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Best Tragedy Poems

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Don't stop! The most popular and best Tragedy poems are below this new poems list.

The Tragedy by Gregg, Zoe
THE TRAGEDY OF THE NEPAL EARTHQUAKE by Ashton, Darryl
I found tragedy in my happy ending by m.n.i.w, m.n.i.w
Toffee Apple Tragedy by williams, john
A POSH TRAGEDY by williams, john
Tragedy Soaked Paradise by Kramer , Kearra
living in tragedy by sixx, meagan
MY ONLY SON 9-11 TRAGEDY by M., Jennifer
A Plane Tragedy by Carrillo, Lucilla
MH17 TRAGEDY by Jolo, Neldy

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Who Is The Poet

The poet is the language,the mystery in monalisa's smile The brush of Caravaggio,and palette of Vangogh He is the sonnet of Mozart and symphony of Bach The tragedy of Shakespeare,and Pablo's saddest verse He is the Danube in waltz and swan lake in ballet The renaissance of fervent passion,and remnants of last breaths He is the dilemma between immoral,spiritual and sane He is the shadow of deed,the ombra of sin The fantasy,desire,illusion,and the inward sigh birthed from night's aurora He is an outward cry setting in the horizon,in an ocean of tidal waves The poet is the dreamer of a non-existent affair He is the hope,the doubt,the fable,the fairytale,of a mortal reality He is the clown,the living metaphor,the voice escaping ,returning to a hypocratic,demanding world. He is the deceiver of time,a newly wed spouse so loyal to his pen He is the thought which bleeds its petals through fragnant words The poet is an omnipotent servant,with a will to ask and crave to learn He is a philosopher whose always an amateur in the pursuit of wisdom. He is an eternal slave to his muse,addicted to the beverage of inspiration He knows no lapses in all that is scandolous,royal,or sacred He is the artist,musician,actor,and clairvoyant of undestined paths He is the clay's cheap mold carved in the refined sculpture of next century The poet is an unfinished book,each chapter scribbled in yesterday An empty page,still to be filled today,and the worn out bookmark of tomorrow

More great poems below...


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Fifty-Three Shades Of Grey

in the uncoloured tint of another everyday amongst the spit polished waxed apples tightly packed in burlap bags they walked like minded in their own burly wrap oblivious to the irony to their similarity of the markets round red fruit unaware of the tragedy the horror of events yet to come it will rain metal shrapnel as human minds grasp with the purpose of their existence as in their ignorance they understand their worth as human bombs with a belief the heavens will open the gates with a fanfare and a promised blessing for their divine act of unquestioned belief the clay shaped bricks the black iron metal stairs the drum sound of engines then the lull not after but before before the pulse of the storm the rain of death yet this moment captured this photograph with man and child in hand smells sweet you wonder bemused why? the world travels aimlessly singularly no one nothing in the universe suggests exposes even a hint even a glimpse not a clue that would lead reveal an answer. life in its contradiction like the proverbial apple offers both the miracle the curse.
09/23/2014

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Caring For My Mother - A Letter To A Loving Friend


I sit here alone...wondering...how much longer this...and in hearing 
the question a silent icy fear blankets my body...the answer would 
come wearing both masks...tragedy...comedy...this is my life. with
freedom comes death...it hangs over me like a Mexican piñata filled 
with chocolate covered blades...so each day firmly slipped into 
neutral I exist...barely a choice to live...so I ask myself...how
did I get here...the answer comes thundering from up above...
a dead poet speaks...son that is the path you chose at your fork 
in the road... you don't argue the truth...you just throw cold water on 
your face...no...you step into a frigid shower...cleanse your thoughts
...stand in defeat happy to feel something even if it is just the pain of 
your nerve endings screaming...soaking wet and naked is the only life 
you presently afford yourself...there is no one to hear your tears...
what little sound they make rolling down your cheeks...they are not 
self pitying but rather wanting...of a loss so deep...what in your own 
self appreciation defined you...you want back your art...it...that so 
often led you back to the promised land...still you are not that hot 
headed fool you once were...you will not stand on the mountain only 
to shatter the tablets with their ten commandments...a cooler head 
prevails...so you think...like a soap opera...these are the days of my
life...I am strong and vibrant...yes I am and I will walk as slowly as I 
must towards my light and yes I will come out the other side a better 
man for this. 

