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Narrative Life Poems | Narrative Poems About Life

These Narrative Life poems are examples of Narrative poems about Life. These are the best examples of Narrative Life poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative | |

The Clouds

"THERE HE WAS HOLDING HIS HAND OUT"

My voice=
God, can I hold your hand and go with you?

"Gods voice"
My sweet child, it is I who will walk with you now! You walked down my path with and without faith. You took my protection to ease your pain. My shielded wings comfort you during your moments of suffering while your life staggered across the earth... Your love and devotion are what made you strong. Every time your dreams were broken. You managed to build more dreams in their place. You called my name during your happiest and saddest moments. You always ran up to me when you fell behind. Your secrets became our private talks. The key to your heart was always unlocked. I was there during your trials and troubles of tribulations. We could not speak, but it was my light that would not allow you to get weak.

My voice=
Is this that dream of beauty? The one in the book my preacher spoke of. 
Yes! I remember it now it is called paradise. I felt this company once before, Lord.
Many times, I have forsaken this light, and still it never left my door.
I felt it the day I was born, and the day I became baptized in your holy name.
I felt this light before, can you explain it some more? 
Lord pleases clarify that day I fell down to my knees and accepted Jesus as my savior? 
Every day since, I felt as if you stood away and walked on by, allowing me to face my own failures’.  Was my life a waste in this impossible world?"

"Gods voice" 
My child, this is the everlasting light you will feel every time your body is re-born onto a new road.  This light never left you. 
My sweet child did you not listen, Matthew *19:26* MY SON looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with ME all things are possible. My child you were not searching for the right answers.

My voice= 
My Lord everyone told me if I prayed you would come. Did I not pray right?

"Gods voice"
My child sometimes your heart asked for more than life itself, which left questions for someone else.  
At times how could I answer when you shunned heaven away from your eyes?
The obvious question is whether this is the final immersing of your souls disguises.

My voice= 
Lord, I have other questions to ask. 
What should I expect out of my personal sins? My testimonial sits in the palm of your hand
My mind and my heart's inner core have been wicked since my adolescence days. 
How is it that I am in your promise land?

"Gods voice"
Getting right with me has brought you here!

My voice= 
One more question My Heavenly Father
Can I see them? My Daughter, Mothers, and Sisters~

by;PD


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Will You Tie My Shoes When I Grow Old

You were beautiful, 
my tiny child, 
wrapped tightly in my arms, 
close to my heart.
I listened to you breathing.
I counted your fingers
and your toes.
Helpless, 
you cried out to me
and I loved you
with every ounce of my soul.

Will you hear me
when I cry out? 
Will you hold me close
as I held you then? 

I remember the day
You took your first step.
There was no stopping you.
Your feet gave you freedom
to explore the world
like never before
but danger lurked.
I opened those doors anyway, 
cautiously, 
and introduced
you to the world.
Where will you be
when my legs
no longer run? 
no longer work? 
Will you realize
that I love
freedom too? 

I laugh
about that day
you first tied your shoe.
We tried and tried
to get that rabbit
in that hole
and you finally did it.
You pointed your toes
for everyone to see
how proud you were.

I am proud too, 
of my writing
and my drawing, 
of my needlework
and my cooking.
But my hands are beginning to ache
and my fingers will not bend.
I will lose the things
that make me proud
except for you.
Hopefully not you.
Will you let me
brag on you? 
Even tell wild stories
that are a bit beyond the truth? 
Will you be proud of me too? 

I waved good-bye
that morning when you left
on that large, yellow bus.
I was so scared.
I know you were too.
You waved at me bravely
through the dusty window
but I saw the water
forming in your eyes.
You came home, however, 
full of pride and joy.
You sang the alphabet song
and got most of it right.
You practiced for hours
until you could sing it
even in your sleep.

But 
I'm afraid.
I forgot
whether I took
my pills today or not.
I forgot
if I told this story before.
I even forgot once
who you were
and it terrified me.
My mind
is my treasure
the only thing I have left, 
and I heard you make
fun of me
for not remembering
that I gave you the
same gift as last year.
Will you love me
when I no longer
know who I am? 

You came home blushing
from the glow of
your first kiss.
Your first love, 
the one you thought was real.
You talked about him non-stop.
You changed for him. You gave.
But he left you anyway
for a blue-eyed girl
and I held you
while you cried for him.

I too have a
broken heart.
The love of my life
left me after
fifty-six years.
He left me here
to live life on my own
while he moved on
to another realm
And I cry for him too.
I long for his shoulder
and strong embrace.
I feel betrayed
because he and I
made a deal
that we would never
leave the other alone.
Yet I am alone
sitting in an echoing house
with no hands to hold.

You welcomed her home today- 
your tiny baby girl.
She has your eyes
and possibly your toes.
I see you counting them
as they roll me
into the room.
You finally came
to visit.
It has been a while.

You look up at me
with tears in your eyes
and ask
almost desperately, 

"Will she tie my
shoes
when I get old? "


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Nevermore Will Raven Return

 *Note:  A 60-year annual tradition that involved a mysterious visitor leaving three 
roses at the grave of writer Edgar Allan Poe on the anniversary of his birthday 
ended in January 2010.  Curators of the Poe House and Museum are at a loss to 
explain who left these gifts and why they stopped.  On many occasions people kept 
vigils  near Poe’s grave during this period that began in 1949, but no one ever saw 
someone leaving the roses. In the morning, however, they were always on his 
grave.  Poe is considered the father of the American short story and 
his poem The Raven is one of his best known works.



