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Christmas Sorrow Poems | Christmas Poems About Sorrow

These Christmas Sorrow poems are examples of Christmas poems about Sorrow. These are the best examples of Christmas Sorrow poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | I do not know? | |

A Material Christmas

It's Christmas! Christmas!
That time of year
When people are filled...
With holiday cheer?

Yeah right. . .
I really do wish it were true
But people are people
Through and through

It's not about happiness anymore
Or in respect to what matters.
In reality it concerns what you get
And the food that is piled on the platters.

What has happened to the world of today?
Where is the 'loving and giving...'?
Now it is all just me, me, me.
Is this a nightmare? Or are we actually living.  

Yep we might have a lot of things
Hang on! Let's add some more
It isn't the family that I'm expecting
But the postman knocking at the door.

When the topic turns to Christmas cheer
Lets go stuff our faces...
Break out all that lovely beer!
Chuck away those graces!

But... Suddenly the month is over
There go all the gifts you gave
Your debt payments crawl closer and closer
And you become a material slave.






Details | Ballad | |

New Year's Eve

Can’t think about the Year that didn’t last
Can’t fight the time and how it passed so fast…
Voices were cheerful that night
Everyone was full of silver light

I heard the sounds but didn’t care
I couldn’t help but only think and stare…
I dreamed of love that possibly I’ll never share
And of life that was just like a fairytale.

In that second of complete despair
I saw the moon and realized it was all a dare
Then your voice whispered in my ear
Promising me all I needed to hear…


Details | Lyric | |

A Grey Christmas

when we lose sight of love, 
and loss takes its place
when we bear on our cheek
the north wind's harsh face
when our heart is all full
alas, not of joy
when sorrow is no stranger
and wrapped as a toy
it knocks on the door
to stay winter's chill
but opens the windows
just for the thrill
and tied to the mantle,
each man his own
the chimney has fallen
each corner, each stone
but the hardest of all
we forget how to cry
and all we recall
is the deepening sigh
An empty fire
we keep it aloft
to warm the old house
it grows cold so oft

and all but a memory is taken away
we cannot go back, nor bear to stay
lingering on like the leaves out back
a constant reminder of all that we lack
and once in a while, when the wind blows,
or the gray sky graces with snow
the leaves, they scatter--we gather about
and wonder and wonder, "will they ever run out"





Details | Free verse | |

Christmas at Christchurch

        I feel translucent 
	a man of marble skin 
	as if dreaming my motions 
	every step a tread in water
	each reach of my hand 
	a ghost grip touches 
	but nothing holds and yet 
	I clutch these stones and 
	iron spear barricades 
	as a sea-snail would the bedrock 
	for this is my folly 
	to hug close the masonry of charity 

	I feel nothing 
	no remorse runs down my arms 
	to my useless wrists 
	no rage 
	twists my mouth into rabid snarl 
	no pleasure lifts my face 
	from the footfalls 
	of those celestial beings 
	bustling above

	not even a soaked black wall 
	on which I am a shadow 
	penetrates my deadened hide 

	I feel grotesque 
	I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone 
	sown into the fabric of these 
	towers with closed doorways 
	that form broken arch homes 
	for broken things 
	but 

	no longer am I broken 
	I have embraced 
	the cold and hunger 
	of my mouth and my soul 
	I am free of this place 

	Yet 

	here I am still 
	here for you to see 
	if you can stomach 
	to see me 


Details | Free verse | |

Christmas at Christchurch

I feel translucent 
	a man of marble skin 
	as if dreaming my motions 
	every step a tread in water
	each reach of my hand 
	a ghost grip touches 
	but nothing holds and yet 
	I clutch these stones and 
	iron spear barricades 
	as a sea-snail would the bedrock 
	for this is my folly 
	to hug close the masonry of charity 

	I feel nothing 
	no remorse runs down my arms 
	to my useless wrists 
	no rage 
	twists my mouth into rabid snarl 
	no pleasure lifts my face 
	from the footfalls 
	of those celestial beings 
	bustling above

	not even a soaked black wall 
	on which I am a shadow 
	penetrates my deadened hide 

	I feel grotesque 
	I am a gargoyle of flesh and bone 
	sown into the fabric of these 
	towers with closed doorways 
	that form broken arch homes 
	for broken things 
	but 

	no longer am I broken 
	I have embraced 
	the cold and hunger 
	of my mouth and my soul 
	I am free of this place 

	Yet 

	here I am still 
	here for you to see 
	if you can stomach 
	to see me 

From The Pagan Field (print 1996, eBook 2013) available FREE until 15 Nov. at 
http://www.amazon.com/The-Pagan-Field-extended-E-ebook/dp/B00F395DAU