08~01~2015
Armand

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During Sex I'm Often Naked

You can't make someone love you all you can do is be someone who can be loved.The rest is up to them. No matter how much I care, some people just don't care back. It takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it. You can do something in an instant will give you heartache for life. It's not what you have in your life but who you have in your life that counts. You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes. After that, you'd better know something. It's not what happens to people that's important it's what they do about it. Always leave loved ones with loving words. Either you control your attitude or it controls you. Heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences. Money is a lousy way of keeping score. Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have. Regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion fades and there had better be something else to take its place. Never tell a child their dreams are unlikely or outlandish. Few things are more humiliating, and what a tragedy it would be if they believed you. You must be able to forgive. No matter how good a friend is, they are going to hurt you every once in a while - you must forgive them for that. No matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn't stop for your grief. Our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are but we are responsible for who we become. Just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other and just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do. Two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different. No matter how thin you slice it, there are always two sides. You can keep going long after you think you can't. Even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you, you will find the strength to help. It is hard to determine where to draw the line between being nice and not hurting people's feelings and standing up for what you believe. Credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being. Writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains. The paradigm we live in is not all that is offered to us. (This is my own personal rewrite or version if you will of a common post on the internet with many contributors and credited to Anonymous) 22~12~2014

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AS TWELVE MONTHS CLOSE


I count my walks through herbs and shells never knowing how old bones can be fleshed from a heart bound on scrolls of endings, and here I am among rows of an orchard… feet like dust sanded by twelve months of famine and feast ; somehow the maple boughs wither from the laundry of evenings’ regret. Often times, like the gypsy rose, I climb into the lattice of my family tree smelling its tar and citrus that knit arms glossed by twilight’s love, then raked by froths of autumn’s debris. Closing a fence as another year shuts off, I am between silence and scream… eyes groaning with the music of an anonymous breeze sheltering a collected beauty of tragedy and the comedy of drama: trials pinned by veiled nights when kinship endures the flood of weather's hands. It is so, I mean, the certainty of taming the last ride before new seeds from a new year twirl upon unborn fruits… I disrobe the old bones to greet the unknown. .......................... "“In times of test, family is best.” – Burmese Proverb Carol Eastman's Enter The Best of 2014 Contest by nette onclaud 7/14/2014

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Tissue Box

like visitors from outer space
they came with tears, and lined the sidewalk
long in face, and arms embracing
some (I have no inkling) who
they were or why they felt compelled to come here
dozens came with casseroles
a few with flowers, wads of tissues
tender words of helpless mutterings
many acts of generous offerings

don't get me wrong, I watched the suffering
expressed in words or acts of kindness
I watched it all, and felt the love
did not dismiss the warm compassion
returned it all, with pure compliance
a thankful heart, a swollen throat

I hugged these strangers at the door
to comfort them, who shed their tears
upon my shoulder, offered them
a place to share their sympathies
a place to spend their mercy, pure

                but, this was my child who suffered loss
                impossible........I can't express it

protected from the very start, by
loving hands, her dad's and mine, 
we watched her grow, and let her go
she grew from the vine ....into a rose
but life composed a tragedy with goals
beyond our reach...beyond our wildest dreams
and left her with a loss beyond control

like visitors from outer space we watch
as others come, and others go
they blow into their tissue wads
and empty the boxes one by one
and cry with us,  and then they all go home

do we cry........?  Oh no, not yet...
instead we smile a grateful smile
and thank them kindly for the while
and for the ways they share their love
but we can't cry into our own clenched wad
of tissue from the tissue box
she needs us to be strong, somehow
and so that is the way it is, we vow...to hold back all the tears for now


                for, this was my child who suffered loss
                impossible........I can't express it
      __________________________________________