Once upon a midnight dreary, Poe heard a tapping at his window
     While grieving the loss of his young bride, a maiden “angels named Lenore,”
A radiant teen whose long, black hair in gentle breezes would billow,
     Tapping at the window ceased, but suddenly it was heard at his door

Upon opening it, a Raven flew in repeating, “Nevermore”
     At first he welcomed this odd visitor until Poe whispered, “Lenore”
When he heard his word echo, the strange Raven he began to abhor
     He asked if he’d see his bride again and the bird replied, “Nevermore”

Though Poe died in eighteen forty-nine, a mystery evolved much later
     A century after his death, his grave had an annual visitor
Roses were left on his birthday by someone whose love appeared greater
     Who had left these floral gifts forever stumped the Poe House curator

Perhaps the answer can only be explained by reincarnation
     Did the Raven embody the spirit of Poe’s beloved Lenore
If so, perhaps the Raven returned again in a life rotation
     In human form she visited to lay roses on the earthen floor

And upon her death in two-thousand nine, she took to the skies once more
     A Raven who now joins the flock circling above her late husband’s grave       \/
Could it be her spirit remains with Poe, as it did in life before                         \/ \/ \/
     Bringing him in the afterlife all the roses a poet could crave                     \/ \/ \/ \/

For those who consider this possibility totally absurd
Just consider the fantasies Poe created with the written word



By Carolyn Devonshire
Contest Title: “Among the Dead,” sponsored by Constance LaFrance ~ A Rambling 
Poet ~


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A Story to Tell

A heart read and quoted by many in this lifetime Battle scars that remain and yet shielded by a peace of mind Walked several miles and traveled while teaching others how to embrace Remains courageous, faithful and strong with persistence in any given case Blindsided by those who are willing to love and cherish her to the end Silence becomes her guard, her armor, her protector, and best friend Tears of pain, and sorrow, all of which are from a past memory Times shared, lost and gained, the negative days are history Mental pictures are drawn from imaginations that lead her to an untraceable place Recruit no one, for life has taught her that there is no room for more mistakes A mind reader that has established herself to be two steps ahead Portrays an interesting novel, a world kept secret unread Admire her dearly for her patience, wisdom and knowledge untold How does she continue to live life so freely far from her empty soul?
Pace, G INK-U-SCRIPT


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Sweetest Love Note

One night a guy & a girl were
driving home from the movies. The
boy sensed there was
something wrong because of the painful
silence they shared between them
that night. The girl then asked the boy to pull over
because she wanted to talk. She told him that her
feelings had changed & that it was time to move on.
A silent tear slid down his cheek as he
slowly reached into his pocket & passed her a folded note.
At that moment, a drunk driver was speeding down
that very same street. He swerved
right into the drivers seat, killing the boy.
Miraculously, the girl survived. Remembering the note, she
pulled it out & read it.
"Without your love, I would die."


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Rules For Living



Respect for nature Respect for authority Respect for fellow man The rules of majority Honesty is contentment Honesty in everything Honesty of the heart Alive as the spring Joyful in common things Joyful of mind Joyful just being Gentle and kind Happy within your soul Happy with friends Happy to be living At peace to the end Creeds I adhere to Creed for giving Creed for success Great rules for living © Jack Ellison 2014


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Justice in the Quest For Love

I saw how martyrs longed for love, and so began the play of my flitting heart
A strange girl had I become, with airs of fickle dream,
My heart an embodiment of wonder to all that dared to behold it
Closing my eyes, I would find myself knowing something new would shine my way
Had I known what was coming, the dawn would seem far less appealing...

As all journeys begin, a darkness began to veer its head
The plot of reality melted in dissonant chords... 
Dark blue fogs of doubt caked my mind and heart 
Though the longing for love never left... 
And had it left, no dawn would await me 

I saw there were rules setting a foundation for my intensely embarked mark 
I knew if I were to feel any twinge of fire, 
I must first be rid of the fog...or at the very least find my way through it 
How it stung as it hit my virgin skin, not like gentle clouds talking me through it, 
Caressing, surrounding and seducing. . . 
No, like a poison, the bleak thickness of the doubt choking me 
Reducing me to child's tears...I toiled through its torments, 
I rested upon rough rocks of rhetorics 
Admiring their vitality and honesty... 
At one point in time I had convinced myself that I was one of them 
A rock- cold, rough... hardened and overlooked...destined to crumble 
Though more demands surfaced on this quest for love's Justice 

Weakened by the blue fogs blackening,
 I cried out in the pit of my heart, surrendering before me 
Words...kept so long inside... 
I freed them from the strongholds of my darkest nights 
And soon there was a deep, hypnotizing reply... 

Justice, tall and proud, said from above the sinking pit, 
"True, I have seen you before, 
A token of adoration you have become, 
Crying night after night in melodious black, 
With little to take, and everything to give... 
My demands are simple, as your longing is profound, 
You, yes, you! Take my hand so I may hold you tightly..." 

My mouth agape, I stretched out my hand to meet the vines of his fingers 
Clutching in sparks, he breathed into me life... and promise of love 

"Surrender your heart to the hope of love 
When you find you are not alone, as none of you are, 
When you praise with your singsong words that passion has altered, 
Giving all to a soul you have yet to see, 
You shall feel my hand lift you as I do now... 
Soon once more, you shall learn- the dawn will always be dawn 
And the night will always be your velvet pathway to Beyond." 

