These Christmas Death poems are examples of Death poems about Christmas. These are the best examples of Christmas Death poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Follow closely don't fall behind,
What we are about to do will blow your mind.
I hear your heart pounding,
As the corner we are rounding.
I see the building just up the way,
I have been here everyday.
Looking and noting all that is done,
For I knew this day would come.
I open the door and we are in,
Now all the fun will begin.
Stand behind me and now we wait,
Until she comes home to her fate.
I hear the keys in the door,
Be patient now she comes across the floor,
Sits down her bag and pulls off her shoes,
See I told you we left no clues.
She is sitting down with wine,
She doesn't know it's her time.
I watch and anticipate my next move,
I have something to prove.
I creep up slowly with my knife,
I have waited for this all my life,
I slide it silently across her throat,
This is what my life I do devote,
Don't act scared now that she's dead,
You wanted to watch deep in your head.
Your knew what I came to do,
Your still reading to get a closer view.
I prop her head under the Christmas tree,
Forever my Christmas Angel she will be.
Now lets leave before we are noticed,
I have achieved today's focus.
Now see that wasn't so bad,
The best night you've ever had.
Unless you want the same fate,
Never mention this night's date.
White paper boat
Her image fled among the trees
his realness to intercept,
some Christmas day! With scenes inept,
beneath dark clouds and deathward's seize.
A mercenary sergeant was
that fought in wars for many years,
ascertained charge to volunteers,
instructing e'er the warfare laws.
The coffee 'pon the mountain glen,
on twilight time of wintertime,
his Christmas warmed (recalled a chime),
the M16 A4's his friend.
A ranger, served elite brigades,
but couldn't tell how life was lost,
his apparition of a ghost,
that fled to slopes and pure cascades.
He just recalled one Winter morn,
received her mail; on streamlet's banks,
next to the seething tracks of tanks,
he read her vows, on paper worn.
He never knew to phrase response,
and also thought she wouldn't wait;
his quantum was devoid of fate,
proscribing stronghold, Christmas' sconce.
On thawed snow-stream her worn mail goes,
white paper boat, comrade and guard,
his stare kept up, he was shot hard,
upon the snow, two qubits froze.
© 11-22-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Epic, Iambic tetrameter)
Sponsor: Leonora Galinta
Contest Name: CHRISTMAS EPIC POEM
(for definitions, please read the "about the poem" text.)
There were things of mine in the drawers that could be thrown out,
But I kept gravitating to the things that were his.
His Public School 45 autograph book. It was red, white, and blue leatherette with
Inside was his hand, writing the names of favorite teachers,
And the dreams of the future you have when you are 13.
His father, an old world German who never shared himself,
left ink blotches of emotion under his hand.
In another drawer, the fancy leather passport wallet complete with passport and
He was 16.
I don’t remember him talking about anything else with the same twinkle in his
As he did about the 6 months he spent in Germany.
Here is a poem written to him on his 40th birthday,
by his best friend in the world.
The gift made so much better because it was so unlike this IBM Executive
to write personal poetry full of memories.
There was an untouched underwear drawer.
Cards of love and joy that I had given to him over many years.
A collection of Christmas wallets.
A yo-yo. Gift from a child with nothing else to give.
Old prescription glasses. Why do we keep those? Pocket knives, hankies.
A sweater and socks I knitted for him,
Always said they were too good to wear.
I store them still.
Every drawer I opened, every cupboard, every box stored away throughout the
whole house had something of his tucked away within.
A stray bullet or black powder ball. A toothpick holder.
A cork screw. A flint, patches, pictures of his ‘49 Olds, a comb, a watch, pocket
~ Maybe if I go clean someplace safe like the fridge.
And there was the bottle of Zeller Schwartz Katz wine
bought for the coming Christmas season of entertaining.
This is foolishness, hanging on.
In spite of saving all this stuff
the hole in me is still there. ...
But I just could not throw him away.
When meanings have been broken,
When your cross has been uncrossed,
When the reasons that you gave me,
In the labyrinth have been lost.
When your house has been emptied,
When your bedroom is swept clean,
I will come and wake you,
From your long and endless dream.
more at http://labyrinthoflies.com
Who am I?
Am I defined by what is near in sight?
