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Elegy History Poems | Elegy Poems About History

These Elegy History poems are examples of Elegy poems about History. These are the best examples of Elegy History poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Elegy | |

My Return To Normandy

High on the Normandy cliffs
Looking out over Pointe du Hoc
As cold Atlantic winds whisper out
The names of the brothers I left behind
Now only fine marble monument shadows
Dot the trenches and empty emplacements 
As the final testimony of the fallen
Still ringing frightened with those desperate voices
Proclaiming both their lives and death
That they were ever here…

In the emerald hills of Collville Sur Mur
I can still hear the phantom naval shells screaming
Underneath the crying of men
Pulverized and dying in their comrades arms
All for the belief of the land from which they hail
While the roaring waves wash the still bloody sands
In and endless and rending cycle
That silent cacophony of brother and foe
Call out to me still for comfort and aid
Asking only to be remembered…


Details | Elegy | |

The Darkest Day

Burning eyes, I cannot believe I'm alive
Smoke fills the air and it makes me so scared
My brain is cloudy and slow, and I see myself upside down on the ground
People are screaming, I hear loud crashing
Everything begins falling
I know I won't make it out alive.
The building is breaking the whole place is shaking
And I get up to run for my life
My hands scraped and bloodied, my skirt, torn. 
There's no time to mourn.
My hair is matted and wet, and I crash into a person I had just met
Making my way down the stairs, I think about how this is all unfair.
In that split second there's another BOOM 
And impact
Throws me down to my doom.
But a hand grabs me and pulls me up,
I would say something but I can hardly gulp.
I can't see and my savior leads me.
There's a ringing in one ear, but none in my other.
I scream in frustration, and my vision goes under.
Deep darkness overwhelms me.
There is pain in my arms and I just want to leave
Leave this chaos of a world, this place where the smoke curls and whirls.
My body shuts down as I slowly fall on the ground and my life flashes before my eyes.
But it is okay. This is all I can take
And then I hear sirens and people.
I smile at them because I know it is too late.
I close my eyes then. This was the end.
I see the light and I give up the fight.


Details | Elegy | |

Light at the End

When it hits my chest
It would not lay me to rest
It cannot bring about my end
So long I refuse to bend
Death on my chest
Is but a test
On my will to live up
To see if I would give up
The Giver would allow the pain
After seeing my faith on life
He would restore me again.
Death test is but in the while
Of a second
After which we can go on.


Details | Elegy | |

THE DROWNING MAN

As I look pitifully at the expression of the drowning man; 
Picturing how he works his way, 
Trying his capability; pleading Nature for his life back.
As the going gets helpless, 
The drowning man makes scratches at the bank of the rushing brook;
 Gathering a sum of clay tightly in his fist; 
Death has his hands on him, 
Moving alongside him, through the mindless brook; 
Bearing him without mercy; stealing from humanity so helpless.


Details | Elegy | |

Better accomodations for a God

Better Accommodations for a God
Oh Stately spire from distance seen.
Your young visage, causes you to preen .
Your Circular face, shows no time.
Boisterous Bells, comfort minds Divine.
Though haughty and Sanctimonious you are. 
You owe your fame to a kin not far.
Upon a plain that shares the name
You were given in another King’s Reign
Not still grand like you.
Henges  strewn from nature’s rage
Resided their God of another age.
Blocks of stone, that simple people Raised.
Not long before, they shared a Cave.
Both sites no more sanctified.
People built them at a sacrifice
Money and Sweat and their Lives.


Details | Elegy | |

Grandfather

My Grandfather High-backed chair facing the corner, Window over books so cherished Loved. Like the greatest of scholars, but still humble He was a trove of stories Air of silence on a place once full Of stories from a time past, A time of honor and courage and duty Of country and spirit; fighting an enemy Made from indescribable evil. Tales of valor, sand, and bullets Lions and machine guns, young men in battle Fighting for their lives. Knowing the enemy was like a jackal Cruel and twisted, an army of evil He witnessed it all First hand, in the heat of the day And cold of night. Tales passed on, spoken In a way that conveyed such knowledge That one was to sit in amazement, and hear it Firsthand from the chair facing the corner. Like a throne of deep thought. The day he left this world, I wept. Seeing him not but a day before, It was harder than I could have imagined. The pain is real, but so were the memories And so the legacy of the veteran lives on. The chair sat vacant, but I felt him there. The books on the shelf, the other treasures Left behind held him here on earth While the memories anchored him in our hearts. The man in the chair shall never be forgotten And the stories shall pass far into the generations.