This, Justice proclaimed in the voice of a thousand cries of birth 
The overtones spilling out in rainbows of rapture 

It was soon after his visit, I knew I must perform... 
Surrender, faith, and action Three keys to the same door... 
And they, golden and alight, were in my hands to use 

The time came when my heart grew roses, thorns and all 
And hearts smashed their way through, though I cherished the burn... 
Fogs still lingered in the alleyway of fear 
And now I knew not to inch my way near 

For the punishment he had whispered like darts in my ear, 
"If you, now seeing the truth, dismember your heart, 
I will crush your petals into black abyss, 
I will reduce you to dust, leaving the thorns, 
I am animal in the face of failure, 
My tolerance for hate is shorter than an ant beholding a mountain 
And if you so much as reject my call, 
Hate is exactly what I will allow, 
And it will destroy you, oh singing heart..." 

This I ask of Justice, on the day of my calling, and yet still today... - 
"Tell me, oh spirit, 
Phantom of Epiphany, 
When the love I so long for locks tightly upon me, 
Becoming me, 
Shall it be as I dreamed, 
Or shall I be wholly disappointed, 
Left in the agony of reality, 
Where roses grow, thorns and all... 
Only to wither...and die... 
?" 

He was so gentle...that he merely smiled and left me... 

It was right away, soon after his departure, 
That I felt he never would fully leave... 
He allowed me to weave my own dreams, 
Finding out for myself if reality was truly as magical as they write 
And as for an answer, as dull as this may sound... it is... 

I, like many tearful martyrs before me, 
Continue to long for a love that will fulfill me 
Often reality teases me, and I know not if she is demon or angel 
Though one day, I will see reality is on my side, ugly or not 
The play of my flitting heart still beating its rhythmic drums 
The rainbows of overtones lulling me into ecstasy, 
As I see words of wisdom thriving in the hands that save 

This, though little, I know- 
Love is justice of reward beyond our wildest dreams 
He sings to us every night, never making promises... 
He just smiles and allows us to live it 
He allows us to discover, and in turn give... 
To enlighten others still trapped in the ruts of fog 
Once we feel it, there is no turning back 
Please do not let him crush those roses you have made... 
Even their foundations were meant to reach the skies 
Touching the brightest dawn...and Beyond..

 -For Justin Bordner's "Love Justice" Contest 
Love you loads, and thank you immensely for inspiring me! 


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The Sparrow

He called it love and his captivating way,
   She called it fear and longed for the day.
All alone she cried those bitter nights,
   While he ran around to his hearts delight.
He had her heart he pulled her strings,
    All she ever wanted was the joy that only true love can bring.
He controlled her mind, her spirit, her soul,
     All alone with no hopes of ever achieving her goals.
Completely stripped of confidence and pride,
    She became a victim of his heartless and evil side.
She was hardly a child when he stole her heart,
    Lured in to his web with lies and broken promises from the start.
Now all of her dreams have faded away,
    As she musters up courage to try to make it through another day.
He has convinced her that what he says is the final word,
    No matter what she had read or heard.
You can’t make it out there, alone, is what he said!
    You won’t last a week till somebody finds you dead.
So callous and cruel he chose those frightening words to keep her here,
    But she had reached the end and leaving was the only way and she saw it clear.
She said you’re right and I should hush so let’s not fight,
     But her things were packed, she’d be leaving this night.
He got all dressed and went out to make the town,
     She called her a taxi and left that clown.
She broke the bonds that held her there,
     Now she’s on her own enjoying life and breathing in this new found air.
This little sparrow has found her wings,
     Enjoying everything this life can possibly bring.


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"Sacred Season"

A dream

To hear the whippoorwills' sad urgent  call
I was very glad when I was a lad
But now twilight nearing new season's fall
My Essence of truth my consciousness calls

My tears being not of my former years
For sake of humans I now turn my cares
As compassion of true identity
From sacred place calls from infinity
 
Within unlimited aspects' of me
A great white throne in the distance I see
Around sacred bend a familiar friend
Silhouette of me as my God I see

No more desirous of earth's vain glory
The mind's wilderness of exploratory
History recedes illusions of me
My ego thoughts I just had to be

Totality of Love I see as me
Enter into God's synchronicity
I now see my God as I now see me
As sacredness of the reality
 
As Sacredness calls a new season's fall
Recesses the former whippoorwills' call
As new life calls I now realize it all
New life is in the  Sacred Season's Fall

Mystified as I liquefied I cry
As in spirit of love quite high I fly
Above consequences life's  densities
As spiritual tears replace human fears

1-12-10


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Faces Along the Way

Life is but a winding road
Filled with faces along the way
Coming in and out of your life
Coloring your every day

Yet most spend just a moment
A fleeting glimpse before your eyes
They giveth not and taketh not
And cause you barely a rise

And some stay just a moment
Earning a thought upon your mind
Triggers for countless memories
These are the most common kind

And fewer still stay even longer
And commune with you a while
Leaving behind dearest memoirs
Of sweet tears or a special smile

And rarer still those faces grand
Building mansions in your soul
These are the faces of a lifetime
Whose virtue you do extol

And know that you simply are
A feature filled soiree
A portrait in collage 
Of the faces along the way


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Pride of the Motherland

Riding an elephant
Down the narrow trail looking triumphant
Scanning the golden landscape
Like Hannibal with enemies in flight
Sight from a lofty height
King of the jungle moving
With lioness by his side

Climbing Mount Kilimanjaro
Guides by my side with packs on their backs
Some paths steep with rocks
Boots slipping below our tired feet
Beautiful birds in unison flight
Moving with terrestrial light
Stunning sunlight summit on the peak

Praying in an Ethiopian Church
Preserved in rocks built by humans’ hands 
Never touched by conquest plans
Protected from the invaders’ footsteps
Queen of Sheba and Solomon’s nest
Touched by Arch of the Covenant
Mary, Joseph, and Jesus once slept

Eating yam, sipping palm wine, and tasting milk
Freshly squeezed by experienced hands
Taste of life in the mosaic grassland
Sustaining and soul refreshing
Cradle of humankind adorning
Invaded for its gold, riches, and human capacity
Birth of life on earth with tenacity

Respecting its living and arduous journey
Essence of life once was and is again to come
Riding a camel across the hot Sahara sand
Once wet now dried, exported gold from Mali…
Treasures from the hearts of once African empires
That which was, is, and shall forever be
Africa the birthing Motherland
We still love and respect thee!