Am I defined by what I have done,
Or am I defined by what I could become?
Perhaps I'm of no use.
To him, or her, or I, nor you.
Or perhaps I'm too misunderstood to be defined,
And it is something like understanding that comes in time.
And if to the world I'm never shown,
Yet in my own light I've grown and grown,
And so I can know no happiness but my own--
The reason for my smile, to you, will forever be unknown.
I do not pray for the world to know my name.
For it and verse; the letters are the same.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads,
I pray his pain my words to keep.
Should his eyes rain on my page,
Better tears than storms of rage.
And if a man should find his sorrow in what he reads.
I pray his pain my words to keep.
And if to the world you're never shown,
Yet in your own light you've grown and grown,
And so you know no happiness but your own.
Let the reason for your smile, to you, only be known.
Then the leader in a flash
Sent his bullet through my
Pregnant wife’s stomach,
Sending the bullet out of her
To my little girl’s brain.
He was a killer glutton, for he turned to my
Son’s brain, scattering it,
With his axe, making the brain
Splash on my dazed countenance.
They swiftly and organisingly boundled me up
Amidst my confusion and helpless struggles,
They cut off the veins at the back of my fits,
Leaving me in a river of blood.
Death claimed my home,
His weapons were the Christmas rebels,
On a melancholic Christmas night.
My saddest Christmas ever.
THE END OF THE MATTER…..
By Charles Melody (Lightening Ink)
For all the victims in jos crisis.
Rest in peace.
Daddy left Mommy, when I was two
She really didn't know what to do
Four little children under the age of six
Was a situation, she just could not fix
Christmas was coming, she didn't have a dime
The bills were piling up at the same time
She tried to focus on her belief,
Lost the battle and applied for relief
A county program, for the very poor
Barely kept the collectors from our door
So sad she was, by her lack of funds,
She couldn't buy presents, for her little ones
With grandma watching us, she left to go out
She never came home, we were forgot about
I was too young to remember Christmas that year,
It was years, before the whole story, I'd hear
Grandma tried hard to make it right,
She took care of us until Mom returned, one night
Branded in my memory, the day of her return
After nine long months, I would later learn
Mom never mentioned the time she was away
She loved us to the fullest every single day
Twenty-four years quickly flew by
When I think of the day it happened, I cry
God took my mother on the ninth of December
Unexpected, a loss I'll always remember
Going through her belongings, we came across.
A small newspaper article, that intensified the loss
How we found it I will never know
This plea, with a picture, from so long ago
As I read the article, blurred by my tears
I was transported back, through the years
To a little girl on grandma's knee
Looking at a shabby, Christmas Tree
Crying for her mommy, who wasn't there
While grandma patted her silky hair
Grief, it hit me, no time to hesitate
When I saw the significance of the date
December ninth, the paper, said it all
Memory upon memory, I would recall
Two events, so many years apart
Yet, I could feel the child with a broken heart
Holiday Spirit, sad to say, I had none
Decorating that year without the usual fun
Mommies little tree, on a table it sat
Her homemade ornaments, and a tree mat
Going through the motions, I have to admit
All I wanted to do, was quit
Events don't shape us, they make us learn
Even grief, has its turn
Memories of a Christmas, thirty years past
Impressions, they fade, but still last
By Karla Null~Godsgift~
Your "Saddest" Christmas Ever Contest
Sponsored by Constance LaFrance~A Rambling Poet~
This is something I wrote after the death of my daughter (1995). Bruno was her pride and joy and he sat in a rocking chair in her room for many years after. I've revised it somewhat. Unfortunately, my husband has also died since, so now we're down to two. Now Colette's little girl, Grace loves Barbies
Bruno sits in a rocking chair
as though she’s coming hither.
He's just a battered old Christmas bear
but I remember that winter.
Our girls didn’t know
we searched at night
as Santa’s helpers
filled with delight.
Jeannie, loved bears.
Barbies delighted Colette.
We bumped into Ken
driving Barbie’s corvette.
Suddenly looking at us with
two beady eyes, was
the biggest toy bear
we'd seen in our lives.
On Christmas day,
Jeannie gasped at that bear
Colette loved her vet
We were all there.
Now Bruno sits
and sit so do I.
I know Jeannie’s not coming.
Bruno can’t say goodbye.
