers and readings, and Beck and The Hanson brothers will probably show up claiming to be related. Though she may outlive all those guys I mention.

[Leanne]

I've seen Beck on Futurama so I'm pretty sure he'll survive the longest

---

And Oscar Wilde never got a proper burial either. Think positive.

[rowens]

As long as someone plays American Pie by Don Mclean at my ceremony, and no one laughs and thinks of those dumb movies and the Madonna cover.

[Leanne]

Fair call, but I would have thought Vincent more fitting.

[rowens]

Well, if you insist. It's a good song. Tupac liked it.

But the part in American Pie about the girl that sings the blues that just smiles and turns away: that gets to me. I like it.

[Leanne]

It was a song that lasted through my final year of high school -- every time we thought the music would stop, there was another verse. It's the only way to make sure that music never dies.

[billy]

On the day of his funeral,
fourteen mourners stood in the sun
and thought it might rain.

"It's such a bloody waste," his brother said.
"Such talent, such potential, and for what?"
"For poetry," their mother sobbed. "He thought
the world would listen. Oh, how wrong he was;
so sad. We tried to tell him." And they had.

Poetry is dead, they said. A poet cannot feed his family.
Being of no further use, he died in the spring and,
left alone with such abundance, the cat ate him.

Fourteen mourners left his bones interred
with his worthless words. By the grave,
each had carefully positioned their Hallmark platitudes,
as floral wreaths wilted in the heat.

the irony of it all
"i am not a poet, i am a free man"

[Leanne]

True story: I was at a party not long ago and met a florist, who actually said to me, "I don't see the point of poems. Some of them sound pretty, but they don't actually do anything."

And then, presumably, she went back to her shop to arrange flowers and sell them, $50 for a few roses.

[milo]

I can only think of 1 significance for the number 14 (other than generations of Jews) so please, tell me already, why 14?

[Leanne]

How many lines in a sonnet?

[milo]

How many lines in a sonnet?

yah, that is the only one I could think of, I guess it seemed too obvious.

[Todd]

I did like this. If 14 is for a Sonnet, did you hide a volta?

---

I appreciated "the cat ate him"

We live in a world that values insurance salesman.

Sad, soulless world.

[Leanne]

No, there are 15 lines here

---

yah, that is the only one I could think of, I guess it seemed too obvious.

I tried subtlety once -- nobody wanted to play with me.

[billy]

i did but you'd have made me write a sonnet about it afterwards

[Snowbells]

Hi, Leanne;
a well constructed poem. I indicated (in red) just one phrase that I can't grasp, but that is, most likely, my own fault. (I'm under the weather, feeling somewhat dense, lol.)

However, it's not that poetry is dead, there's just a shortage of readers. With 2 million writers of poetry in the United States alone, it seems that we are merely writing to be read by other poets. Meantime, I don't dare to give up my full-time job; I still like to eat. Good post! Regards,
Jerry

On the day of his funeral,
fourteen mourners stood in the sun
and thought it might rain.

"It's such a bloody waste," his brother said.
"Such talent, such potential, and for what?"
"For poetry," their mother sobbed. "He thought
the world would listen. Oh, how wrong he was;
so sad. We tried to tell him." And they had.

Poetry is dead, they said. A poet cannot feed his family.
Being of no further use, he died in the spring and,
left alone with such abundance, the cat ate him.
Fourteen mourners left his bones interred
with his worthless words. By the grave,
each had carefully positioned their Hallmark platitudes,
as floral wreaths wilted in the heat.