CreationEarth Nature Photos
Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Tragedy Poems

Below are the all-time best Tragedy poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of tragedy poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Tragedy poems, articles about Tragedy poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Tragedy poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Tragedy Poems
Read Tragedy Poems
New Tragedy Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

New Tragedy Poems

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

Modern Day Tragedy by Fauteux, Abby
The Destruction in Joy and Tragedy by Carlevaro, Audri
Tropicana Tragedy by Pennestri, Diane
Life is a tragedy by Harvey, Aa
SHE'S MY TRAGEDY by Strauss, Lei
The Tragedy of Titanic by Sky, Violet
Emotions' Tragedy by De Lima, Stephany
Burning Grass and 100 Syllables of Tragedy by Annis, Jacob
Nocturnal Tragedy by Bayliss, PJ
Tragedy in France - Rime Couee by Merryman, Kim

View all new Tragedy Poems

The Best Tragedy Poems

Details | Tragedy Poem | |

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

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

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 

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 loved and lost
                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 belief
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 loved and lost
                impossible........I can't express it
      __________________________________________





4/12/13

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

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

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

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

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014


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.






.

Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2012


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

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Love Burial

The burial ground,  groomed to greet
the gatherers of their love apocalypse
with garlands grown and sown
from the rose fire of Athena's throne,
on this day they come to mourn
the Poet who perished for the passion of his Beloved Poetess,
the battlefields knew well the iron of their blood,
the salt of their sweat, and the pounce of their love,
raised in the tradition of trauma
trained by the tempest of temptation
disciplined in the competition of desires
refined in the violent rituals of victory
they rose in love
with everything their hearts could sing, with all that war would bring,
and in the epicenter of erotic chaos
he slashed himself with the alter sword
so that she may be free to rule this realm,

Valkyries stand vigil with primroses on speartips
gaurding him, a purple glow in their vigilant eyes,
softly humming for the lightning of his soul
as those in attendance find their solemn places,
many are present, 
Death is in the northeast corner cloaked in smooth black patience
knowing in sad satisfaction that every heart, beats to bleed no more,
Devotion, dressed in a mood of disbelief
with elbows out and fists on his hips
just stares sternly at everyone, one, by one,
Poetry and Love are wearing the reds of romance and sacrifice
while whispering living tears to eachother,
Humble remains seated, meek and agape
clasping Humility's dull hand
commiserating about too much and not enough as Pride stands near,
leaning coolly against a battered pillar of Roman endurance
looking at them as if to say, hey dumb dumbs,
don't disgrace their glory with your glum and glib sully,
Envy, in burnoose sackcloth wasted not the somber moment
to decry the Poet's purpose with claptrap commotion and no compassion,
in unison,  all hush his pusillanimous pout with a scalding Ssshhhhhh!!!!!!!!!

Poetry, asking the Beloved Widow if she may speak
is granted permission after a breathless pause of heart heated exhaustion, 
producing a daggar made from the breastbone of Eve
unflinchingly Poetry cuts both cheeks below her eyes
and the blood promenades to her ancient lips
where the warm pages of a white rose receive the ruby smear of this tragedy, 
bringing the pleading flower to her own mouth
she releases a verse upon the universe...
When the nights knew no love
and her heart had only the shadow of warmth
he became the hero's breath upon her breast
the weapon she could trust
and the victor of her kiss,
when his strength served only survival
and desolation weighed the wings of his heart low
she gave his soul the sweet heat of a woman's touch,
teaching him that justice is alive in their love...

In the unbearable anguish of existing without him
she stomps to the blue marble casket, 
tearing it open with love rage,
to slap and kiss her Beloved Poet once more,
suddenly,  heart imploding panic bristles silently,
the air thins dangerously, 
Pride plows through the throng to the side of she,
astonished, shock joy shaping his face,
the Poet's body be not there,
only the symbol of their love resides therein,
a golden pair of quills connecting in the center of a heart
their sign, their promise to eachother,
she turns to Love imploringly, for the truth,
and he removes the jewel from the coffin
returning it to it's rightful place
the safety of her bossom, telling her tenderly,
he yet lives for you, his love for you dies not -

J.A.B.