4/12/13

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Mimes at My Funeral

When my time is done and I am finally laid to rest
I don’t want to be recalled as one who lived life depressed

So as I wrote my will, I chose to leave an instruction
That laughing gas be inhaled by all those at the function

No mournful eulogies will a pastor have to invent
For my funeral will be held under a circus tent

When dozens of clowns emerge from the tiny Volkswagen
Reams of my silly limericks Bozo will be dragin’

And as they’re read aloud, family and friends who knew me best
Will say, “She had a sense of humor, this we can attest.”

Mimes will mimic me trying to write the world’s best novel
As my corpse hangs from the trapeze, surely they will marvel

Laughter will ensue as they shoot me from the cannon
Flying high in my demise across the great Grand Canyon

All the children will smile and there’ll be no tears allowed
So no one will ever remember me as a “dark cloud”

There are people who seem to take life way too seriously 
When I meet my Maker, don’t view this as a tragedy

Dad called me his “happy girl,” so let me go out that way
I want to leave them laughing as I reach my judgment day

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Pulse

Inner conflict dissolves under your lunar eclipse
playing across my fingertips and lips 
tracing the hoodoo of your hips,
causing me to burn down into cinder-sticks
reborn as a Baton Rouge Phoenix
by the gravitational pull of Jupiter
orbiting in your eyes.

Rising above the ashes,
siphoning-off the swamp,
I collide in a slippery mudslide
of euphoria, until steam blows off
and only spring water remains
raining upon soil sprung apart
by the Trident of Hermes,
exposing for us naked iron
to place into a flame
dancing along liquid-skin language.

The extraction of you being the exception,
leaves behind a hole
to bury our fortresses of tragedy
grappling in our roots;
now broken-apart by our roots,
until the last crumbling stone 
sprouts into untainted sheaths -
rigid - yet willing to bend

with the mending currents
of change. Becoming cleaner within, 
hanging onto a truth to be found 
in the wholesome speck of dirt 
longing for my fingertips and lips
to feel the hoodoo in your hips;
a complementary dish of duality
alongside your whispers bleeding 
into the blood-waves of my heart
merging with your lunar pulse.






.

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place

The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment 
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn, 
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia, 
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury, 
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade, 
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph 
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade 
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...

When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...

J.A.B.

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Grief is Grief is not

Grief is not something we “get through”…
you “get through” a bad day
Grief is not something we “get over”,
“you ”get over” a cold”
Grief is not something we “move on from”
you “move on from” a bad relationship”
 
But Grief is… a companion we “move forward with”,
learning from and growing, with each agonizing step.
 
Grief is… a heart-wrenching process, not bound by time,
But sets us on a “lifelong journey” of finding truth and meaning…
 
Grief is not a crutch we hold onto for pity
It is not a lack in character
It is not a weakness that needs to be strengthened
Or a problem that needs fixing
It is not an enemy to be slain
Or like a wild animal, to be caged
 
Grief is… “A METAMORPHOSIS OF HUMAN LIFE”
YES! that needs “time”… “A LIFETIME”
 
Grief is… an acknowledgement of true love shared
and true love lost
 
Grief is… a love we hold so deep within our souls
That our tears fall to caress the pain…
“God given tears”, full of purpose and meaning
For each one carries with it a piece of our heart
 
grief hugs us and holds us close
to a great love we can no longer touch…
grief is… our friend for without it
our lives would have been a lie.

Grief is…purely and simply a journey of love
It is a friend, to those of us who mourn
A friend who sees what we need and allows us to be us
Grief is a release of unimaginable pain…
a release of a great indescribable loss…
 
 
Grief is… the bridge that crosses repentant oceans,
spans desolate canyons, and fear filled mountain tops.
that we may cross over this tragedy to a renewed heart 
by means of the love we shared and continue to share
through the love of our Almighty God
 
 
Grief is…
A pain we can use, to broaden our hearts
and the hearts of all those around us
it is… a road we must travel to gain wisdom.
A level of wisdom you will never achieve by playing strong.
For only when we sink to the bottomless pit of grief
Will we be awakened by the light of truth.
 
