Poetry Forum Areas

Introduce Yourself

New to PoetrySoup? Introduce yourself here. Tell us something about yourself.

Looking for a Poem

Can't find a poem you've read before? Looking for a poem for a special person or an occasion? Ask other member for help.

Writing Poetry

Ways to improve your poetry. Post your techniques, tips, and creative ideas how to write better.

High Critique

For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!

How do I...?

Ask PoetrySoup Members how to do something or find something on PoetrySoup.

You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...

PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member and block ads forever...while getting many more great features. Take a look! Thank you!

Elegy Birthday Poems | Elegy Poems About Birthday

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Elegy |

Chucko is Dead

Chucko Is Dead

It was on Columbus Day, 1962
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Sang in tones most glorious and free.
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko
I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!”
I was  comfortably ensconced on the couch.
A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever,
Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross, 
Up the street at St. Mary’s,
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Stared into the camera and saw me,
Insignificant me,
Just a freckled punk kid;
Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons
Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms
With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus.
And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent.
But Chucko knew all about that.	
He knew the future and the past.
He knew about Kennedy and Kent State
He knew what was coming so imminently,
He looked into that camera at Channel 7
And saw the children of the 50’s
Coming home in body bags from
The jungles of hell,
From the other side of the world,
From the bloody backside 
Where all things are vile and evil.
He saw fear, and an ocean of tears.
He saw ten thousand sunsets
And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave.
Even in 1962 
When the country was still a damn good country,
He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin.
But he knew he could never tell of what was coming,
Of the madness and corruption and the greed,
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko,
I’m Chucko the birthday clown!”
Mother! Please! Take my hand.
I’m afraid!
Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.

Copyright © stark hunter | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |

On my Birthday

It was just a day, and 
I felt, I was snowing
In the great lagoon of fear and fantasy,
I publish my words...
Hoping that,
They would represent 
Me, beyond the measure of life;
And, into the cavity of truth --
Where my pulse ticks clocking.

Copyright © Sadat Khan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |

Single Purple Candle

   Within a flicker your life sailed away like the rushing tide upon a purple sea
   it carrying you along to be placed by God's side setting your soul free

   If only your eyes could tell me of the splendor you now see
   and emit your light of purple brilliance so as to ease my sad heart of agony

   In silence I lite a purple candle for you knowing forever you are near
   my arms reach out to hold your shadow while my eyes are covered and veiled

   Your candle starts to dim the melting wax dripping into the shapes of a thousand
   consuming my heart of the sadness and deprivation that you are not here

   In paradise you now belong as the Angels sing your warrior song
   today is your birthday and I know the greatest gift was God calling you home

   But as your Mother my heart continues to suffer with grief
   as I lay upon my bed with your blanket and savor your lasting scent

   Watching your purple candle flicker and glow as it vibrates my lost heart
   my love for you Son forever ablaze knowing for only a short while we are apart

   Speak softly to me in my dreams while giving me visions of a young child at play
   the purple candle continues to burn my sweet child, 'Happy Birthday'.

   We miss you Caleb. Happy Birthday  
   copyright   2016   From Aunt Tammy Reams- to my Sister 


Copyright © TAMMY REAMS | Year Posted 2016

Details | Elegy |

Apple Of My Eye

Shana Aubrey Harris – 
 whose existence begat by dada and da mama; aye
revel your bursting at figurative seams viz maturation, and know by
chatting over telephone, your aura, charisma, 
   and persona finds me blinking back tear ducts 
   ready to loose water works i.e. cry
at how fate gifted this papa, whose existence 
   would be devoid without you, and 
   purposefulness undermined if loss of such a daughter as thee
   (one young lady more valuable than words can spell), 
   a reason to live shipwrecked 
   with psyche marooned to die
   emotional devastation, 
   never quashed even mouthed or uttered fee fie
Foe fum – jack (of Beanstalk storybook fame) would also lack will to live, 
   (yes as would the giant), thence, 
   this grunting, groveling, and grieving guy
forced to traverse firmament like a zombie – hi
King over boulevard of broken dreams, cuz I
(re: this humdrum Harris heir), his soul asylum inconsolably reign
   if irrevocably punctured akin to mortally wounded crane
willpower to defeat death, could not be staved, stanched, nor stopped,
   tis fool hardy to allow
   darksome, irksome, or unwholesome thoughts, whence best for brain 
to rejoice your awesome, lithesome and winsome transformation
   into a beauty, a non-biased commentary I cannot resist to exclaim 
an angelic, beloved charming progeny frolicking thru
   the meandering time stream, perhaps stopping at brooks edge 
   where flora and fauna frame
thee, (infinitesimal instant doth camera cap cha) if game
to pose as a gamine hipster inspiring a jazzy mosaic – type meme
before resuming dipping back 
   into waters of life, whereby experiential arcade
beheld like courtly table 
   adorned with a fancyfeast to BuzzFeed, 
   the sights and smells before yar senses appear as a charade
boot upon scrutiny, ye exhibit hesitancy 
   to inch closer; comfort food beckons so ye haint a frayed
to take steps into ever glade
puzzled at cornucopia cob bulled together and laid
without presence of maid
in America, this pastiche of quality eats, 
   and thoughts circulate sans who paid
for resplendent sustenance, 
   whence Edenic garden ye strayed
until, a life size topiary chain saw creation 
   (a hedgerow carved in likeness of – Shana Aubrey Harris)
all of a sudden burst of doting, and fawning family and friends
   salute touching vote wondrous young lady
   no amount of riches would anybody trade
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, a shout rings out 
   glory and scale of your worthiness no mass out weighed!

Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2017

Details | Elegy |


Good morning Steph, today's the twentieth. It's Syd's birthday and I've been thinking of you. I bought her a cake yesterday, chocolate and vanilla swirled. I thought of calling your mom, but she always disappears this time of year. She wants to be alone with you. Instead I bought another cake just for you, like I always do. A red velvet, I think you'd like it. I woke up this morning all alone and went to the frig, pulled out your cake and cut a slice. My eyes filled with tears but you know I don't cry so I closed my eyes and wished you a happy birthday and let just one slip by, just for you. It's been a while since we shared your last birthday together. Yours on the nineteenth and Sydney's on the twentieth, eighteen years apart. Sydney was just one. Just the family, the four of us and you and your mom. We joked and laughed. Who knew in a few months you'd be gone. We all felt so helpless after the accident, but there was nothing we could do, just be there for your mom. She stayed with us for days afterward. Then there was Granddaddy, you were like his own daughter. One of the last things he said to me before he passed away was, "I know my times over but I'll surely be happy to see Stephanie again." I hope your together. Sydney's fourteen now. Funny thing, when she was two, three times she was looking over her moms shoulder, entranced. Her mom asked, "What are you looking at?" Her response was, "Nina." Heather made up that name for you when she was only three. I remember, out of the blue, she looked at you and said "Nina." You looked at her quizzically and said, "My name's Stephanie." She said, "No, it's Nina." You said, "OK," and she called you that from then on. We found out years later that she blamed herself for your death, and she was the most hurt by it. She loved you so much. She didn't understand. She was only six. Stephanie, such a beautiful, gentle young woman You were the first to leave us and by far the hardest. I would have taken your place in a moment if only to keep the tears from you mom's eyes. Love you Nina, miss you.

Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2016

Details | Elegy |


wE ARE ALL    1
everything between
Heaven and earth
is entwined
   thru water
      by light

1. GOD
" I AM "

                the god poet
         for my dear friend
 June 17 2015

Copyright © gary dye | Year Posted 2015

Details | Elegy |


Another year gone by,
time certainly does fly.

Hoping that it would be another year together,
instead dwelling on fears of loosing you forever.

Today is my birthday, a joyous occasion,
but instead I mourn in silence, living in damnation.

Is this to be the norm forever?
Wishing day by day things will get better.

I dream of this day being at the boardwalk with you
and our daughter,
but instead today I will be alone, the fear of any
mother or father.

Today is my birthday, and there will be a tomorrow,
but for now I must live it in sorrow.

Copyright © Jon B. Rangel | Year Posted 2006

Details | Elegy |

my last hug, my last kiss: tribute to Darryl Baskins

I saw him on that last Sunday
I gave him a hug and a kiss
I told him he works to hard
and on Sunday's of him I did miss

he told me today was his birthday
I told him that was wrong
for not giving the church congregation
a chance to sing him a birthday song

as we're standing near the pulpit
I turned to the remaining crowd
I said, "today is Darryl's birthday "
in a voice clear and loud
so we gathered together
and we all started to sing
the birthday song to let Darryl know
to us what he means
we said we love you and
we wish you all the best
as a fellow child of God
we know that you are blessed

I was unaware that that would be the very last time
that I would see my dear friend Darryl Baskins alive
but I'm glad I got that chance to give him 
my last hug and my last kiss
because he was my dear friend
and of him I will truly miss

Copyright © louise nelson | Year Posted 2007

Details | Elegy |

MaryAnn Sage -- part deux

and intuitive paramour, whence swooning swain first experienced anew
an alien emotional lightness of being within mine hardened carapace did brew
a propensity to surmise, intuit, and detect a romantic joyful dew 
drop similar to lovers in dustbin of historical annals dipped ‘ere farewell flew 
common as the air we breathe, this new found muse sic cull passion grew
yet handled with kid gloves, which lacked the means to nurture and hue
a novel interpersonal ecstasy, which with fits and starts knew
tony yen physics manifested into a mutual attraction 
   despite any self-admission new
   to this chap, whose skills sans intimacy infantile 
   and as a result inadvertently caused grief 
    to a gal (who valiantly christened her vehicle Ruby) 
   hoping to stride down the pew
   which outcome thwarted, now tis much more sands of mine life time    
   funneled down the hourglass shaped queue 
without any rhyme nor reason find this bard arse to rue
how a golden opportunity indiscriminately 
     lost a flickr and sentiments now akin to culinary Michelin patshke stew
rather futile to ruminate the long lapsed travails that tripped a true
lee darling dame, whose take on the matter, this poet would cherish a view
yet….nary a clue exists if any possibility to revisit that denouement recalling 
   the awkward fits and starts before embers of warm reciprocity kindled
   reciprocal an ambition to court, jest and indubitably woo
   to flip and shutterfly at greased lightening speed 
   back to that contra dance at Summit Presbyterian Church
   at the cross roads of Green and Westview Avenues. 

Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2017