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Forbidden castle

Crows gather around the mysterious, abandoned castle, 
Its bastions and towers drowning within a mournful silence. 
Ghostly shadows loom within the dungeons and the murder holes, 
Screams of perished souls are locked within the castle walls. 

Long it has stood there upon a mountain of tempestuous winds, 
Withholding a secret from haunting years past. 
Stones big, dark and looming, an ancient evil lurks inside, 
Creeping through each room, an eeriness unexplained.

Each corridor discloses a tale of bloodshed on that dreaded night, 
when the devil sent his descendants to run havoc amongst the mortals. 
The bitter queen who summoned them did not live to confess the tragedy, 
She took her life, witnessing all before her slaughtered including the adulterous king.

As a child, I had heard countless legends of the forbidden castle, 
Of the torture chambers and the merciless beheading of the accused innocent. 
Many have warned, “Beware…stay away…” and now I stand before the entrance,
The devilish crows watching knowingly, as if they foresee my fate.

“Beware the snares in the dark, for Death grins, awaiting your coming…”


13 August 2015.

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015


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.

Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009


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...

Copyright © Christine Wessels | Year Posted 2007


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

Copyright © Linda-Marie SweetHeart | Year Posted 2013


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

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012


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.

Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014


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.

Copyright © Bernard Colasurdo | Year Posted 2013


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.



Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Haunted

A hole in the head shooting pain trembles
nightshades coldly down the spine
a soul lost in the land of the living
carried away in darkness
flying inside dark clouds holding just a dream

Distant thunder roars lightening splitting cracks
sure as the crow flies crawling opens Hell's gates
dark jewels of the night
charred remains churning in a cauldron
boiling goodness tears of thoughts

Piercing screams spawning nightmares
holding a promise once made
walking in a valley amongst the dead
shadows now smile hearing animals scream
as the moon plays silver dancing light

Dreams snatched away from reality
the crow calls echoes in silence
victims of this world howling over and back
tragedy cries in their pain and suffering
eyes seeking light
whispers through the branches
a heather bleat creature of the night calls

Haunted by humans chained to the earth
awaiting shadows and sunsets 
a cursed banshee wails supernatural screams 
from everywhere and nowhere

Mind numbing winds passing through
a white silhouette shredded shroud
around a heart entombed
in agonies' twilight shades clouds darken
storms brewed stirring specters chase the wind

Cold rains become lost tears
the willow weeps in eternal sorrows
a lament for the dead
as the silver crescent moon smiles goodbye

Blends in clear as day after sunrise
forgotten in a valley of unrest
death bell's toll out from the past
onyx feathered crows call painful cries

Forever seeking heaven's gate now sealed
that promised choice was lost ages ago
only burning Hell fires
or cold earthworms await




Written by: Liam McDaid & Kelly Deschler

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

House of the Tragic Poet

Two thousand years, a tragedy is past
Yet it's history still leaves us aghast.

On a night, dreadfully dark
A  volcano erupted, leaving it's historical mark

Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD
The first recorded in all of history

The entire city of Pompeii
Defiled and buried that fateful day

On written account of a man named Pliny
can we view this volcano's ignominy

A city in which artist and poets did reside
Everything was not  lost, the day all died

In centuries after, excavation has commenced
The city of Pompeii, antiquities recovered since

The House of the Tragic Poet, one of many unearthed
I will tell you about, from it's peristyle to hearth

Elaborate mosaic floors, frescoes on the wall
An inscription in Latin, from a dog guarding the hall.

The atrium filled with with Mythic Greek nudes
From the peristyle Achilles to be sacrificed exudes

Art along the east wall are of Achilles and Briseis 
and the tragedy of Helen and Paris, all cherished

About the entire house, a living poem depicted
Along with words, owner, an artist addicted.

Two thousand years ago, this home was owned
Loved and nourished by a Popeiian unknown.

The House of the Tragic Poet
If you saw, you would know it.

A. Green

Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2010


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Remission (In Memory of William Watt).

Birth begins the tragedy in us. Life's
First sound is a blank scream
Against sorrow's hidden portends of strifes
All we know are mirages and dream.