Grief…
Do not judge it… for it contains Gods secrets
Secrets you can only hear by listening
through the blare of the pain.
It is a sacred contract to be in awe of and inspired by
To learn from and grow from
To gain compassion and understanding from
It is a journey that holds a sacred contract
That will be signed by each and every one of us
Who has the strength… and the courage…
to love with all your heart and all your soul.
It is not a journey I would wish on anyone
But now that I am here I will walk it with honor
And purpose, with my head held high and my feet in stride
For at the end of this road there you’ll be,
waiting to take me home.

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

An adequate vocal gesture

I do have purpose
that stays near
a constant reminder 
of my inner child

As my conscienceness
shines through to create 
a new perspective
I break out of my cocoon

Only to discover that 
I find places where
the sanctity of my being
does not flow as it should

My intuition is what 
guides me though
there is no longer the 
desire for the constant 
upheaval of tragedy to strike
upon me

On my journey I have 
discovered that there 
are many hidden truths

So as my spirit ascends 
I am inspired by my bravery...

If I am frightened 
by the visibility that 
standing proud does to me
then I shall stand even taller

No longer will I fear 
the degradation that
once was my shadow
there is no home here 
for the shame any longer

And I will no longer be 
swayed by the fragments of defeat
When I become sorely tempted by
sheer exhaustion

And I think I can't
make it on my own
I will remember that 
I am walking this
road of life for me...

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

If I Cry

If I cry
It must be the memory
Of a skirt unlifted by a gust
To still a boy's misery 
And wipe my eyes dry
Of tears
For the way time sears
Us like flowers
And reaped my mother 
Before I was ready to let her go.

If I cry
I cry for days she sheltered me
From a child's web of fallacy
And put her spittle on my knee
Where bruised flesh 
Was a boy's view of tragedy.
I would press my face
Against her dress
And feared no goliath
Or loneliness.

If I cry
I cry for evenings on the porch
When she gathered us
Our feet white with blowing dust
And hunger like a miner
Drilling us
We had so little to eat some days
But she with prayers picked fruits
Of heaven's mercy
And we thankful ate together
And heard her ancient anecdotes
Of ancestors' exploits that floats
Still upon a manhood sky.

If I cry
I cry that mothers' days are meaningless
When the sight of flowers
Are frail veils upon a grave
And the customized Christmas cards
Will not sparkle her eyes
Just before the kiss upon my cheek
Honoring me for faithfulness
And knowing her love measures more
More than a day
More than the years that sums earth's decay.

If I cry
I cry for the love of my mother
For the woman and life giver
For God to bring
Order to this unruly thing
That spoons our purpose to a cup
Swallow us
Before the dusk with each sup
Of time, diminishing us
I cry for faith to hold my trust
Against the agony of loss
Death is a demonic disgust
That makes me long
To substitute all tears for angels song.

If I cry
Preserved my hope with brine of eye
To live again
Without death or pain
And run with my mother
Through the clapping ovation of summer rain.

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

That Day, A Life Crushed

That Day, Life Crushed



I was resting on a lake dock that was in deep decay
it ran fifty yards out into the seamless water
that day my baby brother had went to swim with his friends
a normal summer day that shone with splendor
and peaceful was the soft blowing wind
only fate was awake and moving ever foward


there I was in peaceful solitude , resting
gazing at the lapping waves as they spoke
ignorant of what had taken place only moments before
the passing of a young and promising life, my brother


sun still beamed, wind still blew and life changed
a truck came racing across the bridge
I saw my best friend waving at me franticly
then I heard, I knew tragedy had befallen somebody
somebody I loved dearly


Moments later, the force of truth crushed me into a ball
it was as I feared, a death, an unimaginable horror
my baby brother was dead, my fourteen year old baby brother 
gone, gone , gone!


