Bereavement Women Poems

These Bereavement Women poems are examples of Bereavement poems about Women. These are the best examples of Bereavement Women poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |
(Apropos The Boko Haram Girls)

We no longer hear
the screams of the young girls
nor the whimpering
of their little brothers—
nor the echoes of falling tears
of grieving widowed mothers
and the muffled hush, hush, hush
to new born babes.

How much longer
must we awake
to another morning
we wished we never lived to see? 

Mornings where
the horizon’s plains
are dotted with earthen keloids
of humpbacked graves
in overpopulated makeshift cemeteries 
where food crops once grew.
Horizons reminiscent of 
the screaming echoes animating
from departing Middle Passage ships.

How much longer
must we experience nights
of damned deranged dads—brothers
roaming, ravaging, raping
sisters and slitting mothers’ throats;  
damned deranged dads—brothers  
driven by a demonized illusion
of the Nile goddess of fertility;
intoxicating themselves
with chalices of their families’ blood?
How much longer?!!!

How much longer 
must our daughters remain
forgotten victims
Of those who’ve lost the free
in freedom—like those who’ve sold the in
in independence—lackeys 
to and of ancient slave masters
who’ve learned well 
the western ways of deception?

Unmoved and no longer
grievously concerned,
the world mesmerizes itself
with a deceived sacrilege image
of a revered Nile goddess.
Meanwhile, defiled bodies
of African girls
are no longer newsworthy…
these wretched of the earth sisters
continue to suffer ethnocentric
rape and gendercide: perpetuations
of free roaming…hoodwinked brethren,
inebriated with neo-colonial genocide.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Hall of Silent Women

in valhala
in a far corner
of this martial paradise
is one small unobtrusive hall
above the heavy iron door
these words are faintly inscribed

“ the war department
 regrets to inform you
that your son……
has been killed 
in action, in defence of……”

row upon row
straight backed, tight lipped, blank eyed
their amputated anger melting hearts
while words swift shot pierces soul

from life first stirrings
through vaulted cave to clapboard ranch
crouched sweating over birthing pit
to numbed white linen labour
in their pain and joy shudders steel shod feet 
march through the womb.

ancient cauldrons
endless source of armoury
kept tongueless
then given tongue to teach
man made words
toy soldiers bleed rust.

in valhala
indeed in every martial paradise
there is one small unobtrusive hall
above the heavy door
words are faintly inscribed…

Copyright © PATRICIA CRESSWELL | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
As the sun sets
and the twilight comes out,
as the birds and squrriels are no where in sight.

As the whores and pimps sit on street corners,
waiting for street lights to turn from green to red.
As cadillacs stop and roll their windows down.

I can her the faint cry deep in the darkness,
of dirty gutters and dark, dead end alleyways,
I hear the faint tears fall and hit concrete pavement.

I feel the faint cries of whores,
I hear the sound of backhand hitting face
and brused tissue and broken noses are everywhere.

And the somber tears fall onto pillow cases,
and white motel bedsheets run red with blood
and cheap Italian wine.

And you can her the poet over the radio,
reading his own work for the one millionth time
and you can hear his soul slowly wanting to die.

He drowns himself in smoke and alcohol
the whore takes her pay, or spends a night in a jail cell,
the pimp nowhere to be found,
with a shiny blade stuck deep in his gut.

And the somber tears fall gently on the concrete pavement,
the floors of a jail cell,
tears on the pillow case and tears on a lonesome stage.

Tears never present, but are seen by many,
pain aches and pain takes away,
and I pour one more drink for the whore.

She takes me away,
and I caught her salty, somber tear,
and she crawled into my warm embrace.

I was the one who stuck the blade in the gut of that pimp,
who broke her nose and made her bleed,
with a cowardess and souless backhand.

I walk into the moonlight,
hearing the somber tears all around me,
crash violently to the concrete pavement.

The Earth rumbles and erupts with these tears,
that are shead for fellow Men, and Women and Children,
but we all look at ourselves and smile.

Happy we don't pay rent,
happy we don't have cancer,
happy we aren't six feet under;

But we still all cry,
Somber tears all fall in one big wave

crashing violently on the concrete pavement.
Now the red light turns green,
and the traffic moves along,
the whore is still at her corner,
the pimp still with the blade in his gut.

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Romanticism |
This One Girl,
Every night she greets me
In my arms she rests
No one else's around, we're free
Time's standing still, a sweet caress

This One Girl,
I've always loved the most
We've gone our separate ways
To two distant, far away coasts
To spend the rest of our days

This One Girl,
I'm not knowing if her face
I'll ever see again
Or if of her, I'll ever find another trace
But still all my love, her way, I'll send

This One Girl,
There's just something about her
A magic to her ways
Making my heart stir
She's got me in a daze

Copyright © Andrew Shannon | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
            WIDOW WARRIORS

Flags trumpet the depths of sorrow,
As slow steps mirror wretched tears.
Loved ones shell, overflown with grace,
As widow warriors pick up the fight.

