I do not know?
They walk silently along my hallways.
Floors littered with faded finery.
Do you remember my Granduer?
I had once been called the Queen of the sea.
Pulled down to the ocean's floor.
Swaying silently, so many sad souls
They are entombed here
Forever a part of me
Left to wander my halls
Sharing this watery hell
Faces frozen in skeletal grins
Evidence of our eternal sadness
Fish now swim across my stage
The band is silent
Still I remember
I absorbed them note by note
They played till my last moment
Yet it was not for my benefit
For I had betrayed them
My promises were empty
Temptation, travel, time together
Some mercifuly escaped
What did they remember of me?
Some came back in ghostly form
Searching for those I had taken from them
I will not release them
For I do not wish to be alone.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014
I came across an old cemetery today while exploring,
Full of broken, toppled headstones and tangled weeds;
There was a deep hush, a whisper and a sigh, I felt tears,
My tears were falling for long dead souls forgotten.
A tree's roots are entwined around an old, tilted stone,
In loving memory of my husband George, born Feb, 1882;
Oh, George you were loved very much once upon a time,
God took him, but he will not be forgotten, engraved.
And I am of the age of Aquarius too, just like you,
I love violets and everything purple, and I am so mellow;
Oh, George were you a deep thinker, sensitive, creative,
I get hurt easily and I always want to help people.
Be at peace George in your decay and ravaged grave,
Listen to the twittering of birds this bright sunny day;
Promise, promise, I will be back to lay some purple violets,
Forever now, dear soul, you will dwell in my heart.
Now, be still George, I heard your whisper . . .
April 28, 2016
Submitted to the contest, Any Poem Written in April 2016
sponsor, Laura Loo
Written for the contest, Universal Acrostic Collaboration
sponsor, Steven Henderson
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2016
FICTIONAL EMOTIVE WRITE
Since I was a tiny baby I was brought up by my grandparents and had a very happy childhood. I knew that they were not my real parents but they gave me such love that I didn’t ask any questions for fear of upsetting them. Grandma’s eyes would mist over any time anyone mentioned my parents so I knew something bad had happened to them
Whispers in the hall
The child is too young to know
They passed so quickly
I left home at 20, married and moved to a small town about 50 miles from where I grew up. I was always in touch with my grandparents, but over time old age crept upon them and I recently cleared the family home when grandma passed away. I discovered yellowing newspaper cuttings, which told of how my parents had been killed in a horrific car crash, it also detailed their final resting place in the local cemetery.
Scrapbook of old photographs
My parents smiling
Dawn is breaking and dappled sunlight streams through the trees. A veil of grey swirling mist shrouds the cemetery. I pull my shawl closely around my shoulders and begin my search. Strands of ivy hang down from the towering yew trees, its dark green tendrils wrapped around the grey granite graves clinging so tightly as if it was trying to hold up the graves like a puppet on a string. The fallen gravestones remind me of decaying teeth with many gaps where stones had crumbled with age and neglect. I walk slowly, reading the names of those who now had eternal rest. Eventually I found their grave at plot 142, where a marble angel watches over them sleeping. I scrape off the thick lichen, which obscures their names. Tears fall and I hug the gravestone wishing I could embrace my parents for real.
I greet my parents
Stone cold grave gives me closure
Heartbroken child cries
Contest Overgrown With Vines Sponsored by Broken Wings
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
Shades of Gray Grief
Man of melancholy memories, ashen and shadow gray,
heart harrowed, solicits solace from her psychic energy.
An offering, his woebegone weeping wildflower bouquet,
teardrops titian, sorrow scintillant, reflects rueful reverie.
Heart harrowed solicits solace from her psychic energy,
free falling through forlorn filigree, he mourns at her gravestone.
Teardrops, titian sorrow scintillant reflects rueful reverie
of his Earth angel, soul-lifted too soon, spiritually sown.