Bruno will wait
and we'll not forget
Not I. Not papa.
Not our darling Colette.
We’ll see her again
wherever it be.
Now Jeannie’s adieu.
We’re lonely as three.
©June 5, 2001
-DECEMBER 25,2:37 AM-
SHE WAS THINNING 'WAY-
HER COLOUR GOING GRAY
WHILE SHE DROWNED IN SWEAT:
"GERALD,HAVE YOU SLEPT?"
HER VOICE SO OLD,
AND GAVE ME THE COLD.
BUT HOW COULD I SLEEP
WHILE MUM'S LIFE COULD CREEP...?
I HAD BEEN CRYING
WEEPING AND WEEPING
SILENTLY FOR HER-
MY MOTHER WAS DYING..
I CREPT FROM MY BED:
NO LIGHTS; POOR AND SAID-
I HELD HER WEAK HANDS-
COLD WITHOUT LIFE'S TAN:
I HEARD HER BREATHING-
AND MY HEART CRAVING
FOR MAMA'S GOOD HEALTH.
"BUT," I ASKED MYSELF:
"WHY MUST SHE SUFFER
NEAR A WEEPING SON?"
AND WHERE WAS FATHER?
HE WAS DEAD AND GONE.
I WEPT AS I THOUGHT.
"RETURN TO YOUR COT,
YOU NEED A NIGHT'S SLEEP."
SHE SPOKE, MY HEART LEAPED.
"I SHALL BE HERE UNTIL
DEATH IS NOT FULFILLED-
YOU SHALL NEVER DIE
ELSE I SHALL GHASTLY CRY."
SHE PRESSED ME TO HER HEART
AND GAVE ME A GENT' PAT.
"GERALD,PLEASE LET US SLEEP
AND MY SON DO NOT WEEP.
"IF I DIE, THEN GOD CALLED
CAUSING WEEPS TO COME FORTH-
BUT DO PRAY FOR MY SOUL,
TO REST IN HAVEN'S HOLD."
"BUT MUM," I CRIED."DO STOP."
"SON," SHE CONTINUED."DEATH
IS INHERENT TO LIFE.
DEATH COMES 'ROUND AS WE STRIVE."
I TOOK HER HANDS IN MINE
FEELING THEM FREEZING,KIND:
-THUS ENDED HER EARTHLY STAY,
WHILE I STILL HAD MUCH TO SAY.....
...AND EVERY LAUGHTER EVAPORATED
FROM MY FACE AS EVERY CHRISTMAS
BRINGS SAD MEMORIES
BACK TO MIND......
CONTEST NAME-"Saddest" Christmas Ever
SPONSOR-Constance La France
THE STATIONERY BOY
His little dark street
Is at home in the silky cobweb;
His little dark street
Is only loud in the missionaries’ prayers,
It elicits a gaze in very few people,
It is but an uninvited guest to life.
The stationery boy hands out his beautiful fliers,
Like a messenger of his little dark street.
In his big clear eyes a tear is born,
Not as an accusation,
But as wonderful love,
His heart is young and full of hopes
That someday his big silent tear
Shall drop onto someone’s palm.
A new day is born in his wonderful spirit,
Perhaps somewhat cold and strange,
But a new day, still.
Oh powerful destiny, listen to your unloved son,
Wake up the sleeping star;
Wake up the sleeping sun;
Wake up the sleeping hearts of men,
So that the new day may be a friend to your unloved son.
In the inaudible shadows, he has his faithful listeners,
In death he has a faithful visitor,
His young beautiful eyes are more familiar with death than life.
When so many happy children gather around the city’s Christmas tree,
His dear young heart is loudly beating into the deaf nights,
Like a silver bell,
So that his small, dark home would be alight with a gaze.
When the wonderful northern wind brings
Happy children’s voices from afar,
Like a modest Christmas gift,
The stationery boy is building his little kingdom of happiness
In his vivid imagination,
His days and nights may be cold and dark,
But his imagination is bright and completely wonderful,
It shines in the darkness like an angel.
His silver bell is ringing beyond the heavenly dome.
If you want to show a real angel to your kid,
Hurry towards that little dark street,
And you might be lucky enough to see the stationery boy
Before he gets his silver wings.
©Walter William Safar