Details | Elegy | |

BYRON'S BONFIRES

BYRON’S BONFIRES

Byron’s life was full of fire
Some from passion’s strong desires
Some from temper, child spoiled--
Too much paper--desk embroiled

But he suffered sacred fire
Shelley’s wretched funeral pyre
On strange shores his friend succumbed
Drowned so far away from home

Fighting valiant-- Greeks allied
Keeping paper by his side
Used a fire to keep warm--
Daunting rain that did him harm

After death friends burned B’s words
What a shock if people heard
Thoughts that Byron dared to write
Deeds he carried through by night

Thus his words sung to the flames
Protecting friends from nasty names--
Luck-charmed  chimney to embrace
Ash-thoughts of man so wrong defaced.

Victoria Anderson-Throop   12/03/12 ©
Juja, Kenya   Africa


Details | Elegy | |

History

I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head,
Kings' honour,
wars that emporers 
waged,
The death toll, the 
faces hungery, pale,
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head,
Bleeding horses, 
tumbling on bodies 
dead,
Injured soldiers, who 
bore iron hoofs,
Wanting water, 
panting for breath,
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head,
The castle that makes 
you wonder,
Wasn't for purpose of 
astonishment,
They made it to hide 
them, feel a little safe,
Wasn't that broken? 
Killed, looted men.
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head.
God made the holly 
man, angels were 
afraid,
They warned their 
almighty, questions 
were raised,
God denied all that, 
and with pride He 
said:
Ye know nothing of 
what your Lord 
intend.
I am lonely, lying on 
my bed,
Not forlorn, I've 
history on my head.


Details | Elegy | |

Poem written near a Cemetery 1 of 2

Poem written near a Cemetery  1 of 2
On 13th February 2012

While moving near the walls of a cemetery, 
I saw the glimpse 
Of a bunch of some tiny wild flowers,
Blooming in the golden Sunlight falling on them, 
They were waving their simile, 
With every gush of wind,
On the monument of a deserted grave.

For me it was a new and exciting experience, 
To enter in that cemetery of eighteenth century,
What had brought me to that spot,
Where those wild flowers were still smiling,
Remains a mystery
Every time, I think and rethink. 

I saw hundreds of monuments and tombs,
After entering in that preserved cemetery, 
Some were telling the story,
Of the grandeurs of its dwellers,
While others were there,
Standing without a crown or a story.

The grave on which, I saw those flowers,
Was not showing an appealing face, 
Age had withered its luster and charms,
And time had left its marks on its face.

Being in the last line of that cemetery 
It was waiting in the long queue,
For some kith and kin of Sophia Ress,
May come some day and  
The face of that noble soul’s grave, 
May once again obtain its lost glory and grace.

There I found those lonely wild tiny flowers,
Still blooming and smiling and dancing,
With every gush of wind,
Telling silently a beautiful story of its dweller,
As if, they were paying their homage,
While remembering her lost songs and images.

In the morning hours of the Autumn,
The tree leaves were falling, 
Everywhere on the ground,
And some were even falling on me,
Either to tell the universal truth, 
Of the inevitable departure of everyone’s one day 
Or perhaps to accompany me, 
In that graveyard of all those,
Who were totally strangers for me.

After watching that grave and 
Appreciating those tiny flowers,
I explored each and every tomb and monuments,
Standing in the memory of those British,
Who had lived a royal life during those days,
When they lived here and ruled my country, 
For a very long time. 

Ravindra 
Kanpur India 18th Feb. 2012  concluded in Part 2



Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen

"Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen
In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen 
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr. 
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th 
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament 
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly 
Attached wife and a devoted Mother.......







