Advice from a grave digger

This grave digger who lives 3 bus stops down from me
Often shares stories of his perilous job,
Me, being a certain romantic couldn't possibly resist,
He tells me how to find the right soil,
So that the body is comfortable down there till all of eternity,
What to say to the spirit, so it might not come back to haunt me
But most of all, he tells me how to mourn and pay respect with expertise
Not to cry or wail or be a snotty mess
Instead, to breathe a heavy sigh, throw in a handful of soil and be on your way
That's all I could remember, I never quite knew what to say or write anyway,
So the ghosts kept coming back to haunt me
But as I saw the tombstone of one mortimer blooming,
A romantic who thought he could change the world on his fingertip,
I sighed a deep heavy sigh,
Ignored the sheets of red velvet coming out of my wrists to keep my hands warm
and threw in a bit of soil, mixed with the shit and crimson of lost effort
Then I was off on my way, to the next paragraph break,
Maybe the ending there will be less so melodramatic

◄ The Waters Of Love

Sermons of A Turnip Farmer ►

Comments

MortimerBlooming

Sun 17th May 2020 15:38

Thanks so much Po and Deb,

Yes you are right Poe this just came from the soul I wrote it in one go and just posted it,

Poetry in which words just flow give a different form of pleasure, one not possible to be put into words but we poets sure can try!

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Deb

Sun 17th May 2020 13:50

I enjoyed reading it. Thanks

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poemagraphic

Sun 17th May 2020 13:04

What a great piece of poetry this is. Right up my street.

What a way to spend an afternoon, reading ramblings and reflections that just seem to pop up from from... Who knows let alone care.

Just reading them without a care.

Worth every second this one was.
Po

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