~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~

Seventh Place Winner
"African's Pride" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Adeleke Adeite
June 30, 2010

~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~


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Tea Leaves On The Bosphorus

Tea Leaves On The Bosphorus

Seated at a table by the stirring water,
My eyes absorb the shore of Asia.
Minerets and aged worn stone
Stand haphazardly along the banks.
Istanbul is a lady with secrets
She'll lure you with her unrevealed virgin beauty,
Then seduce you with her ancient lovers.

Grilled sardines filled my charger
Fish pulled from the strait just minutes before,
Lay garnished with parsley and mint .
Red pickled turnips and warm flat bread
Are the implements that help feed me 
And scoop up the humus,
Turkish nourishment for my soul.

The empty plates are cleared by a handsome waiter
With dubious intentions I feared,
But I was flattered none the less.
A bowl of yogurt was placed before me,
And my admirer arrived with a comb of honey.
He held it high above the creamy cloud and let the heavy ochre
languidly pour atop the milky whiteness of delight.
After his seduction,he left me alone to my pleasure
As I lapped at the sweet and sour heavenly temptation,
that parted my lips and elevated my being.

As I recovered from my rapture, two eyes caught mine.
The heathen that destroyed my diet approached the table uninvited.
He pulled up a chair and sat down across from me.
In his hands, a cup.
He offered to tell me my future.
White, small, as fragile as an eggshell with the top lopped off.
Within was a dark tea with floating leaves.
In a chivalrous attempt at English conversation,
He handed me the libation and the offer to read the remains.

I, alone in a man's world, unmarried, and of a certain age,
Did not need encouragement and I accepted his offer.
I drained the tea in one gulp and returned it to his hands.
He placed the cup in one palm , then turned it upside down,
Allowing the remaining fluid to drip out around the cup and onto the table.
Once the cup was upright again he studied the leaves, then he spoke.

His voice was soft, at times , unintelligible
His reading was honest, and truthful, and painful.
His prophecy, amusing, and entertaining
His vision and it's accuracy were astounding.

Fifteen years later, the leaves delivered on their promise.
Long fluid lines inside the cup foretold of a marriage,
To a man who  would cross a sea to find me.
Two shorter drippings were the children that now delight me.
The  tea ring that he was able to complete around the cup ,
Was the warmth of a love that would soon envelop me.


Tea, anyone?





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New Road

In a new road,
Rain will fall,
Wind may blow,
Swifting our woe.

The road forever on and on,
Many paths to choose,
Many paths to take,
Home behind,
World ahead...

Through the shadows,
Through the night,
Clouds going by,
There we will lie,
Very deep,
Seeing shivered land,
Seeing the dead seas...

Through the edge,
Miles to go,
Singing by,
Darkness rising,
Vanishing light,
Hollow flourishing,
Going by,
World ahead,
Home behind...

Rain may fall,
Through the nightfall,
Through the twilight,
Through the dusk,
Through the dawn,
Beyond mountains,
Beyond stones,
Standing strong,
Wandering lost,
World ahead,
Home behind,
Paths on and on,
'Till the road comes along...


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An Escape

Have some time to spare in-between a work schedule 
burning me from the inside, out.
Wasted too much time on the computer already,
my body aches from physical inactivity.

Thoughts are racing faster than the speed of light,
the routine of modern life is trying to cage in a free spirit-
a pen for a wild horse with boundless energy,
a strong kick and large teeth.

Haven't come down to this part of the bay for years.
Not sure why anymore?
Not too sure about anything right now.
Believed I was too young to be having these thoughts,
but here they come like a booming drum beat,
keeping time with the pounding of my heart,
but always just a little louder,
to remind me how this warning isn't about to depart.

The putrid stench of kelp and dead crabs
baking in the afternoon sun,
curls up my nostrils, awakening memories of childhood....
....the salt in the sea is the salt in my blood;
we have been one since conception.
The salty, deep green rot, smells like bliss to me,
compared with the scents of over-heated wires,
burnt coffee, and industrial-gray carpeting.

Sit down on a large chunk of driftwood.
The waves aren't crashing in their usual rhythmic crescendo,
but lapping quietly like chortling laughter.
The ocean is chuckling,
laughing at my insignificance
in comparison to its almost limitless horizon 
of cruel, cold water.

A familiar pungent aroma creeps my way-
the high citrus scent of bergamot
mixed with the sweet perfume of skunk.
Two young punks are hauling on some reefer
up the beach from where I am sitting.
Can hear their youthful, carefree chatter.
The last time I smoked weed, seems eons ago now.
The smell invokes the rebel still alive inside,
giving a glimpse of who I had once been-
eyes blazing red,
mind full of humble awe
flying high above the clouds like an eagle.