Mother took the news staring at the sky
She must have cried inside
For I have no evidence else. There's no why
For it ... how my rage defied
Her callous front ... he was her first boy
The only hero she spoke well
Of, his name was the formula for joy
In our house: anecdotes tell
Of his escapades ... youth defying fate
He had a cat's tenacity for life
And from evil wills found a golden gate
Of scholarship and exotic wife.


I remember when the years pulled him back
All he came with was a bag
Of books, and a couple suits in novel sack
His eyes time warped, a lag
Of missing years and loneliness enfolding him
But he was handsome still
And my soul cartwheeled at joy's fresh brim
Those moments that he filled
When eyes first contact spelled pride to claim
This aristocrat like a medal
I could wear. So young he was, her true flame
The son of love's sweet recital!

And many days sitting in his shadow, I heard
Him dream big things like stars
Far away, warm things like a fluttering bird
Things made bright to cover scars
In the sore of memory. His mind was his cliff
A risky place in the high winds
And closer to the edge for the Grail he'd drift
O how the giddy world spins!
He died in Kingston: William came and went
And my mother looked at the sky
But until she died, about his memory was silent
And I forever wonder why.

I loved him, you know, he was the first best thing
A poor child had to claim or show
The world ... with him I was no more common. A king
He made me in his gold of glow
Something that I looked forward to meet in me. I,
Like mother, been silence since
But sometimes my heart just heave and would cry
For time this love cannot rinse
And I that moment cannot comprehend, that death
Gave no notice to his lauded day
And like common dust on a wild wind's balmy breath
My brother was swiftly swept away.

Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

A "Hopeless" Diamond (in the Rough)

French trader Tavernier in a greed-inspired way
Glared at an idol of a temple in Mandalay
Prying a gem from its eye socket, a curse prevailed
Tavernier died bankrupt soon after making the sale

Louis XIV bought the stone, 1668
A gift to his mistress, Louis had it cut heart-shape
For dabbling in Black Magic, this madam was burned
A century passed with the curse’s power unlearned

The diamond was then bestowed on Marie Antoinette
For wearing it with boastful pride, Marie lost her head
She lost respect from the commoners of her nation
This gem has since been linked to the French Revolution

Cut far smaller, the gem resurfaced, 1830
When a London banker bought the rock of infamy
Henry Thomas Hope survived; the curse appeared to break
For 70 years the Hope Diamond’s wrath lay in state

A Hope heir’s marriage collapsed; his wife evoked the curse
As she foretold, subsequent owners’ fates would be worse
French broker Jacques Colot went mad, suicide his road
Sultan “Abdul the Damned,” insane after being deposed

Then to an American the Hope Diamond was sold
Washington Post owner Maclean watched horrors unfold
Other household members died, but it was Maclean’s son
Ten years old, struck by a car, his Dad’s mind came undone

Ultra-light ray tests caused the mystery diamond to glow
With safety in mind, Hope’s eerie stone found a new home
It remained locked on display in the Smithsonian
Could it be to blame for all that’s wrong in Washington?

Tragedy also tied to raiders of King Tut’s tomb
Perhaps lessons can be gleaned from those who met their doom
Robbing temples, burial sites, outcomes always bad
Greedy souls’ quests for wealth can leave them totally mad

So don’t expect me to purchase a diamond in the rough
Considering this gem’s history, a sandstone’s quite enough