Details | Elegy | |

SAPPHO'S FALLING STARS part 1

                                            SAPPHO’S FALLING STARS     (Part one)


I am descendent of Odysseus
	Hero of the past
Have I kin—I know not—I may be the last--
The Trojan War and Helen made my family's blazing fame
Thus magnified by Homer was made our honor and ancestral name

I stand this day the General of the fallen men that the Fates have tossed
across the Siren Sappho's way—
now foolishly slain-- my Fallen Stars    	 
                      		such a ragged few
                                       in this paltry breath of a moment
                                      			of mere delay--

Inconsequential time in history 
                                                                                          forever lost—


at their honor’s cost


for Mine, a Mighty Name
excuses easily such inconsequential blame
                                                                         
I cannot weep—I cannot pray

                      Such sacrifice of brave men
	              Lifeless , While I stand whole
	               Due to my folly 
                      Sucks the breath stark from my soul

Yarns and lore of Heroes—I know
Babe……. to youth……… in manhood……..
Each far-flung hour, day upon dew-kissed day
Nurtured ever cherished in the sweet talk of the female-breast-kissed way
      	Absorbed sensuous tactics laced with salty woman taste--so learned
	Intimately known as my manhood blossomed

Intimate Initiate—once
You, Sappho, sought my need –-
Intimate follower once—
                                I ate your passion delicious sauced with greed

(part two posted)............................................





Victoria Anderson-Throop  12/18/12 ©


Details | Elegy | |

Poem written near a Cemetery 2 of 2


Poem written near a Cemetery  2 of 2
On 13th February 2012

But nowhere in that cemetery I could find,
Flowers smiling on any Stone, Tomb or grave,
Whatever big may have been,
The status of those, who were buried there, 
With or without any pomp and show.

Some of these yester year stars, 
Were laid here with a simple stone, 
Standing as a symbol of their death, 
Without telling their simple stories and 
And without telling much about their lores, 

I came back again after searching a lot,
On the grave of this noble soul, 
The small flowers were still busy in,
Swinging and dancing, 
On the stone of Sophia Rees. 

Those wild little yellow flowers,
Had called me from a distance,
Perhaps to convey the story, 
Of this unknown noble soul.

I counted those tiny yellow flowers 
They were six only all swinging in the air, 
To find on whose stone they were blooming,
I started reading,
The faint and dim stone lines,
Where the engraved letters had lost their ink,
Wiped away by the passing of time.

But the first three lines, 
Made me to stand on my toes, 
I could read very clearly,
In the clear upper lines it was written, 
“Sophia Rees Owen 31 years old 
left this world on 27th November 1834, 
Leaving her husband and six children. 
She was a sincere friend and 
Truly attached wife and Most devoted mother”.

Something told me silently in my mind, 
Why on this grave only,
The Nature had bloomed,
A bunch of smiling and dancing flowers, 
This unknown lady of yester years 
Was perhaps a noble and kind hearted soul.

May be Sophia was a lover of Nature,
May be a Poet, a Philosopher, a Painter or 
May be she was a wonderful Singer,
Who wanted to sing some beautiful songs,
But before she could have tuned her instruments,
Was called by the God in Heaven. 

What a strange thing it was, 
To come and to watch in that graveyard,
Those little flowers and the grave of Sophia Rees, 
Which I had noticed unknowingly,  
From across the boundary,
While I was passing on the road.

These lines are my homage to that noble soul,
Who is  spreading her smiles even to this day,
As if through these flowers, 
She was singing some of her most dear song.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 13& 14th Feb 2012
“Text of the Stone on Sophia Rees Owen”
“In the memory of Sophia Rees Owen 
The beloved wife of H T Owen Esqr. 
Of the H C Civil Service, who died on the 27th 
Nov.1834 aged 31 years 11months and 18days.
Leaving her husband and Six children to lament 
Her loss. She was a sincere friend, a truly 
Attached wife and a devoted Mother...


Details | Elegy | |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 1)

I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze

I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.

Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.

From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.

On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.