The shrill cries of gulls fighting over a starfish
breaks my stupor of reminiscence,
reminding me of the hungry ways of nature-
the hungry ways of mankind and money.
Damn! My stupid job awaits!

As I make my way back,
pant legs causing the sand grass 
to sigh in dry moans and whispers,
I make up my mind to visit 
this old stomping ground more often.
In fact, I might start coming out here
on all of my lunch breaks.
Out here, the wild horse has ample room to roam,
even if for only a few moments of escape-
an illusion of escape is far better
than having only stifled dreams
and no hope left at all-

feel much better already.


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Together As One

Together As One
To dream as one.
When we dream we dream as one. When we laugh we laugh as one. We have a life 
together that compliments one another. We have a love that is like no other it’s as 
one. We reach for the stars and look for the moon. We support and care for one 
another on our journeys as our journeys cross paths.
We listen with excitement to each other’s dreams. To understand and encourage 
comes from the heart. Knowing with certainty that we deserve the love we give and 
receive as we are as one. What is wonderful for one is so for the other for our life 
path is the same. Knowing one so well is to know one’s self without a doubt.
Dreams that come together both big and small shared by knowing hearts that want 
the same want are as one. A love so strong can feel and guide with the stars and 
moon. Set in motion a force together nothing can sever but blessed be a dream 
together as one!
Dream, laugh, and love we do as one for we became one. Together we reach for the 
stars and the moon as we share the paths we take. Our journey takes us many 
directions to which we share our delight. A journey worth taking is a journey worth 
sharing…sharing as one!
                                                                                   Debbie Knapp



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---And the Angel Looked On

"I heard an angel speak last night and he said "write" - Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

"Remember..."
that was the last word he whispered before his eyes closed forever...
"Remember..."

I close my own eyes, bite my lower lip, 'til I taste tin, stone angel crying with me...
The wind sends chills through me, as the heavens threatened to weep
brown leaves skittering between my feet, seeking for shelter.
How I related to those leaves: dry...brittle...dead.

I look at the Angel that watches over him,imploring for answers, 
begging this Guardian to take pity on me, help me remember. 
She only looks at me, with tears in her eyes, her beautiful face
always looked enigmatic to me, for she was smiling...
and yet those tears hinted at sadness, 
seemingly reprimanding me with her look.
I bow my head in shame, and reach for her hands, 
but I only feel cold, hard stone...not unlike my heart

My throat catches, I can hardly breathe--
I loosen my grip, feeling it might burn this time
...from guilt, for forgetting...

I glance at her magnificent wings, and wished I had them, too,
if only to fly away, but my feet are stuck on the ground, 
with a heart buried in regret.

I whisper one word: "Sorry":spoken so softly, I think I only said it in my heart;
I say it louder, my body wracked with sobs, my heart bleeding crimson tears of anguish. 
I look at the Angel and notice something on her sash--
One pristine white feather lay there-a stark contrast to the moss covered stone.
I take the feather, notice wordings etched on the sash--and scraped off moss, 
Tennyson's words go straight to my heart...
" 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

The memories come back like a flash flood, assaulting me, bringing me back to that day.
He told me he had an angel carved to be with him at his grave, 
since I, his angel, couldn't always be there for him. And that he understood, 
that it was okay. I shrugged it off, told him I love him forever.
I still do, that's why it shamed me that I also love another now.

Seeing those words, I felt such a sense of peace, like he was embracing me, 
smoothing out my hair like he used to, telling me it was all right. 
I blink back tears, and say "Thank you" this time...I hug the Angel and I felt warm.
Drizzle and sunlight bounced off each other as I walked away. 
I turn my head around to his grave
--and the Angel looked on with a smile.


Constance's Angels in Cemeteries contest
 June 18, 2011


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How a Blue Rose Came to be

Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely -  red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.

She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be  Queen; 
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.

Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon  her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping,  like a willow tree.


Then the sky begin  to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As  tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that  Irish rose, 
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below 
                                          
                            	 ~~~~~
		
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply  - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.