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

A Tightrope Walk


I balance on a tightrope. Surrounded by 
lovers and dreamers, I teeter above a raging sea.
I admire their glossy smiles and envy
their bright-eyed confidence; envy is a sin, I know.
Please forgive me; a lie would carry more guilt.
The waves crash in dark shades of gray, still they smile.
Their laughter from all around pierces the thin air.
I teeter alone; I may or may not fall.
My fate is undetermined, in my own hands;
the tragedy today may be tomorrow's comedy.
Their laughter echoes...
On a day like today, the fresh tears sting. 
If only I could wake from the nightmare,
pry open the windows of my tortured soul.
If only I could charm the feral...if only.
Oh, the skeletal monsters we are bequeathed!
Yes, I understand the meaning of loyalty.
A fool believes the wicked will fall.
A fool believes the merciless will change.
Can a hollow chest develop a beating heart?
I chisel stone walls, searching for a glimmer of hope,
a flicker of humanity behind steel beams.
Could you spare a token of remorse?
I dare to drop a coin in a fountain of wishes.
A pocketful of coins jingle as my wishes sink
to the bottom of the venomous waters. 
I am patient as I teeter on the tightrope.
The audience cheers taking pleasure in my pain.
Blood pulsates through my veins, yet I feel cold winds
penetrate my soul. I refuse to cower or
live in contention... 
Blood is thicker than ink. 
I find my balance in the written word, a gift of life! 
Words sometimes spill from a bleeding heart.
I beseech the ghosts of the past to end their haunting.
Their breath is the frigid wind. I find shelter...
Tempered is the skin of the wounded. Who knows
what may lie beneath the flesh. In the mirror,
you may find a frightened child in need of love.
Most find the strength to balance and stand.
Every step brings me closer to solid ground...
I am reaching for you. Please take my hand.

Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2012


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Striking Deeply a Painful Reminder

Striking Deeply a Painful Reminder 

Striking deeply a painful reminder comes of you now.
Salt falls inside my open wound bringing untold pain.
My soul has one choice to make amidst all this pain,
Telling me the considered direction I must take now. 

Washed through a dirty ocean lining all foamed up,
We are frustrated with ourselves to no end today,
As we stand at the crossroads of our broken lives 
Asking sad, difficult questions and feeling all alone. 

Begging the wrong side for forgiveness is no fun as
We answer while looking upon two sides of a story; 
And a wounding confession of lights promises only
A flash darkness blinding out of a tragic haunted mist. 

Warm dawning radiant colors say love to us both now,
As they elicit a soothing and gentle compassion of hope;
Yet real tenderness is nothing but an illusion as deep pain
Lives inside the shadows without any remorse or apology.

Invading poison of a snake bite brings such sweet love, 
As your alter ego robs me of all my dignity and grace. 
I listen now to the stark tonal sounds of the seagulls, 
As they mix their cries over the ocean dark and deep.  

Kissing salted waves filled with the care of true angels, 
I cast now cruelly—bitter stones in the Garden of Eden,
While touching an apple once bitten never to shy away.
It’s funny how one can see such a tragedy in the daylight.  

Sacrifice a dove dancing within the light now turning dark; 
Behind the curtains a grotesque, ghastly face appears now
As the double side of your coin is exposed for all to see— 
And when flipped, the truth opens its book quite readily. 

Dropping down a snake crawls upon its soft underbelly, 
And behind the scenes people find this image repulsive,  
Since it portrays how a poisonous viper strikes fatally as
His very mask falls away for all to see his diabolical grin. 

Forbidden is the soul of who you are and want now to be; 
A sweet-talking deceiver I know too well for my own taste; 
One who really hides behind a false face but revels in his 
Deception as the dark demons mask their fear and cowardice. 
Dusk now blends into the night as death comes to life;
I realize now the hellish intent of Lucifer’s own demon
Who stares intently at me with his blackest of eyes—
I see my soul consumed now in the flames of Hellfire!

In my final strength and emotion, I drop to my knees:
Almighty God in Heaven—Save me now . . . Amen!

Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 25, 2015 
(Free Verse)

Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

THE RESTLESS SEA historical quatrain for contest


                                         THE RESTLESS SEA


                           As dawn swept 'way the morning stars
                           A gloomy Helen glared
                           Poor Paris stood in silence-- watched--
                           He’d kiss her if he dared.

                           The sea was raging round their heads
                           The men rowed without cease
                           The lovers headed to their doom--
                            A myth is birthed in Greece

                           Ten thousand ships launch in pursuit
                           Rough soldiers flex their knees--
                           Today hunt thieves tomorrow queens-- 
                           Men do what kings will please

                           The soldiers puked and gambled hard
                           Twas boredom that they feared
                           A seasick trip was just a jaunt--
                           The Trojan shore appeared

                           The glory grew beyond Troy’s walls
                           The truth no one can trust….
                           Dark tragedy writ in the books--
                           Tis flung among the dust.