Electric current had destroyed his life
destroyed my life, sent me into a seven year rage
I said my goodbyes in a quiet rage and vowed that God, 
God would pay for this!
And so it began a terrible journey into a dark abyss 
one that consumed and slowly ate my soul
my soul it ate with relish and glee


I became a punisher of God!
Yes, such misery did I heap out by the bucket
by the ton and ate it's glory until-

Seven years later, light came into me as I slept
I woke one morning to find that the one punished was ME!
God had told me but I refused to hear
Now I heard and that truth crushed me again!


The road back took time but seven long years was over!
life returned, joy returned!
Majestic love returned to reclaim it's treasure-- my soul!


My soul rejoices to this day,
this day I see God stayed with me as I ran away!

I, he that runs no MORE!

Robert J. Lindley 06-30-2014

My first ever write about my brother, Billy Joe Lindley
fourteen year old and the girls adored him,
that summer electrocuted by a faulty electric pump at a 
friend's house by the river. 
1976, I think about him every day since, he was an angel compared 
to me and why, why did I live!

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Cherished Blessings

 
"Cherished Blessings" Life has not ended, only changed and so our lives are rearranged for one so special now has gone their spirit, to the Lord, was drawn. And we are lost and so afraid their memories will never fade these cherished blessings paid the cost and we are left behind so lost. Someday soon you'll see them smile with faces that always beguile tiny Angels in deep blue sky the precious treasues live on to fly. Tender moments haunt the day when quickly they were stolen away from safety with no reason why so many blessed souls had to die. Now they abide in God's great love in heavenly mansions high above their presence felt forever new smiling upon a family blue. This tragedy is not in vain their essence shall ever remain recall the pleasant times all shared as a Nation wept and cared. So Life has not ended, only changed and tears flow feeling constant pain and understanding is so illusive while we mourn withno conclusion. Trust iin God's immortal Plan He loves every child, woman and man throw kisses to reach the Throne as loving hearts abide in their new home. *Written by: Linda-Marie B.R. *For the victims of Sandy Hook - sent -22-13

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

My Big Fat Cousin's Wedding

My favorite cousin named Marge is almost as big as a barge. So one would assume, not knowing the groom, the guy would most likely be large. But he was a small man named Tim “As thin as a broom” describes him. While Marge would guffaw, Tim would watch her with awe and just smile for he was so prim! When the preacher addressed him and said, “You may now kiss the bride,” Tim turned red, for their lips could not meet. With high heels on her feet, Marge stood towering over his head. She leaned down while Tim stood on his toes, but for being in such a strange pose, Marge then came toppling down crushing Tim neath her gown while the whole church erupted in “Ohhhhh’s.” All was well, and thereafter, we ate; then we planned next to dance until late. But none could foresee the small tragedy that had us all leaving by eight! Marge had tossed off her heels for a glide on the dance floor, but when they both tried to dance, Tim got snagged by that dang gown and dragged as his bride was beginning to slide. . . Now shoeless, poor Marge could not stop. Toward a table with candles on top, they slid, and the groom then set fire to the room by landing with a belly flop. Poor Tim by the candles got lit, and we were all having a fit, for the fire got spread fast till the Best Man at last got us all wet extinguishing it! Inspired by the title of the movie: My Big Fat Greek Wedding & : Joann Grisetti's "My Cousin's Wedding" Poetry contest

