Her Death
-The trigger lay steady and sardonic in the hands of the ready stalker.
-She lays unaware , a spot for each grand representation of naiveness in her hair.
Full of innocence-didn’t even have chance to mature. For the hunter was to ensure the value of her fur, by stripping her bare of what she had earned.
-she was nothing more than her new found horror
Allow the destruction.
Surrender to the hurt.
Loss will show no mercy.
Stripped down; raw form. Exposed.
Face contorts. Punctured chest.
Descent into abyss.
Demise precedes rebirth.
*'LET'S SOAR WITH THIS' Poetry Contest
*Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
*Entered on: 9/18/25
I’ll take
The bitter with the sweet
Thank you
(9/17/25)
One slow motion jagged tear
found me after you left me here.
Its wetness still sits upon my face
as I stare at absolutely no place.
What I do live and what I dream
and all sundries fitting in between,
now struggle in a frenzied dance
passing thru, in and out, this circumstance.
My brain is mush circling a clueless groove.
Surely, I need an enlightened next move.
Calm failed to enter when you shut the door,
and life as I knew it quit being anymore.
I simply cannot find my identity.
Maybe it left with you and my clarity.
I seek to ease a primal urge to shout
at frenzied thoughts dashing about.
Perhaps I knew years had grown weeds
while I prayed for fertilized love seeds.
Perhaps I knew time long held this bleed
while I prayed true love would succeed.
He buries a small hole in the garden,
wraps her thoughtfully in a pink blanket,
tears will flow down his skin so hardened,
the crops that failed proved no gambit,
Lowers her gently, tilts her head forward,
tries to pray but his trembling words slur,
Every day-break she was with the orchids,
Carefully clipping and small hand watered.
He still has a seat for her at the dinner table,
letting go of it has been far too painful,
He keeps her room as she had last left it,
scattered drawings and her red draped jacket.
Like roar, he snores-
Ears sore, she bores
The raw material
of America
intrinsically damned
Its nature
and character
lost out of hand
Divisive
vindictive
self-interest gone wild
A narcissists
graveyard
— misused to beguile
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
They are not headlines,
not numbers
stacked in columns of loss.
They are children...
running with paper kites
stitched from the scraps of yesterday,
drawing suns with broken crayons
on walls that no longer stand.
Their laughter once rose
above the call to prayer,
a fragile hymn
against the roar of falling skies.
Now, quiet shows them before their time
how to carry grief in tiny palms,
how to tuck emptiness close
as though it had been cradled in their chest all along.
Yet—
in the rubble,
a doll without arms still wears a smile.
In the dust,
tiny feet trace games
on streets the world has forgotten.
Hope is stubborn.
It hides in their eyes
flickering like a candle
protected from the wind,
whispering to us
if we tune our hearts to
their quiet voice,
...that childhood
should be a garden,
not a graveyard of dreams.
Remember them.
Not as shadows of war
but as children who deserve
to wake beneath an unbroken sky.
I felt it break,
I saw the shards,
the frame hanging limply
in it's wake as it crashed down.
I never wanted anything but her,
so I kept the curtain open.
But now the glass shines, where it was
embedded deep inside my disembodied soul.
I try and try to pick up the pieces
but they cut at my skin.
I struggle through the pain
the glass still shines without her.
I can fix the shards
of the window
but there is nothing
left inside.
I could reach for the pieces
but all that would do is hide the tell-tale tracks
of a poisoned soul cut too deep,
to ever be whole.
The more I try
the more I scream.
That's the price
to ever love again.
Glass scattered
to the mist,
but that's what I get
for feeling this…
It looked as if it were ruins
However, it was never a beauty
But the stories it has to tell
Pioneers and gold miners
They may have all lived and died there
That is history, you may never know
© Poem – XI/IX/MMXXV
LRET
We all mark time
until, in time,
we mark loss.
In the meantime,
we make our
mark
and
mark-make.
I can't imagine
my life alone.
Without having someone
I can call my own.
Curled up in my bed
with no one there.
No one to hold me
and tell me they care.
Wake in the morning
tears on my cheeks.
Realize I'm not dreaming
and pull up the sheets.
Sit at my table
conversing with air.
Knowing and hating
that no one is there.
Heart slowly breaking
I crawl back into bed.
If this is my life now,
I'd rather be dead.
Again and again,
the cycle repeats.
No one to hold me,
and share our heartbeats.
A life slowly fading,
to a featureless blur.
A love to be given
if someone was there.
A Real Bodhisattva
A bodhisattva is the Buddhist equivalent
Of a warrior for Christ, who is well on their way
To being Christlike themselves.
Of course there are many degrees of bodhisattva
From those who only have the wish to be
To those who actually are.
Literally millions are examples of the former.
The Dalai Lama is a good example of the latter.
Real bodhisattvas are rare.
Their hallmark is infinite love and compassion
For all beings
Combined with deep insight
Into the true nature of reality.
This week the world lost a real bodhisattva
In the form of a young American patriot,
Who at just 31 years old
Had successfully reached a whole generation
Galvanizing many young people
To critically look within
And embrace traditional American values
Of family, honesty, integrity, openness,
Love, tolerance, inclusivity, and faith.
And for this he was martyred.
The world is a better place
For having known Charlie Kirk.
But it is certainly not a better place without him
Unless we take up his mantle
Take the torch, and shield and sword
And become real warriors of Christ
Bodhisattvas in the army of truth.
(9/12/25)
Treating
the symptoms
ignoring
the cause
The outcome
redundant
all change
stuck on pause
The people
the problem
the root
of the pain
No law
or restriction
can change
DNA
Our values
on fire
from those
who are lost
They hate
with an ignorance
perdition
defrosts
You can’t make
an omelet
with eggs
that won’t fry
And you can’t save
the farm
feral pigs
— in the sty
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
When the muse leaves, his quill runs dry;
then joyful songs, sweet poetry,
drain from his pen, though write he try,
as hollow strains lack symmetry.
How then to woo the Muse once more?
Her treason robs him of his art.
What offerings, what gifts, might restore
against the whims of a Muse's heart?
But love is mild, and then patient:
love waits, with no pose or pretense.
His heart still burns incandescent
for her. To restore her, no expense
will be spared. And though she feels distant,
his constant heart will break her whim.
She'll not remain, forever transient,
but turn her radiant face to him.
Specific Types of Loss Poems
Read wonderful loss poetry on the following sub-topics:
baby, brother, brother in law, cat, child, dog, father, friend, horse, mother, pet, stepfather
and more.
Definition | What is Loss in Poetry?
Poems Related to Loss
debt, disaster, accident, fall, damage, failure, cost, defeat, trouble, injury, catastrophe, casualty, destruction, undoing, harm, misadventure, dispossession, mishap, deficiency, want, need, death, shrinkage, ruin, privation