                                  ~~~~~

The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he kneeled and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.  


		~~~~

The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone   
That still stands alone   upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.

 
 Written:  June 18, 2010

Note:  To late for the contest,
but I thought I would post it anyway. 










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Enjoy The Ride



Some days are diamonds, some are stone To quote an old John Denver hit Truer words were never spoken The “stone days” (not stoned days!) Are only sent to us to test our resolve And to appreciate the “diamond days” even more To prove, that as dark or as difficult as life can get There is ALWAYS a silver lining Otherwise we'd all be candidates for the looney bin Trust me, have I ever lied to you before? Okay... well only a couple of times And I was under the influence??? The influence of WHAT, you may ask Uh, I take the fifth... okay here are some examples Now let me see, watching a pretty girl go by Or the government sending me an unexpected refund Of a couple of hundred dollars YEEHAW Maybe sitting down to my favourite meal With my lovely spouse I've adored Since the two of us were dreamy-eyed sweethearts In grade school right up to the present And now happily married with a couple of wee ones Don't get me wrong, I do have days of stone But my diamond days far outnumber them So the bottom line is Live, love, laugh and be happy You only get one chance to travel life's highway So ENJOY the ride!!! © Jack Ellison 2014


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My White Lace Tablecloth

I washed my white lace tablecloth and hung it out to dry
The bleach did the best it could-it was worth the try
'Though no one else can see, the stain still remains
As old as time itself 
Stubborn as mildew rot

One false step, one careless word forever etched in time
Travels the universe, endlessly
In search of a place to rest  
What would I not give to reverse that step
To retrieve that hateful word

Tread lightly in your daily walk, o'er hills and valleys in between
Plot well your steps and weigh your words
So you'll have nothing to regret, like the
Unkind words carved deeply upon your heart
I wash my white lace tablecloth again, again and again!
~*~
10/09/2007


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This Shoe

There was An Old Women in This Shoe...
She had so many Children that it felt just like A Zoo.
She taught Them love,read poetry,and books...
They choose anger,hatred, and would not even look.
She taught Them reading,arithmetic,and writing...
They chose pain,aggravation,and dynamic fighting.
She Taught Them to Be Honest,truthful,never to fib or lie???
They chose words with devious vulgar meanness and demise.
She made Them scrap books with animals and art work of every kind.
They chose alcohol,drugs,Drug Dealers,and misery;Why???
She married a disease She knew not of its' severity or  how to beat...
These Children All adopted it and low and Behold became rather weak.
She resort to teaching Them how to Pray to God and have Mercy.
How They forgot Her,All Their Manors,and those taught curtsies.
She would still Pray for Them to Her very last Days smothered By Kids.
You know;They came in All Sizes;Big,Medium,and small Bids.
Oh How She would Say,"Please For The Sake of God!!!
She happens to Be Gone In there live now...
As Precious as Her words were...
They still Haven't heard Her and just nod.

By Charlene L.Wilcox 09-20-2014


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Crying In The Rain

he thought he knew her 
this man she married….

inside those morning glory eyes
her tentative blooms unfolding 
soft and pink with desires fire….
reserved for just his caress
that he crushed and stepped upon

whiskey is much better
when its aged…
and he has some growing to do 

amid the whimpers of a sudden rain
pelting with a vengeance
all the skin can do is take the cracking
as its human capacity is limited

where did she go he wonders 
questioning her disappearance 
with unjustified despondence
(still consumed with just himself)
as she vanishes without a trace

sometimes the ropes break…
and sometimes they come untied
even steel chains come unbound
in moments of clarity

he remembers how he once held her
(vapors are fragile but consuming)
even then in a choke hold
grasped around her once willing 
pale and bruised up neck
with rough hands and lies
he believed as well as her
leaving her mummified and torn

oh ignorance leaves one in nirvana 
yet…..

violins sound sorrowful when played at loves demise

so when the music floats upon a lonely air
going nowhere on a ripped up wind
does he have a right to grieve what is lost
(a bit like a baby that lost its toy)
when he threw it out with Mondays garbage

and only now 
when its gone 
(attempting to excavate a grave)
does he mourn its passing…..


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Coiled Spring External

it is in this mural of splashing fuses 
that I am lit with a solemn torch……

I gaze with back deck musing 
but  front porch eyes….

I see the distance beyond this world
                   (my own cosmic existence)
a residence I squandered 
but my feet want to tread there

the green that surrounds me 
suffuses me with lakeside dew
melodies drifting only the quiet can hear
ripples that only valid observers see

the kentucky breeze carries a lonely wind
solitary….
               where has it been?
has it touched the sand I have?
                                (bare toes buried)

somewhere a child cries in the still
shattering  this serenity 
(though some don’t hear it)
along the bank of shoal like tranquility
the birds will wail for broken dreams 
(severed by thoughtless hands)

oh, its only a portrait
                     (an inspiring one though)
as open lashes stumble 
                        a horizons sinking sun
multi hues of reckless red and pink
a blue print  of what life should be
snap shot deftness in the perception
while beneath lay the sorrow

the last lingering tangerine shades
tease and taunt the tops of dogwood trees
oh beauty as far as eyes can see
a few silver shimmers of clouds 
                              in a blue grass sky

flowers bloom sweet pea and peonies
raw carmine kisses in the silence
pretty pansy faces 
                   and grass is verdant
green!! peacock sage and pine
 arrayed in darks and lights
a myriad of different shades 
brilliant in its lush velvet on my feet

to only live life this way (skimming surfaces)
just as the honey suckle does
how blissful that would be
(in all its exquisite ignorance)