Victoria Anderson-Throop
1/14/13

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2013


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

For Momma

  From a babe to a man, I needed your hand. Now I understand, it was part of God's 
ultimate plan. I was to be raised by another woman.  Don't get me wrong, Grandmomma was something! She gave me all the love a child could need. She was always there for me. Truly a blessing! No Mother, you don't owe me a thing. Not even an explanation. I can't sing, so I wrote this dedication, tTo show my appreciation.

 Momma, Momma you're still #1. No matter the distance; rRegardless of what you've done. As God is my witness, I'm still your son.

Yes I hold resentments, and that is hard to ignore. My hurt I can't hide. When 
you kicked me out. And out of your three children, why was I the one you let go? 
From afar you watched me grow. Did you worry about my well being? On the surface, looks can be deceiving. No, I was not well. I was actually a child living in hell. Easy for you to say "It's over, it's the past". I was forced to grow up too fast!

Momma, Momma you're still #1. No matter the distance. Regardless of what you've done. As God is my witness. I'm still your son.

I remember spending the night with you and that was such a treat, just to escape the hurt from being beat. Looking back it was a real tragedy. I felt you didn't love me. You were my Mother but you gave me up so easily. Grandmomma became my only family. The only person I could rely on. But now she's gone. Even now as a grown man, I feel so alone. If I could sing, this would be my song--

Momma, Momma you're my queen. For you I would do anything. I just want you to be proud of me. Whatever I've done, please accept my apology. I'm not perfect, never claimed to be. 

But I am strong. Especially dealing with this pain for so long. I just hope we can finally be a family when I come home.

Dedicated to my Momma "Phyllis Ann Lopez"


Note: Thank you Poetry Soup for allowing me to share another piece of my life.   From both 
pieces "For Grandmomma" to this piece "For Momma" you can picture my relationships with 
both women. My mother was far from perfect...But no one is perfect and I love her all the 
same!  Jimmy

Copyright © Jimmy Anderson | Year Posted 2009


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

Evil That Always Takes Its Toll

Evil That Always Takes Its Toll

Remember where hot lightning bolts flash down,
Its sun-fire heat burning in a tragic strike!
There perished mother and her little tyke;
Tragedy there, where the angels cry and frown,
And sing their saddest songs upon the waves:
Doom and gloom a sad fruit to be born
Taken long before Gabriel blows his horn.
Judged by Fate no power in Universe ever saves,
Yet no man lives that can ever be so sure,
That misery will forget to take its toll
Upon the peace that stirs the blessed soul!
There was peace: yet no peace can insure,
Paradise will be waiting for its fair guests,
The great promise, its most fantastic lure!
Security of life and limb of angels so pure:
Or protection from Evil that so eternally infests.

Robert J. Lindley, August , 1973

Note: A poem from my private journal, from back when I wrote a bit more in the old style.
Sometimes I dearly miss writing like this..... and that muse that raced so far away!

p.s. My first wife(future ex) thought this my best poem ever. 
At that time I had several hundred written.

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015


Details | Tragedy Poem | |

A Longing

Yet still my heart beats for days now blurred 
Two beats were counted, only one was heard 

We are not even a drop of rain, just vapour 
United to be once more, no clouds can conjure 

All love, all liking now lost… forever! 
Dreams and memories, time tries to sever

Like dew-bespangled flowers alone I weep 
The spray turns to rain, colours never keep 

No longer will I drink your silvery voice 
Destiny meant, I could not make a choice 

A longing and thirst for you I cannot quench. 
The cup floating in air, unable to reach. 

©26/1/2013 David Williams Lines 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11
©26/1/2013 Holly P. Moore Lines 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12

A collaboration with my great friend (from somewhere far from me - overseas), David Willams, who has not judged me through my tragedy and encouraged me to continue to write.

Two minds thinking in sequence - I dedicate this to my beloved son. 

Copyright © HOLLY MOORE | Year Posted 2013