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

A Lion Looms Listless

A cold lion roams, doctrinaire and sterile,
The expanse of Africa offers him no sanctuary, the Saringehti no salvation,
He can only smell the scent of his pride now, his cubs shun him,
Repelled by needless roars, the revolting rants,
Tail tattered, biten by jackels at will,
His nose bit and beaten from battles better avoided,
Soul tethered to a label, only a title, "King of the Jungle" ,
Fleas and insects of all sorts find haven in his muddy mane
once so puffed and wide like a thunderhead trampling over Tanzania,
I hear him in the twilight, lonely, unsated and undesired,
Paranoid about a life that does not seem to love him,
His heart became a desserted Athens, a broken, rigid column slumped on the earth,
He wanders near the Nile, nearsighted and nervous
As an Egyptian boy of ancient lineage stalks him sensitively
Putting the speartip to his temple saying,
I see your ribs, your broken paws, your futility,
I will now deliver your soul unto the cool night,
The spear is launched with a certain bloodlust
piercing behind the shoulder blade, his heart hollers
with the cry of scarred suprise, the lion stumbles and pants
vanity no allowing blame for lack of vigilance,
the boy trots to the spot, kneels in token reverence
telling him, sip the black puddle of your error, as eyes fold ever shallow,
let me feed you these apples of arrogance
so to quiet your grievence, to sooth your ego before final sight,
there is no shame in being slain by a Pharoah King, old lion,
I shall wear your teeth as a timeless trophy of tragedy,
Emblematical of Pride gone on too long,
may the spirit of Herodetous teach this lesson to a new breed -

J.A.B.

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Death of my Friend

Death of my Friend


Found was the key to heaven's door
this pain I can bear no more
The shadows that eat my long nights
the guilt of that deadly fight

Ages ago tragedy came sailing in
took the life of you my friend
A drunken party that went so wrong
our lives becoming a sad song

I begged you to not dare drive
if you done so you'd be alive
My guilt in not forcing you back
you car hit on that train track

Death came instantly to my friend
for me pain that will never end
I backed down when you hit me then
your funeral I'd not had to attend

You that always got your own way
should have never died that sad day
Now I see your fate was meant to be
you died young, a soul early set free!

Robert Lindley

note: Death of my friend. I tried to stop him 
but not hard enough.Too drunk to safely drive but 
when so young we thought we were ten feet tall and 
bullet proof! 
Maybe we were but just not speeding train proof..
Rather than knock him out I let him go. 
Car was hit by a train and death was immediate..
Twenty-one is too young to go..

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Once Willows Wept Not

'Tis now known why the Willow weeps, 
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid, 
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another, 
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice, 
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear, 
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb, 
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines, 
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs, 
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day, 
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen, 
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near, 
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within, 
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears, 
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used, 
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist, 
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath. 
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.




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I'M SO GLAD MY COMPUTER HAS A 'SMELL CHEQUER'

My computer has a ‘smell chequer’ Alas it doesn't seem to work For when I make an error I just look a complete jerk I know that I can smell I can do that pretty well But when I make an error It often is a terror I’m wary typing duck, I know that F is next to D Because if I do a swear it could be a tragedy If I’m typing the word shots I need to take great care Because I is next to O and of this I am aware So make sure you use your ‘smell chequer’ I am sure you will agree Your poems will be ‘prefect’ You will get it ‘write’ like me Jan Allison 25th October 2014

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FEVER PITCH

FEVER  PITCH

Demons of faith,
God speed,
Ageless tears,
 
A dweller lost in the perfect Odyssey.
Bricks of memories, barricade my way out.
Growing gray within the ageless centuries.
Steady rivers, at the pitch of one response.
Times out, by the heat, and beauty.
Tragedy is never a fear to announce.

The drug that takes to cure, the world,
~ lost in a torn humanity.
Harmless, results and tears
~ struck in every way, in the same day.

Sneaky thoughts up my sleeve. 
I will leave, the envious of me, this you best believe,
There is no way in...
YET!!
I found the perfect way out...
Destroying demons,
That get in my way..

Waking up in a dusty road.
Unleashing every load.
Today's a different day, still I wake up the same way.
But, today life is reversed.
I find myself with an endless thirst.
Tossing me into a 700 degree level,
I shine away from the path of the dust devil.
Swirling all around, forbidden to enter my bound.
Your pitch at me,
a fever I want no more.
Now I can see, the emptiness of the things inside of me.
Now I can feel, my soul reaching out to heal.