Details | Elegy | |

Little Girl of Mary King's Close

A little girl so coy and sweet Used to wander in the street Her little dress and shawl she’d wear She’d skip and run without a care Her hair about her face would fly As wind blew clouds across the sky The sun would shine above the city Warm upon her face so pretty There with friends she’d sing a song A ring-of-roses all day long Her doll she’d carry everywhere Made by her mam who'd brought her there Where had she gone, where was she now; To give her comfort, to cool her brow? Lying there upon her stretcher Desperate for mam to come and fetch her With pustules oozing, a putrid stink In inky blackness her eyes would blink She waited for the sound of feet Perhaps dry, stale bread for her to eat Shoved below the heavy door On a plate, upon the floor But she’d become too weak to stand To get the food she’d need a hand Fear of illness, fear of death Fear of such a young ones breath Prevented them from coming in Barred her from seeing friend or kin Stuffy and close the room was small No one seemed to care at all Her doll they’d wrenched out of her arms And burned it to avail their qualms No traces of disease would spread Remaining sealed away instead She longed again the world to see, She lay there waiting patiently She thought for her they’d surely come Her father a merry tune would hum Drifting in and out of sleep No more tears of loneliness to weep Nothing but a feeble moan For she was left there all alone Below the new you’ll find a room Timeworn and hidden in the gloom It’s there you’ll feel her presence nigh It’s there she lay abandoned to die When you have to leave and go Quiet footsteps behind you tiptoe She follows you a little way She waits for you to turn and say, “Take my hand and come with me. Into the light… walk, be free.” But solitary and confined she’s made to stay As aeons pass and flit away Forsaken child of the distant past, I pray God frees your soul at last.


Details | Elegy | |

Land of the Free

Oh, Land of the Free 
You have presumptuously deemed yourself the mouthpiece and policy maker 
Of the world
How overconfident
How impudent
Who makes you... 
                          Oh, King of impertinence
Regulators of the human race...
                                                         The monarch of the agitated sea
Who are you to dictate MY household’s wishes? 
As with the Roman Empire, your greed and moral deficiency IS your destruction
Your sins are hidden behind plaster, ramshackle, and termite-infested walls  
You sit on your throne of deprecated morality
You twist your neck and roil your head in an idiomatic cistern of ethics
Oh, how those merchants whom seek shelter under your fiscal confidence...
                             Will wail and rip their outer garments, as they witness your
great 
Collapse
Nevertheless, just like men whom seeks the warmth of a harlot’s bosom
They will easily turn their face to the next woman of ill-gotten gains


Details | Elegy | |

SAPPHO'S FALLEN STARS part 3

                                


                                SAPPHO'S FALLEN STARS        part 3

Oh, all who hear each word so said--
Mourn my gentle friends-- now in repose behold them dead
May scalding wreathes of tears enfold each honored head

Someone’s shadow joins me here
The scent is one I once held dear

Is this the learned’ Sappho to whom I speak--
The bride of Lesbos with the low forbidden voice
She who climbs the ragged mountains dangerous peak
                                 She who holds the intimate delights within her lap
               Knows which sweet sound sparks ears of men to ring
                       Calls in the blue daughters of twilight to entrap
                                         with Lusty joy –
entwining madly with the bursting spring. 

She , whose voice explodes with songs and lyres--
ignites the camping soldiers with the fires
of her bold call—
vibrates desires
siren’s yearn
Even the most valiant heroes to her return-- 
Desert just cause – oaths dissolve to become
Sudden slaves to female bliss that binds them til they burn

If you are the source of Sappho’s sultry voice—
Open your arms

Behold and Rejoice
your work of charms


and Accept this
Humbled general’s
Sacrifice of Shame

Oh hearers all—Ye, Who have a moment but to spare--
                       Remember my good men --their story share—
                           
                   Paralyzed—
                                      by manly Pride brave men fell at the feet of Sappho fair
         	   Tantalized –
                                      an army lies eternal midst the tangles of her hair 



Victoria Anderson-Throop
Dec 18, 2012


Details | Elegy | |

A comrade like Ben

                                 A Comrade like Ben

A statesman like Mandela diplomatically
suspended the necessary struggle of opposites,
gummed his fragmented land together with reconciliation….
exploiters to exploited , murderers to martyrs
imperialist to invisibled indigenes  
lives in Sandton and councils Bill Clinton
and Naomi Campbell on plush carpets

a sinewy activist, hard as nails, like yourself…
Ben Palmer Louw, always
cajoling
conspiring 
criticizing
organising
uprising
forever
beautiful in your pregnant concern
that freedom , dignity and justice
is tangible and beautiful as black skin, kinky hair
is real when a continent’s wealth is fairly shared
is manifested when the state collapses in selfless deeds

old man Nelson turned ninety and is now a teddy
to those who feared the terrorist at forty.
He no longer speak for himself but for his party 
and the party is a self-serving affair.