branches sway in the song of a blue bird zephyr
as the fingers of it caress my skin

tonight
this expanse is my companion

but still I perceive it
what lies beneath
in stunning cognizance 
bearing a strenuous burden

it is in this mural of splashing fuses
that I am lit with a solemn torch

I gaze with back deck musing
but front porch eyes


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Birth, in a Quiet Room

“Well,” She asked; her eyes wide. Beads of hot sweat glistening on her brow like miniature 
crystal suns. Her angst was palpable. “What is it!”
     The air was still. There were no words. Just the sound of bodies breathing in – and 
holding.
     “Congratulations.” He held out his arms, handing the mother, her baby, “You have a son.”
     The moment shone like glass in the center of the heavens – pure and eternal.
     It was redemption from every wrong thing she’d ever done. 
     It was the shining eyes of God smiling onto her exhausted face; lighting it with hope.    
     It was the only place there was – the only time, the only space. 
     It was the only feeling that existed. 
     They were the only two incarnate souls in the room; on the planet, and in the universe.
     This was her child –
     her son.
     And she was his mother.

     (there are no words for such things. suddenly, I feel like an intruder. there are too many 
eyes, words and moments here. so it is here, I take my leave; leaving this mother and the 
only soul in her universe to their perfect moment. they will have many more moments in this 
lifetime; but none as sacred, as human, or as eternal as the first look from life to life; 
mother to child; heaven to earth, as the very first. None.)
     
“It’s a boy.” she whispered. Her throat a crumbling tunnel; stunned, but not really. Like 
she’d known it all along. “My baby boy…” She smiled into his ancient, brand-new face; 
tracing his delicate cheek with the back of her finger. “He’s perfect.” 
     She ran her palm along the bottom of his soft, miraculous foot, and laughed. “Look at 
your feet – they’re huge!”
     And as she wiped the tears with the heel of her shaking hand – smearing what was left of 
her mascara - she looked in to his, as close to heaven as one can get, eyes, and said, “Hi.
I’m your mama.” He smiled at her. He knew. He’d known it all along. “And I’ll love you 
forever…”
     The world closed its shades then. Leaving the sacred to its history; the moment to 
eternity; and their universe to its quiet, little room.
     


*Inspired by Deborah's, You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby, contest; and every mother 
who has graced this sacred room.


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The Fire Rages On...

the fire rages on….

smoke hot and murky 
(like sodden dank  old whiskey)
burns the backs of her brooding eye lids
as she watches fires power frolic 
like a mesmerizing ghost
                  it consumes with licking fingers
the aromatic lavender and the intricate lilies
destroying so slowly 
                the dark hard leather
                           and delicate white lace
(it could be gone in an instant)

the quiet like a devastation spills into her
like bodies of the long passed
                                       (already ascended)
eyes like cheap gin
on a Saturday night
begging to be borrowed
in someone else’s head

forms of faces out of tune like an old scratched record
replaying into a wiped out ancient black sky
breeding dismay between what should be kissed lips

burrowing into flames she sketches with her ruby red
and shadowed pink mouth
(had it always been this way?)
she….with fragile fingers
                                    twining and untwining
(with temptation of a rose thorn)
      unhealed with lacerations 

does she own the capacity 
                                      on her own 
  to block the fierceness of the sun?

beneath the stale sirens
(pounding out a raucous rhythm
                                    on her heart) 
of a raw and frantic flutter
she hears the wild piercing
of wings beating in futility
        against harsh walls
rat tat tatting….rat tat tatting….
battering and scattering 
                                  trapped inside a cage

“fly free….just fly free!” 

she pleads to the lady she visits every  Friday
                 “why the hesitation?”
as she whimpers from the wounds
                  old and dead and long buried
in the ground beneath a willow

and still the fire rages and rampages
                                          steals the flower petals 
while ripping through the forest 
as she trips on tender heels of the never fast enough

smoke still burns the backs of her brooding eyelids….











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The Devil's Tide

I looked up at a silver moon 
Peering through a cloud of misty gloom 
As we sailed across the Atlantic Sea 
That fateful night in June 
 
And as I stood upon the bow 
A furrow crossed my troubled brow 
When I saw a dying star fall from the sky 
As the wind out of the north 
Began to cry 
 
'Twas then with fearful heart 
I came at last to realize 
That we were sailing 
On a wave of ill-tidings 
Known as 'The Devil's Tide' 
 
For no omen of the sea 
Brought more fear than thee 
A fallen star -  a silver moon 
Together in the month of June 
If legend true would surely bring us doom 
 
So with no trace of land in sight 
We sailed onward through the night
I -  the Captain 'Louie Lou' 
With my faithful crew 
Aboard the 3 mast schooner 'Angel - of the Blue' 
On canvas wings we flew 
Upon the wailing wind that blew 
 
Then suddenly a hush of malaise 
Crushed the summer night
Filling all the crew with dreadful fright 
As all the stars in heaven lost their light 
And the silver moon dipped completely out of sight 
Leaving us to drift without guidance 
To our unknown plight 
 
An eerie sound began to roll out of the west 
Growing louder and louder as we held our breath 
Until it was upon us and the ship began rise 
As we looked in horror into the Devil's eye 
As the Angel of the Blue began to fly 
Up the Devil's breast she climbed 20 fathoms high 
 
One by one the Angel's wings were torn away 
As she fought to save us from the Devil's rage 
Screams of horror falling from her timber sides 
As the crew fell into the Devil's tide 
 
And I -  tethered to the helm -  watched them die 
As we climbed even higher into the Devil's eye 
And as the Angel's body creaked and cracked
We finally scaled the crest and rode upon the Devil's back
Just before I fainted and my world went black 
 
I woke up in the morning high on a mountain side 
Never knowing just how I had survived 
knowing only that my Angel and my crew had died 
 