Free falling through forlorn filigree he mourns, at her gravestone
fragrance haunting, flowers flaring heartsick hallucinations
of his Earth angel soul lifted too soon, spiritually sown
blue scented efflorescence of suffering lamentations!
Fragrance haunting flowers flaring, heartsick hallucinations
of inamorata, flame extinguished expectant with their child.
Blue scented efflorescence of suffering lamentations
bedevil his mind.., happiness-hope exiled, ego beguiled.
Of inamorata flame extinguished expectant with their child,
an offering; his woebegone weeping. Wildflower bouquet
bedevils his mind, happiness, hope. Exiled ego beguiled,
man of melancholy memories ashen and shadow gray.
September 16, 2017
~ First Place ~
Poems That Paint a Picture 2
Sponsor: Silent One
*Based on pencil portrait by Mike Theuer provided by Silent One on contest page*
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2017
I can't forget my beloved one
Whose fate now lies in a grave,
I remember him at every moment
Of his company I crave;
But the grave says nothing.
Day after day I stare -
At the grave with wistful eyes,
Hoping that Lord would answer my pleas
And my beloved would rise;
But the grave says nothing.
Many tears I shed
That fall on my feet,
Each day I come to my beloved
But the grave says nothing.
I wish from my heart
That he would rise,
And I fix on the grave
My patient, eager eyes;
But the grave says nothing.
Finally, I forget him
I go on my way -
But, ever silent, my beloved
And the grave lay;
The grave ... says nothing.
Copyright © SOHOM GUPTA | Year Posted 2015
Dedicated to my Dad who lost his short battle w/ Colon Cancer on June 18,2013
I hate you Cancer
Your vile evil and cruel
You don't care who you hurt
I'll never forget that day
I'll always hate you for it
Your heartless Cancer
You took someone important from me
Someone important from others too
Took people who didn't belong to you
I hate you for it
You disgust me Cancer
You had no right to take him from me
He mattered more than my very own life
I hate you for taking my Daddy
I hate you for taking others too
I hate you with a passion Cancer
You took part of my heart with him
You took part of my soul that day too
I hate you for it
I hate you I hate you I hate you
I hate you with every fiber of my being
Go back to Hell where you belong
I hate you, others hate you
Your not welcome or wanted here Cancer
I hate you more than his doctor's
I hate you more than God
I hope I get to witness that day
Witness the day you fall
And you will fall Cancer
You're gonna lose the battle one day Cancer
I'm gonna laugh and dance around your grave
You'll finally get what you deserve
And you'll never be able to inflict your disease on another soul
Sabrina Niday Hansel
Placed 8th in Poet Destroyer A's 2013 "PINKTOBER" Contest
Please Support a Cure for Colon Cancer & every other type!
Copyright © Sabrina Niday Hansel | Year Posted 2013
My Dad was Chicagoan.
He would light up a room just like my Mom.
He loved to fish ! He loved his beer .
He also designed a Octagon home in the 70's
Built custom by hand . I was very proud of Dad .
Alcohol hit our Family , a curse .
He left my Mom when I was 14 in Illinois.
To renew in California , leaving a trail of tears .
Meeting my step mom , my sisters age .
My 2 sisters they were accepted in her world .
Not I , I looked too much Like Mom . Told this all my Life .
She a petite Beauty , RN , real estate Broker .
I did not see why it was wrong to be like mom ?
I moved in with Dad, His new Wife , and 2 sisters
eventually . All three women were competing for my Father .
I was kicked out at 16 yrs.
Years do pass , you try and accept people places and things .
At the end of Dads life , he was calling me once a week .
I ordered a Engraved Clock for the Fathers day coming.
This was a issue for the Wife and sisters , never invited to his new home , 2 Decades ~My little Brother & I , never wanted .
Dad passed suddenly one sad Spring Day . Not one word from his wife , all 3rd party, how and when, Dad Died . being denied the right to his address , even to say goodbye .
Not being able to send my engraved clock .