Breaking every cold sweat, 
Shivers, pneumonia a life of regrets.
Withdrawals left behind.
Symptoms, showing the fever is gone.

God Speed*
Into my life*

 by;p.d.

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PHANTOM OF THE OPERA

From behind the crimson curtain,
The skylark sings within her
Gilded cage of musical notes,
To please her dark lord and master.
Beauty's prisoner of the forsaken,
She raises her voice in clarity's
Magnificence,
Beneath crystal chandeliers opulence.
As if a bird taking flight within
Harmonies Symphony.
This youthful diva sheds
Her physical shackles, released
By a spiritual reclamation, of liberty's
Beyond her earthly form.
This mistress of song captures
Liberation’s heights, beyond freedoms
Escape, to soar high above the heavens.
She is set free, released within the music itself.
In the mind of the phantom, he plays
Along with the orchestra of the dammed.
A pianist of great renowned, with loves
Sweet melody, is inspired by jealousy’s
Conquest, she is his, always and forever.
The dead’s musicians, play on, with their
Instruments precisely in tune,
A delicate balancing, is each textures
Movement, it is harmony's perfection,
A Graceful sounding, carried across the
Stage of this twisted tragedy.
On destiny's piano the grand master sits,
With his candelabra lit, from loves eternal
Flame of desire.
It's light softly flickering, by gentle winds
Breeze, calling her name, Christine.
Oh angels of mercy, here the meadow lark
Singing, beneath the cobbled streets,
And sawyers chambered walls.
Love's prince does slay the beast,
As fire shatters the opera house, leaving
Nothing but ashes residue behind.
Yet in echoes voice, he screams by nights
Breath, her name once more, he calls unto her,
The phantom of the opera, Christen.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN

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FAR AWAY - a collaboration with OliVe

Shadowed silence vibrates melancholy
As the darkening clouds spiral overhead 
Open spaces, breathing air of mystery
bloody ink of terror break in...doused in dread 
Shattering the portrait to pieces instantly
A turn to the left & to the right hesitantly
A step forward or backwards...
Which way should I go? I sponge in woe
Wouldn't it be easier to go with the flow? 
I'm so far away from the sun-drenched day, 
Falling victim to nightfall's spellbinding dismay...
Tell me, which Way I should go? 
Don't mislead me with callous words
Creeping fear and shameful wonder crawl down my spine
My heart is beating with despair, feeling like a disgrace
Misfortune was crawling within my skin...becoming serpentine
Inside of my veins...and I'm Wishing to stay in one place…
But I could not...
I could not. You left me to rot...
There was a voice within shouting at me to move forward
I am scared, but i won't sweat it...that was really awkward
My feet were unstoppable. I couldn't help, but run
Pushing. Compelling me to traverse 
Running. Running. Running. Running in the sun . . . 
My heart's melody yearns for tragedy in reverse
Running for safety, I'm grieving to the core
Who will dare share an ounce of care?
Is this my misfortune? There's more hope in store
Whispering clear a prayer, hand me the rope of hope if you dare 
Wrapping my hands together...don't let me go
Ease the earthquake fear, quaking in my heart
I'm yearning for someone...let the blessed breeze blow
I want something or someone to blanket me or I'll depart
From His light... is it out of sight now?
Longing for His healing rain to shower down relief upon me somehow
I'm awakened by sudden realization that everything will work out in the end
As drizzle sprays, cooling down my stance...my insecure state of mind
I need a helping hand to reach out to me - I break instead of bend
Speechless and afraid, I have naught to say, for I am blind
I gape at her angelic appearance 
As she traced me a lament-carved frown 
I'm far, far from the roaring crowd in an instance
I'm gravity-bound, I've been weighed down
Who can put me back together?
Am I going to remain frozen forever?
I wander in the wilderness of my mind
Naked and ashamed - I feel like I've been left behind
Earning misfortune
Singing a sad, gracious tune
Running. Running. Running. Running in the sun . . .I have allowed
Myself to breathe in the air of mystery...far away from the cheerful crowd