Pity your death at thirty-something
when Nelson started talking to his racist oppressors.

For ten years you and your young militant army
punctured holes in the racist ideology, 
marched flames and thunder through townships,
died in your thousands, 
stopping with blood and bones
bullets casted for centuries by the fascist
in black holes of greed and fear.  


“A shame … but subversion is to blame ”
`` the defenders of law and order loudly exclaimed 
“Not good for business”…the moneybags conceded
“ if Soweto bleeds , profit –rates  receeds . ”
“Give black chiefs and compradors the garrotte 
 and stick the small change of capital under their nose  .
 They will throttle the radical noises at the root ”.  

Wounded deeply, your rapid-firing baritone voice
still thundered on battle-fields and in halls,
urging us to destroy mental and wage slavery.
I saw you fight for freedom 
the whole scorching way,
every hour of that long bloody apartheid day…
but one night
you leaped ,
proud black brother of mine,
right into the sky…
fist raised high as heaven with a two-hour smile
whispering re-assuringly “Don’t ever give up, gents…
the harder they come , the harder they fall. 
See… brothers and sisters…revolution is!

In memory and respect to Ben Palmer Louw (1950-1987)a student leader of 1976 soweto insurrection 			





Details | Elegy | |

My Kashmir Burns (Part 2)

Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked. 
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.

Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s 
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!

When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.

Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.


Details | Elegy | |

Voices From The Sky

So sad So very, very sad Those voices from the sky So little time So much to say, In those Moments before they die So few So very, very few The words that said goodbye So far away So very, very far away… Yet heard…every whisper…every sigh So many… I love you’s so many stifled cries So many pauses…so many tear-filled eyes So lovely So very, very lovely Those precious words from on high So silent So very, profoundly silent After that last goodbye Those last “I love you’s, Tell the kids I love them too We’ll meet again… me and you” Phones gently So, so gently Laid down and moved aside So hard So very, very hard to leave Those voices from the sky Let's Roll!!


Details | Elegy | |

Against the wind

Who threw water on the wick?
Who, as restless and trapped
can survive in this necropolis?
Trumpeting down the walls
that are not of Jericho.
Trumpeting down the walls
that besiege a chthonic people.

Tonight I shall return as a black dove
to bring you an oak tree branch from Dodona
And a darkness full of lightning
all the way from the palace of Atropos.
So that you stay up all night 
and knead
a bright sunshine for tomorrow.

"Good morning wind-vane",
to say when morning comes,
"where do the winds blow from today?"
And just like a white horse 
to gallop against the wind.


Details | Elegy | |

Poor Anna

For fleeting fame, a chance to shine
Her need for love and acceptance overwhelming.
Casting out all values and decorum
Her thoughts focused on only the prize she seeks

For fortune and celebrity outweigh the moral dilemma
Her sense of propriety and self-respect clouded
As she chases wealth and jewels and raiment’s of gold
This gilded beauty seeks the flash of celebrity with her gleaming smile

Unaware or oblivious to the emptiness of her chosen existence
The love so superficial…the acceptance a façade
Yet a growing void within, unfilled and gnawing at her soul,
She fails to understand, consumed with superficial desires…so many detractors

Instead, reaching still for her star, the mores of society cast aside
Ambition soon replaced with desperation as the pillars fall one by one
Surrounding herself with the leaches that prey upon the weak
Believing their lies, slipping further into the abyss of a lost soul

Clinging to the fleeting relief of drugs and salacious acts
Until the naïve young woman who once existed slips beyond salvation
Ambition and determination replaced with a need for instant gratification
Needing something to ease the agonizing pain of what she has created

But a loss so profound pushes her beyond coping with the anguish
Not even a true and genuine new love would be enough to heal 
For her wounds are deep and many, and not one loves enough to see
Her end is in sight; as such tragedies have befallen the iconic fatales before her

Fleeting and elusive the adoration she craves…And no one hears; no one sees  
While alone in a strange city and hotel room, her flame flickers and tragically dies
As her legend quickly becomes greater than her life had ever been
Will she revel in her place in history?  Or is she simply gone; destroyed by us all.