~~~ 
 
Many years have come and gone since then 
And I am forever haunted by each and every one of them 
My faithful crew and my mighty 'Angel of the Blue' 
 
I see their faces in my dreams 
As I awaken to their screams 
Wishing, too -  that I had died 
But someone had to live 
To tell the tale of the 'Devil's Tide'.

~~~~~~~~

Author:  Elaine George
Entry for contest:  Legends
Awarded:  First Place





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Battle Scars

Don’t judge that kid with her arms all scarred
Don’t brand that kid as bad
You never would have survived 
If you had the life she had
So say a prayer and show you care
She’s paid more than her share of dues
Don’t put her down or say bad things
Until you’ve walked that mile in her shoes
Those who suffered in war earn respect
They are greeted like super stars
She came from a war you wouldn’t understand
On her arms, the battle scars
Her own home was the battle zone
The desperation, feeling all alone
A situation she felt no escape from
Then late at night the urges come
Innocence lost like a bad dream
No self respect, no self esteem
It is an ongoing battle to feel whole
You can see the beauty within her soul
Sometimes I pray for a Judgement day
You have no heart if you look away
Flashbacks come and the anger stirs
The guilt she carries isn’t hers
There is a need for justice long past due
A need for acceptance from me and you
With anger, despair and fear demanding
The child needs some understanding
In spite of all the tears she cried
There are still battle scars deep inside


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Tadhana

I may never know what exactly happened,
but I think I know the why of it

Tadhana…Fate…Destiny…Kismet…

Put it in so many words,
but it all boils down to that.

Tadhana…

shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…

She was being stupid,
crashing into the waves that day
just for the thrill of it

He was being pensive,
reflecting on how those waves 
just somehow seemed to soothe him

People slowly left the shores
as dark clouds loomed in the horizon
save for these two souls...

She wasn’t even supposed to be there,
just a spur of the moment thing,
forgetting her other worries
she loved storms, she loved the beach
combine them and for her it was bliss…

He went there for closure,
the 10th year of his brother’s death
trying to accept that he did all he could
he loved him, he loved the beach
but guilt drowned him…

The rains then came down in sheets,
winds whipping, storm waves crashing
she was almost at shore though,
when the undertow pulled her back

He thought he was imagining things,
his brother’s ghost perhaps?
When he saw her again,
and fear was tossed like jetsam

Was she the answer he was seeking for?
His redemption in another form?
Was this the reason why he was here now?
Her only hope for salvation?

Rushing out to sea,
adrenaline rushing through his veins
Faith and Fate working together,
he swam towards her

and as they reached the shore
the winds dropped to a whisper,
the waves went back tickling sand,
the raindrops trickled into drizzles

She was breathing, thank God
He lay beside her, exhausted
She could only thank him with a smile
well, a smile that could match the Sun

and she took his hand...
and put it over her heart

It was not so much that their hands fit perfectly,
but there was something else...
mole on her right ring finger
perfectly aligning
mole on his left ring finger

Tadhana.

Shivers down my spine,
tears prickling my eyes,
as I hear once more the story,
the destiny
of two souls
one stormy day in July…
and of why I am here.



** tadhana is a Tagalog word, it can be translated as fate/destiny/kismet


 July 25, 2010 


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My Favorite Devonshire

Past-Life Nightmare
A child of four suffers recurring dreams,
disturbing parents and siblings with screams.
When she awoke, always sore in one knee;
next to a birthmark, it throbbed painfully.

Night after night she feared going to bed.
What caused these nightmares that raged in her head?
Even when grown, the torment persisted,
so a therapist’s aid she enlisted.

“Hypnosis,” said he, “might offer some clues.
Why not try it?  You’ve just bad dreams to lose.”
Once under, he guided her to a room --
here people’s lifetimes in books were entombed.

“Find one that is yours,” her counselor said.
Quickly she did, but before it was read,
she felt an ache, saw just a faint title.
The words, she thought, said “Alister Bridle.”

The hypnotic trance now suddenly broke;  
puzzling questions “Mr. Bridle” evoked.
For many years she thought that was her name;
perhaps a past life had been filled with pain.

Who was this man?  She simply had to know!
Seasons passed, summer suns made way for snow.
In Florida now, 1998,
she thought all the nightmares she had escaped.

But strange dreams always catch us by surprise --
when the lights grow dim, our minds fantasize.
Cloaked in velvet, she left her parents’ farm,
stealing away on a late autumn morn’.

To meet her love, she climbed on the carriage,
knowing her folks would forbid their marriage.
Warm-hued leaves carpeted the hillside road,
and her pulse beat fast; she’d soon join her beau.

She thought only of him; joy cast its smile,
but that’s when he called, “Alice, the bridle!”
The leather band broke and wrapped ‘round her knee.
To the ground she was pulled; her horse ran free.

She met death, but past-life dreams recycle,
and she’d never been “Alister Bridle.”



*Based on real events I experienced.
--Carolyn Devonshire

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I first read this gripping narrative as an entry for my contest & I
felt chills when I read this-& to know that it is based on real events makes this even more amazing for me. I placed this 2nd place in my first ever contest :D.

For me (& I think to so many others) Carolyn has a real gifted pen-- she can write just about anything & truly evoke emotions within you. She writes about realities of her life & she can take you with her. So Carolyn, continue writing your gems & we'll continue enjoying them :)

Also, thank you so much for all the wonderful comments, they're truly heartfelt & that's one of the things I love about you. Hugs & love!


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Leaving the Station

The smoke is a question mark...
My view of you is covered in gray
You pause, look back, then walk away
You’ve neglected to open your umbrella…

Tomorrow, under a different sky
I will listen to the songs of yesterday
The world leaves behind a sign language for broken hearts
It is cloudy, it is beginning to rain…
Goodbyes are bitter ales we drank today
I look again, through the smudges of the day
We are going to leave behind a trail of smoke
A sound like a tired mother calling in her child
The train whistle rings in the dusk

I take a last look through the window
I have said my goodbyes
The train begins to move
We are leaving the station platform
Tears weep down the window
Spilling over the imprints of my hand
I found myself dry eyed and my throat too tight to speak
Finding a place to put the carry-ons
People are chatting, settling in 
Happy, excited, anxious to be departing

A thin straight lift and a gray, silvery curve
Like a sickle for harvesting the first star…
The smoke is a question mark


___________________________________________
 "Write A Backwards Poem"


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The Drying Of The Ink

No longer at desk the typewriter has been given 
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.

The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.

Vist's from thoose who once knew the man 
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.

Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.

To be the man they never knew and the one he 
could admire and both despise.

The page sits in typewriter like a willing 
eager lover in bed. 
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.

He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.

He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without 
a chance of ever capturing this moment.

The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.