"Dad Passed " received call from sister whom just stayed a week with me , I took her all around the sites here . "1st day I get call , you should come , 2nd Day after , Dad's been cremated already . " It was a lie.
I went anyway , finding the funeral home, the Funeral Director was appalled at the denial displayed.
He insisted I was given 10 minutes alone with Dad , my Birthright to say Goodbye , he was in dismay over the Hostility towards a daughter ~
I get to this room of mean relative's. His sisters , Mine, angry looks , hearing from a Aunt "What is she doing Here ! " I can't give nor reason or rhyme.
Shame to you and all that participated that wicked day.
Are you Glorified with Power? Denied the right to grieve ,
Left with no sane answers to give in hatred received by Blood . Some , just Spouses , telling me I had no right to Say Goodbye to my own Father , My DAD .
My Dad wanted me there , I know he did . I love Him and will never forget , his youngest girl whom looked like Mom . I know in my heart and dreams he speaks.
We all see when we leave . May God not allow any Son or Daughter to go through such Evil.
Thank-you Poetry Soup for returning my voice .
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
Beloved, lovely roses: gift of God and lover’s flower,
Spread your colored petals and cradle tender showers.
While admiring the blossoms with their beauty to behold,
Ought we not to know the Tender of such lovely garden groves?
For He lovingly and thoughtfully wields His pruning shears
To cut away the stems of old for fuller future years.
He cultivates and feeds them. He attends them as a Father
Looking daily to their needs; so faithfully He waters.
From the dawn of morning dew until the setting sun arrays
Caring always for His own until that great appointed day…
When the Gardener comes to claim each one the earth held as its own.
He gently picks it at its peak and for His pleasure takes it home.
As God did one glorious morning, when the Perfect Rose had bloomed.
He rolled away the stone and met with Mary at the tomb.
There the sweetest Rose of Sharon rose that we die not alone.
But be gathered for a garden grove, surrounding heavens throne.
Copyright © Tom Valles | Year Posted 2013
(Part 1 of Trilogy for My Father)
His shoes by the front door make me cry,
like his glasses resting atop an
and his toothbrush in its holder
the bristles still damp.
And I wonder...
Did he brush his teeth before he
put the gun to his heart?
A cereal bowl waits in the sink;
The laundry basket overflows.
"To Do" lists adorn the refrigerator.
Suicide is not on the list, and I am
He was a tidy person, neat
organized almost to the point of obsession.
That's how he lived; that's how he died.
I'd have felt better if, for once in your life
you'd left a mess. But no
even in the ultimate act of selfishness,
you strove to be polite, choosing to lie
on the shower's cold tiles, no doubt
thinking we could just flush the blood away
with the turn of a faucet.
Yes, the place is spotless.
A tiny trace of blood, a single gouged tile
are the only signs that a life ended here.
It seems, somehow, that there should be more.
ASTROTURF AND SNOW
(Part 2 of Trilogy for My Father)
We stand on cemetery Astroturf
strategically placed to spare us the dread hole,
snow scaling the tops of our shoes
to compete with the ice in our hearts.
The old priest’s boots peek from beneath
a cassock that dangles below his parka.
He jokes gamely about the weather,
reading prayers for my father, a man he never met,
with shaking hands and chattering teeth.
He is a stranger recruited by the others lest someone
discover the shame of self-inflicted death.
Numb in every way it’s possible to be numb,
we await the blows of a grief that suicide denied us
and summon memories that refuse to respond
while, in their place, we have
THERE WILL BE NO FLOWERS TODAY
(Part 3 of Trilogy for My Father)
I took my children to the cemetery, a rare visit,
But they did not understand
---could not understand---
of lives and dreams turned to dust,
of a childhood lying buried in those graves.
Or is it the childhood I wished for those many years?
"Where's Anddad?" my daughter asked.
"There, beneath that stone. His ashes," I said.
Ashes of a relationship as cold as this frosted grass.
"Anddad all burned up!" chortles my youngest.
"And here is Grandma," I tell him, but it's just a word.
"See the rose on the plaque? She loved roses."
I remember when the dog peed on her prized
yellows until they died. Until she cried.
I thought her tears silly at the time but not now.
"Grandma would have loved you," I inform my
Loved you like she never loved me.
I reach for the vase set in the grave marker,
but time has rusted it in place.
There will be no flowers today.
Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015
a cold stone bears his name
grief pours onto his green plot
prostrated mom shouts "why?"
Copyright © JoanMarie Peranteau | Year Posted 2014
His walk into town would prove fateful that day,
As his mind wandered idly while finding his way.
His footsteps were brisk like fall chill in the air,
Past Wellington Gate, south of Denby town square.
He paused for a time as the hearse passed him by.
Its dark, somber outline contrasting the sky.
Stood still as it turned in through Wellington Gate,
Down this last dusty byway of sorrow and fate.
A pair of dark geldings, black plumes on their heads.
Seemed subdued in their manner while carrying the dead.
Their hooves beat dull thuds on the cold, hardened sod:
Alerting the devil, but more hopefully, God.
The box in the hearse lay there stark and austere.
Poor souls final journey, last trek anywhere.
The small group of mourners now somber and mute
Trailed after the hearse in reluctant pursuit.
His thoughts then turned back to concerns of the day.
The errands in Denby that had brought him this way.
His footsteps trudged on toward the town just ahead.
On past this bleak place with its fields of the dead.
And the day passed by quickly as he made all his rounds,
Attending to business before leaving the town.
Then an overdue visit to a friend from the past,
Would leave his mind reeling, in tumult, aghast!
For Nell Reed had returned from her home far away.
Nell Reed had come back, never more would she stray.
The scene he had witnessed at Wellington Gate,
The pine box, the mourners, lamented Nell's fate.
Then a blow to his middle - sharp twist like a knife.
Twice now he'd lost Nellie the love of his life.
Nellie, oh Nellie sweet child of his youth.
How could he accept this - admit to its truth?
She now lay in her coffin - pale, cold, not a sigh.
No words would she speak, not one single goodbye.
No explanation of the times in their past:
Of unanswered questions, he could now never ask.
He then found himself back at Wellington Gate.
Fall shadows had lengthened and the day had grown late.
Dead leaves of November swirled under his step,
Invited him follow to where Nellie now slept.
The despair that he felt huddled there by her grave,
Made him seem as a man now most surely depraved.
Harsh pleas for the answers to questions long asked,
From someone once cherished, now part of the past.
Where had she gone while he fought in that war?
Why did she leave, did she love him no more?
Upon his return, mind and body all scarred,
To face life without her - so sad and so hard?
He cried out in frustration, old sorrow and pain,
As he knelt by her grave there on Evermore Lane.
And the day turned toward evening, but he did not see,
Trapped there in his memories with no place to flee.
Then he sensed someone else, just behind, but nearby.
A young man with Nell's look, most especially her eyes.
In his hand was a letter, tinged yellow with time-
Nell's neat, tiny script penned on each faded line.
"She told me about you and what you once shared,
And asked me to find you, to tell you she cared.
She wished you to have this," his voice held a plea.
"Her last thoughts on this earth were of you and of me."
"The letter was written a long time ago,
When I was a child, before I came to know.
The man I called father, in the days of my youth,
Was only her husband; a well hidden truth."
"He raised me and fed me and treated me well,
But he never did love me and I always could tell.
This letter from mother should bring you at last,
Answers to questions that have troubled your past."
And the son placed the letter in his fathers cold hand,
Waited a moment - made a half-hearted stand.
But he turned then and left - back through Wellington Gate:
To the place he had come from and his own earthly fate.
And his father by the morning, lay frozen and dead,
On Nellie's cold grave with the message unread.
He never did view those last words meant for him,
It grew too dark to see as the cold night set in.
He succumbed to that cold and to Nellie's mute call.
And died where she lay on the last day of fall.
And the years passed on by, like the years always will.
They now lie there together, both silent: both still.
And all who'd remember lie near them as well,
No one now survives for this sad tale to tell.
Yet the legend goes on of this man and of fate.
It's still whispered while passing by - Wellington Gate.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
The innocence is transfusing
the goat skin drums
children of the mills,
children of the junkyard,
and we keep filling them with
mercury, nitrate, espestice, baby bombs
blasted out of their shaved heads
Copyright © Blake Holland | Year Posted 2015
I do not know?
In the attic, above wooden floor,
through the hallway of psychotic, locks upon my door,
near the broken window and glass of the sore,
hiding in the shadows,
bloodstains on the wall.
house at the end of the street,
where lights are low,
where silent never sleep.
Copyright © Miche Ulman | Year Posted 2013
My head hurts, my chest pounds
The men with guns all around
They frighten me, standing tall
I watch them, as they line us on a wall
One by one my heart clenches
As I see my people fall
And I know that I am next
Now the people watch, and their hearts clench
As I fall.
Copyright © Karissa Kelley | Year Posted 2016
A graveyard stands upon the hill;
its tombstones smoothed beneath the tide
of nature's forces beating hard;
I pass and hear the buried cry.
"Reverse the trend, relentless grown,
that would erase our names for aye;
for who grants thought to silent stones
and corpses claimed in nameless graves?
We yet would speak, if you inquire,
if you draw near with ear and heart .
We speak of dreams left unfulfilled;
we sing our song which but in part
was heard before our souls were claimed.
Oh, who will hear what we would tell
with our last link with life consumed,
when dust with dust is mingled well?
We have a vision unattained
by you who still are flesh and bone;
if you our secrets wish to shard,
dare carve us deeper in the stone."
©Faye Lanham Gibson, 1987
This poem was inspired by a very old cemetery behind my home.
The tombstones were worn so badly that the names could hardly
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
Flowers placed on grave
showing attempts to connect
lost without my mom
Placed 10th in SKAT Flower Contest Theme sponsored by SKAT A
Copyright © Susan Gentry | Year Posted 2015
We buried her in a hole in the ground.
It was her final, resting place—poor Mom!
Shaken, I wept but my siblings were calm.
Only I appeared distraught and unsound,
overwhelmed at the sudden loss I found
too great to bear. It was like a huge bomb
had exploded in our lives—like napalm!
There I sat. My grieving tears were profound.
It had been an upsetting funeral.
We buried her on a cold, wintry morn—
all there knew their places on arrival.
Among them I wept, so tearful and torn
during the service and the burial.
In the end, I felt so dead and stillborn.
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014
sun shines bleak, cold winds whip
death's sting floods her tender eyes
daddy is laid to rest
Copyright © JoanMarie Peranteau | Year Posted 2014
Seeking accompany- Zamreen Zarook
I kick to wonder what made me to cry,
Am really writing as a fry,
Myself launch to be dry,
This ink will be a victim for my cry.
What really went wrong with me all these day,
What made e to forget my last day,
I realized I jumped out of my track yesterday,
So I regret for that, what is called as present today.
Happiness have started to wave hands for this sinner,
Sadness have started to move inner,
The faults that I considered as miner,
So far changed as a miner of a winner.
My face was a comparison to sunlight,
Where as my routine changed it to moon light,
I wish to get that twilight,
As a sinner I started to search for that enlight.
I started to enjoy what is right,
I remade my faults as a kite,
I wished it would fly apart from my sight,
My system said, you are free from your rubbish weight.
It proved that I always should depend on god,
In whatever the variation of my mood,
He is there to clear my victorious road,
So, I started to live according to His code.
Copyright © Zamreen Zarook | Year Posted 2013
I stare upon December's moon,
and wonder why some leave so soon.
When news hits us like shattered glass...
Can we believe what's come to pass?
When we aren't meant to understand...
Then who are we to judge God's plan?
As he sifts through the sands of time...
Was this really by design?
Will we get from here to there,
and know it when we do?
Will we greet our flesh and blood,
and those we never knew?
Remember those that mean the most,
and hear their voices ring.
Then shut your eyes...and listen close,
and you'll hear an angel sing...
Copyright © 2007
Copyright © Cole Banner | Year Posted 2013
Waking up five in the morning,
and looking the dawn's sun rise,
to start the day with a yawn and strech.
Smell the morning dew,
as you go and retrive the morning newspaper,
filled with tablots of lives more intresting than yours.
You wave to your hand to your neighbor,
who you don't like, still you say, "hi"
It's just the nature of the human being.
You turn and go inside,
you feel some pain on your leftside.
All those milkshakes and hamburgers
caught up to you.
What do you do?
Not much, you can do now,
You fall to the ground, clenching your chest;
you call out for help, but no one comes.
You see your neightbor, but he doesn't mind.
See he hated you as well, like you hated him,
and he is glad to see you fall to your
knees and beg for Mercy.
Oh no! here he comes,
Doctor Death, no not Jack Kavorkian,
No! the big cheese,
the Creature that prays on black souls,
just like yours.
Doctor Death come on down! Come and clam your prize!
Good morning Doctor Death! I'm ready,
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
For infinity the bright white crosses,
In the tidy rows lay in peace the dead;
So unlike the bloody wartime horrors,
The unknown are full of the unsaid.
The army boy,
Mom's pride and joy;
Air Force and Navy,
Sad deaths untimely.
Sad, the crosses reflected in my eyes.
July 14, 2015
For the contest, Crosses In Your Eyes
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
You think you’ve gone just far enough,
I could smile knowing you’ve gone far enough that you can’t go back again
You think you were careful but,
I’ve caught a glimpse of your true, wretched form
You think you can find a way into my good graces
I’ve seen what you are, monsters with a friendly costume
You can’t deceive me anymore and, I don’t consort with serpents
You think I’m a game to be played but, trust me, you could never win
Don’t underestimate me
You think I’m a joke but, trust me you won’t be laughing
You think I’m just talking myself up but, trust me, you’re the ones going down
My eyes took too long to adjust
Better late than never
It may take a monster to know one but, I promise my teeth are sharper than yours
My first reaction to the hideous revelation that was your form was to weep
Fall to my knees, maybe even wretch my heart from my chest and onto the carpet
Then I thought about the mess it would make
I decided the only blood that will spill, will be your own
I was not weak, but I had a weakness
A heart of soft gold stitched to my sleeve with care
Now my heart is a stone so heavy
I could kill at least two birds at once
Being the nice guy is a thing of the past
Thanks for freeing me of that softness
You thought I was all sunshine and delicate things
When really I had just been swallowing razor blades
Now that sun is setting and I hope you see it was you who were wrong
Can you feel my darkness coming, because it’s eager to hold you
If you thought I was the one who would just stand still or turn to run
Your gonna be the one with tired feet
I’m not sad anymore
Just sick with the plague of your lies
Contagious, and I’m looking for someone to kiss
Even angels can make themselves wicked
When we do, we take no prisoners
Still think I’m a game
This one is just beginning
Copyright © Alexander Schwartz | Year Posted 2013
Entombed behind isolation walled
A haunting malice trapped me within.
Crouching beneath shadows shroud,
Leering eyes pierce.
Through darkness’s pitch black,
Pacing beast intercepting motions,
Movements, mocking my,
Feeble attempts to evade frenzy's,
Deceptions deceiver, silver tongued,
Weaver, spewing lies deceit.
Intricately aligning it's widow,
Feasting on innocence betrayal.
Heckling, laughter echoes, against,
A chilling appetizing, as if pleased,
At malice’s intent.
Fiendishly, delighting in torturing,
It’s human pet.
A vacant mumbling feeling over,
A deeper anger begins to rage,
Rebelling against hatred’s,
Motivated to survive beyond spectral,
Hear my disgust, creature,
I shall destroy thee.
Leave me alone, screaming aloud,
Sanity's domain gives way.
In musty halls empty hollows,
An odorous stench.
Fills mine senses,
Cease mortal miscreant,
None leave here alive,
Shudders blood runs cold down raw
Veins nerve endings,
A deepening realizations rushes,
The conscious mind,
I'm deaths play thing.
To be pounced upon, a toy mouse,
Caught between claws,
Extracting, retracting at whims invoking.
Invisible hands grasp choking life's,
Feeling every heartbeat slowing,
Stinging painfully ringing at ear,
Oblivion's mute murmurs never part,
Lips tightly closed.
Let mercy's fallen be forgiven,
Beyond hells hidden regions,
A place devoid of spiritual salvation.
Foul demonic spirit haunting,
A madman's kingdom,
It whispers to me in sweet melodies,
Now we begin, and you truly belong to me,
With satisfactions grimace, it smiles.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013
beyond my sorrow
there is a path that beckons
I could go that way
or stay and hold hands with death
and weep upon a cold stone
Written, August 16, 2014
Submitted to the contest Simply This, Top Ten Tanka
Sponsor, Andrea Dietrich
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
Sinking in deeper,
No way to escape,
The dark and scary Reaper,
Fore told in the Book of Life.
Is this my end?
Will I ever see the light of day again?
No. My wounds, I must mend.
I must find my strength.
Stand my ground,
Face my fears.
Only then will my voice be found
I must survive.
Break the suffocating chains,
Run from the darkness.
Power will fill my veins.
I will Fight!
Fight the painful names,
The horrid memories,
The demented games
And escape My Black Abyss.
Copyright © Jewels Chavira | Year Posted 2013
It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood.
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait, I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath, such a heavy lump in my throat, “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think, my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink.
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends.
I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.
Copyright © James Clark | Year Posted 2013
Woh chale bhi gaye to kia hua
Mein unhein roz yaad karta hoon
Dil mein rehta he bus khayal unka
Un hee kee dhun mein jeeta marta hoon
Kon hoon mein? samajh na paya kabhi
Khoj mein kion Khuda kee
Loag kuch aur hee samajhte hein
Soach per unki aahein bharta hoon.
Sochta hoon ke mein bhi mar jata
Jab teri qabr se guzarta hoon
Teri ruswaee ka he khauf
Warna mein kab kisi se darta hoon?
Copyright © mazhar butt | Year Posted 2014
In the heart of the deepest silence,
Where days and nights all colored black,
Laid the souls escaped from pestilence,
Never will death trace their tracks,
Amor I loved, one of them,
There laid in years fast asleep,
Dust covered beauty once of fame,
Still vivid it's color my heart has keep,
The lake of time is deep and calm,
And there she laid afloat like lily,
As peace and stillness governs her presence,
Entangled in serenity of unconsciousness,
Yet even the eagerness of my longing,
Is amazed by the firmness of her courage,
While the days of my yearning are hurt and mourning,
Hers is patient in waiting and waiting,
Copyright © joselito asperin | Year Posted 2008
Are Ancestors Endured
So deep in the forest, where it's always dark
Through the gnarled trees, fallen, crooked and mossy
An old, abandoned and neglected graveyard lies
The headstones are tilted, cracked, and broken
There are five stones that go from large to small
The weathered inscriptions hard to make out
Show simply a first name, month and year
William, Anna, Albert, Nellie and Rose
February, March, April, May, and July 1812
They were the forgotten ones,
I grieved for them despite not knowing who they were
My curiosity grew, until I had to know
Through long hours of research, I now knew their story
Tuberculosis took their lives, but what left me pained
Is that the were a family of six, and the youngest child was not there
Elizabeth would have been seven years old
Left alone as her family died one by one
The hardships our ancestors endured were profound
Overgrown With Vines
September 22, 2016
Copyright © Tanis Troutman | Year Posted 2016