Details | Elegy | |

Tragedy Strikes In New York

Something tragic happened in New York today
Many lives were lost
This unexpected act of terrorism
Came with a very high cost
Many hearts are now filled
With anger, pain and sorrow
So many of us wondering
Will this happen again tomorrow?
Fear and uncertainty consuming us all
We do not understand why the towers had to fall
As we all watched in horror
The Trade Centers crumbled to the ground
We looked to our faith and kept clinging to hope
That many survivors would somehow be found
The hour of this tragic day will be
Forever remembered through history
The question of "Why" will always linger
The reason will remain a mystery
Who would want to commit such a cruel and intentional act?
In our search for those responsible
America shall stand united, that's a fact
Though we are temporarily weakened
By the devastation with sorrow and grief
Someday justice will prevail and bring us a sense of relief
To our many dear friends and loved ones
We will miss your gentle heart and smiling face
But we shall find comfort in knowing
You've gone to a better place
Our minds still question why
So many precious lives were taken from us
Please know that in our hearts, cherished memories
Will keep you forever near

In memory of all those who lost their lives to the tragic, terrorist act on September 11, 2001


Copyright © 2001   Shari E Davis


Details | Elegy | |

A Tribute to Michael Jackson

You taught us how to be "Bad" by telling our enemies to "Beat It"
We learned how to "Scream" "Leave Me Alone" when we lost friends like "Ben" or had people 
    like "Billie Jean" telling lies
We came together to "Jam" and "Rock Wit You" whether we were "Black or White"
You helped the guys get the "PYT" and made them into their "Girlfriend"
With the help of "Human Nature" and "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough", teenagers were "Off 
    the Wall"
We found the positive side of us by looking at "The Man in the Mirror" because you showed 
    us how to "Keep the Faith"
You showed us that we had to take it upon ourselves to "Heal the World" because "They 
    Don't Care About Us"
We became "Unbreakable" when your life was "Threatened" by the accusations of the liars
These accusations were such "Heartbreaks" and we heard your "Cry"
Now all of a sudden, "You're Gone too Soon"
You can "Ease On Down the Road" then fly off into Heaven like the little "Butterflies" that 
    roam in the spring time
All we can do is "Come Together", "Smile", and "Remember the Time"
We're just "Good Friends" of the world that you knew as your fans
"Fly Away" Michael Jackson, you will be forever and dearly missed.


Details | Elegy | |

She loved one

She could feel it in her bones.

Chills promising her she would

would never be alone.

I cried the night he left, he

just went away leaving me with

a scar of sweet memories. I held

him dear to me he was the only one

who I had led to my heart and opened

the door. 

He didn't deserve it, oh no he didn't

But he was the one she loved and as the

tears dropped she turned to stone.


Details | Elegy | |

Court Historians

The Court Historians'
official dictums
of special reports
and minor fiction from
deep in the archives
where they've been
resting with other lies
besides these, and other
generally accepted deeds
have just been released
for "people consumption" now
that the donkies have been appeased
and truth into lie
and lie into truth
have rendered history
spin-city legalese.


Details | Elegy | |

Stanza 1917

So let's see what the laddies need
To charge the guns and not impede
The rate of fire to cut them down
And body bags to go all 'round.

Let's give then picks and shovels
And blamket rolls to boot,
And heavy rolls of barbed wire
To carry for the shoot.

And fancy spats and bayonets
And canteens and trenching tools,
And gas masks and radios
And spy glasses too.

All crammed into the pit each man,
His name and rank unknown!
How bodily well he was supplied!
The banker's wealth---it doth abide.


Details | Elegy | |

Nightfighter

Akerman spun to the left, then right,
His fighter spewing fire into the flight.
Headlong the bounding dash he flew
Face to face with bomber and her crew.
Out of control with blasted plastic, steel
The bomber fell, no chutes aglow
Against the phosphoresent night.


Details | Elegy | |

SADAT

He walked with the dignity of a 
kingdom as old as the written word.

The goodness and figure of a father,
he died under the sighs of the pharaohs.

The sacrificing Christ of his convictions,
unflinching, faced the lions of his legions.