Copyright © Seosamh De Burca | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sonnet |
Three women's deaths have diminished me, 
because I could not get past my ego.
For the rest of my days I will always be
totally in their debt. How do you go
about repaying a departed lady? Perhaps, 
begin replacing your thoughtless deeds, 
each one, until you've forgotten your lapse. 
To compensate, if one truly heeds
all those women in your life that continue
with patience to overlook your own 
failings and your part played in the venue
of cultural misogyny is to loan
them all the support, love. encouragement
that you can. That is truly just and meant.

Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Lying around in the middle of the city
Urine all over her skirt
Flies enjoying the aromatic smell of it
Shame no more bothering her
She has given up on life.

A woman whose beauty was once every man's dream
Life has tossed her apart and left her to rot
In the scorching sun
Paralysed by the unpleasant situations of life
Poverty prevailing.

Tears melt from the corners of her eyes
Hope she has lost
Future a word not existing
For she has given up on life.

Lying there she remains an attractive force of onlookers
Passing by with disgust, mercy no more
A mother, children have lost
A sister brutally milked by sorrows
She has guven up on life..

God bless Africa
In poverty and despair we weep
Children motherless though mothers not dead
Fathers absent yet present
The socioeconomic fight cintinues...

Copyright © Chris T Isaacs | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |

On broken wings and failing engines the plane starts to die, 
eleven people are at God’s mercy as it hits the ground in a shattering 
impact smashing limbs and machinery as if was paper. 
Through the flames people scream and by the chance of time 
and coincidence a man is there to help.
He drags two people clear in terrible pain. The rest burn and scream 
before him – he can’t beat the flames and at risk of his own life 
he stopped to help.
In a terrible tragedy five young air stewardesses perished in agony, 
such a waste of youth and beauty when a plane went wrong.

Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2015

Details | Pastoral |
In the dead of night,
I heard the cry of agony;
A shrill cry it was, 
But a faint cry,
As of a heart fainting of strength.

It oozed out in a steady stream
Of soul-rending shrill
As of unending wail and groan
From a house lately frequented by the grim reaper.

"Owailo", mother had muttered in education,
Was wallowing in travail!
Her own slice of cross 
she must bear,
Of the divine curse
Of  travail appointed  
To all eves.

Owailo travails unto death!
The divine malediction of travail
Becomes for Owailo, 
The inevitable appointment with death
For her offspring she must never behold
Even as the offspring lives.

Oh hapless Owailo! 
The ill-fated reptile of the shrubbery,
Who else has beheld your fate
To plead your cause before the Law Giver
Before whom mercy and grace abound?


Copyright © Chris Agbiti | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
weeping women

there are women,
of no great happenstance, 
in this world,
almost invisible.

they are there and here because
we are still here.
sit in offices, labour in factories,
care for homes and toil in fields. 
they have no outstanding
talent or accomplishment
by which they shine
save one,
they are the women who weep.

a soft greyness, doves breast, permeates
their open hearts 
small streams of sorrow
cast as tears
pour forth unobtrusively
for the earth, their mother, 
her missing and wounded
and all the thoughtless selfish 
transgressions, perpetrated 
in the name of civilization. 

most often they do not know 
why they cry 
for there seems no reason 
in their lives
but the silent moments come
perhaps to give sign of Gaea’s pain,
to wash away the layers of suffering.

Copyright © PATRICIA CRESSWELL | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
There were daisies at the funeral home, just like the daisies from her garden.
The funeral was so sad. A world without aunt Dee would be a world much less bright.
Aunt Dee served the best macaroni and cheese and the yummiest noodles and butter.
She painted the most beautiful pictures and played the most delightful songs on the piano.
She raised her children, her nieces and her granddaughter-the one I climbed the oak tree with.
The same granddaughter who played hurricane with me-we would dare each other to see who could 
stay outside longer during a thunderstorm.
6 months after the funeral it was spring. 
I was cleaning winter away from my garden and noticed that a strange new plant had appeared between the pink azaleas.
I was going to pull it out but you know-I got busy with work and forgot about gardening.
Well, a few weeks later I realized that even though I had forgotten about my garden, Aunt Dee had not 
forgotten about me. 
Now, between the pink azaleas were the most beautiful daisies-just like the daisies from her garden.

Copyright © terri stiles | Year Posted 2017