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This Year

There is no way that anyone can know how each new year will be: how our jobs or our relationships might go. What great new things might we live to see? Might we have to endure some tragedy? I can only hope the good will far outweigh the bad and that our every tear might be cried for joy instead of something sad. May peace abide with those whom we hold dear as all of us press onward through this year! For the "This Year in English Quintain" - Poetry Contest of Francine Roberts

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JE SUIS CHARLIE -- Afterthought

JE SUIS CHARLIE — Afterthought

The shock of this most frightening tragedy is practically beyond 
the pale of any reasonable or adequate attempt or effort to explain
it or to rationalize the horrible circumstances surrounding it.

Let me just say that all of us who are writers and poets ply our
poetry, “our intellectual wares,” if you will, in a common written
medium that expects the same unrestricted level of freedom of
speech and expression exercised by those extraordinarily brave
artists at “Charlie Hebdo” who were recently murdered in cold
blood by self-styled Islamic extremists in Paris. 

It is also equally saddening and deplorable that some courageous 
police officers died in the line of duty defending these freedoms 
as well as some other security people and hostages caught up in 
the midst of these most terrifying circumstances. 

The heinous actions perpetrated by these armed extremists
destroyed innocent lives and affected the lives of a number of
loved ones whose burden of sadness and tragedy is unimaginable. 
Their actions also were an attempt to strike at the very heart of 
those sacred freedoms that all of us who live in open societies and
democracies cherish as part of our everyday lives. The armed 
extremists, by their actions, also personified and demonstrated an
obvious affectation for barbarity, stupidity, ignorance, and cowardice 
that were all on ample display as a result of what they did.

Freedom of speech and expression are among those certain
historic inalienable rights given to all of us by the divine hand of
God himself, and certainly not by the generosity of any government 
or religious group (regardless of faith). The brave souls who died
at Charlie Hebdo, died exercising this most sacred franchise.

The point I’m driving at is this: Those extremists who committed
these most reprehensible actions of recent against their fellow man 
did not win in spite of their collective efforts to destroy lives and to 
sully these precious freedoms that all of us as writers and artists 
hold so very dear.

The outpouring of emotion and sadness in support of these slain
heroes in the face of this most despicable crime is quite compelling, 
and underlies the continuing determination of all of us who love
and cherish the freedoms of speech and expression to continue to
speak out and to exercise these sacred rights without reservation.

With all of this in mind, I humbly and proudly conclude my narrative 
to all of you here by saying and echoing as loudly as possible:
“Je Suis Charlie” . . . “I am Charlie.”

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (January 10, 2015)
(Narrative)

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King Vlad Redux - Second Cold War

King Vlad Redux – Second Cold War

Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.

King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
A Master of Malarkey and an International Bamboozler Supreme, he
certainly is, with a menacing image and not one iota of conscience.

King Vlad risks a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old 
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!

King Vlad’s new spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his current war on certain ethnic minorities: Jews, Tartars, 
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.

King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its star
cast of past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev, 
and Andropov—to name a few, are quite telling since they reflect the real
nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.

And lest we forget, the innocent souls of the murdered passengers from flight
MH17 in eastern Ukraine who cry out, as do their families, for justice from
the criminal thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.

King Vlad takes pleasure in fulfilling a fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, doesn’t augur well for future democracy in New Russia,
and doesn’t align with the precepts of good governance and human rights.

King Vlad’s treachery and deception are certainly open for everyone to see 
as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current world order.
We all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed one day on the European continent and the world today.

King Vlad, despite very strong objections and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands only one word rendered so 
poignantly in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever  
behind his public mask and psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.

King Vlad’s actions reflect his virtues of lying, denying, accusing, rejecting,
and criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a Master of Prevarication.
His real mask is that of a Monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and 
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the West.

And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???

Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain)