Poetry Grief Poems

These Poetry Grief poems are examples of Poetry poems about Grief. These are the best examples of Poetry Grief poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |
Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013




Details | Rhyme |
Too hard for me to say goodbye
For all apparent reasons why
Even though we all know it must be
Each heart will someday stop the beat
When the rhythm of life, and silence, finally meet
.
Yet I always seem so surprised 
To find that death is part of life 
Knowing that regret, will now haunt my every rhyme 
The specter called "if only", will inhabit every line.
Wish I could arbitrate a deal to have gained a little time
Just one more talk with Sissy, to ease my guilty mind. 
.
And the sun now sets on my regrets
I gamble on time and lose each bet
Thinking I'll move on and yet, 
here I set . . .
Wishing for one more time 
One more pun
One more smile 
That will never come 
.
If I could just recall the things you said that mattered to you most.
Memories un memorized
That now I'll never know
Years of conversation when I didn't pay attention
Times I should have said I love you 
And somehow failed to mention
.
Then when you tried to tell me you felt your time was drawing near
Your selfish little brother pretended not to hear.
Even when you did your best,  and tried to let me know
You'd made your peace and you were ready, and that for you . . . 
It was simply time to go

Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |
Ana
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.

If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.

She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.

She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.

Everyone thought she was happy, 
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?

She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.

Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.

They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.

They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.

Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.

She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred. 

She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.

She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.

Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
Killed herself,
everyone had forgotten she needed help.

Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013




Details | Light Poetry |
The Iraqi desert was blowing wind
The bullet tore into my heart
My Commander, she had but one arm
She pulled me to the ground
Holding me tight she saw
I would not make the night
So she did what any lover would
She held me tight
Whispered, "soldier I am with you till the end"
My last thought
Was I died in her arm
As her tears drops mixed with mine

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |

Impulsive or compulsive

Either way it's not conducive

Living with this disorder

Can't be good for my liver

Obsessions, when do they stop?

Compulsions, when do I stop?

Let me illustrate and reiterate

My demons make me infuriated

To the point, man, I really want to escape this

Live everyday like your last?

These hours go by fast

Trying to obliterate every ounce of the past

Always with the imagery and self coping insanity

That broke me and continues to break me.

Another day, no not another day

I just got out, please let me stay away.

Copyright © Stefan Cote | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
Each night, bitter tears flood my cheeks, none of my former lovers are there to offer comfort. My friends have betrayed me despising me as they turn deadly enemies. I'm a slave to my own nature humbled with no rest from sorrow humiliated like a deer which cannot find pasture and hunted down till my strength is gone. I can't even remember the good Life that was once there because my existence has become a joke. A beauty, young and untouched now trampled like grapes in a wine pot. Tears of suffering; shouts of mourning becoming my closest triplet sisters. I reach out my hand but no one offers comfort instead I'm being treated like a filthy rag. My eyes red from crying, my stomach is on knots and I feel sick all over as I wait for the healing of my wounds; gaping as wide as the oceans Deep in my heart, I cry out now letting my tears overflow my walls day and night. my skin and flesh waste away and my Bones broken. The constant insults and hard knocks chain me down to eat gravel and be rubbed in dirt. My Life has turned sour; terrified, trapped, caught and crushed as tears flood my eyes and they won't stop. I was once worth much more than fine stones from Australia yet now counted worthless like dishes of clay. I stagger around naked and wounded exposed to the Red vultures of the Jungle and to the babarian brutal desert tribes. My skin scourched from fever and hunger and finally, the desert trap, immobilizing me, makes them swoop down faster than the Eagles from the sky to feast in the delicious meal of my ruin.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

In my thoughts poetic words are swirling,    I found writing at an early age,
Tumbling and whirling, like caged birds;         Depth of spirit and creativity are mine;
Trapped and reckless to be set free,       Memories are free flowing in my words,
I must find paper and pen and release;     Deep inspired poetry releases the past;
The fluttering, my muse is screaming,    I drift and float, soul searching my inner life,
In my head, or is that me?                    Meaningful words pour out the sorrow.
I start to write and sad poems come,        I let go of the past, I let the pain drift,
Creeping, word bleeding on paper;       I lay each sorrowful and weeping word bare;
Oh do all poets struggle or just me?   Bleeding upon a white page of paper,
And as I pen my verse, I weep.             My poems are full of tears and memories.
The writing done, I sigh a tear,                I have laid open this heart for all to see,
My muse has set me free;               The story of my life can be found easily;
Memories are all I have,                Photographs that float in my dreamy thoughts,
And the rain is falling down.                     The tomb is wet, so dark, so cold.
The pages of my life fluttering,          Words deep engraved for all eternity,
Past the ornate gate;                 The wind takes my long hair and trees tremble;
Voices and murmurs calling me,     Past the ornate gate and winding road,
I kiss dead lips and caress cold hands.      I so often stand in this place of sorrow.

________________________________
September 26, 2015

Free Verse

Inspired by the poem Crack like fissures written by Richard Lamoureux


In my poem, I combined parts of four poems with a similar theme.

Winds of Time, August 2014
For All Eternity, April 2015
Soulfulness, April 2015
Like Caged Birds, July 2015

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

Details | Verse |

                       Many came with bright, lovely  f l o w e r s  to lay,
   their  T E A R S  hung in the tall  b e n d i n g  trees;
and then their  WEEPING  drifted into the  S I L E N C E,
                     I have laid here  b e n e a t h  the  EARTH-  years.
   BENEATH  the deep  w h i t e  snow and  g r e e n  grass;
                                         and a little  GIRL  came often with Rose,
                 she  l a i d  ROSE  on my tomb, so gently . . . 
          NOW-     now, a beautiful young woman comes here.
"O h  m y  s i s t e r  l o v e-          do not  grieve evermore,
    LEAVE, leave, leave this DARKNESS and come  n e v e r m o r e."

____________________
January 7, 2017

Verse/Its Too Early To Write Poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 863940


It's to early to prite woetry  contest
sponsor, Ironic Zink

Fifth Place 

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |
This way that I feel, these dreams that I'm having
The rage that's held in, please Lord, let me release
The bottled up anger, laced with the bad memories
When will things change? Please Lord, Let me release

I search for the change, and I seek it through the shadows
I wish for this to stop, please Lord, make it decease
As the emotions boil, and the imagery is set, I paint
But the picture is all wrong, please Lord, make it decease

I can't erase the memories, the shell to thick to crack
Help me discover my path, and please Lord, let me release
The wisdom unheard of, gone in a single flash, to where?
Help me find my soul, and please Lord, let me release

I imagine a better place, in your arms is where I belong
Until then I'm alone, please Lord, make it decease
A victim of a broken home, and outcast to even myself
Questioning my mind, please Lord, make it decease

Lead me in the direction, you already know where I'll go
I'm lost and I need your help, but please Lord, let me release
Tired in these empty hallways, dehydrated of your love
Make me whole again, but please Lord, let me release

Copyright © Aaron Guttery | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
Did you ever fall into a puffy big fluffy pillow,
Greeting your back as gravity commands you
And wraps around your entirety?

That moment where all you see is cushion:
Soft and safe is all that you feel
And you hear the rush of air passing you by.

For an instant there is nowhere else,
There is nowhen else, time has stopped
And you wish the moment would never end.

But all too soon you are aware
That you still lie among chaos
And you pretend the pillow is your shield.

Jumping from pillow to pillow
Tring to hide from the world
And you know it’s not real

I wish I could only hear the rush of air passing me by,
My vision obscured by the comforting cocoon  
And to feel someone wrapped around me.

Copyright © Ijm seven | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
You never listen
Yes I know it's true
I see you try and deny it
How's that working for you?

I will say one thing
You will hear another
I will try to fix it
The misunderstanding you see

I just got in trouble
(Sigh) I told you so
They never listen to me

They say they do 
And I know they try
But all I want to do is scream
"JUST LISTEN TO ME SOMEONE PLEASE"

All I asked is that you think
What is real?
Do I ever ask this?
Will I ever again?

All I really did
Was ask
For friend

All I want
Is to be free
Free to listen
And free to be me

Sadly though
You'll never see
Just how much your 
Not listening has killed me

I have tried
Really I did
I know that I'm not eighty
I know that I'm not nice
But the only thing I asked 
For was five minutes (at the most) of your life.

I'm sorry that you failed
I'm sorry that I tried but
Mostly I'm just sorry that
I'm not sorry,
Not anymore.

Copyright © Rayne Thomas | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |
“My Name is Cancer”

My name is cancer; I have no regard for life.
I break hearts and tear apart families.
I appear out of the blue and strangely.
I do not see race, or age, or beauty in people, for I’m a disease, and blind to the good hearts I take.
The more people I take from this earth, the more I‘m feared.
I’m inside everyone: every mother, father, sister, and son.
To know me, is to know death,
To feel me, is to fell anguish.
To see me is like seeing then sun, then falling away into darkness where there is no more light, 
where there is only pain.
Where there is only a feeling of hell that you do not understand and cannot explain.
I make friends cry, I make families feel hopeless.
Is it fair for me to make the vibrant wither?
Is it fair for me to take the old before their time?
Is it fair of me to strike fear into the hearts of families?
Is it fair for me to take the life of an inanest child?
I’m just but a disease that knows no bounds.
Hopefully you never have the misfortune 
of hearing my name.           

Copyright © Joseph Staup | Year Posted 2016

Details | Italian Sonnet |
When last they kissed, and passion's lease
bloomed brief and sweet, Sir Shakespeare's quill 
would set in motion a deathly chill.
For Juliet, he could not appease
to win her smile and would not release 
a tranquil tale...but did reveal
this tragic poem, where lovers fell
and would break our hearts with spellbound grief.

Behold, your eyes will weep for her,
and empty arms will flail, for him
Young lovers swept away, in love
Misguided youth that we hold dear
and through the years we pray for them,
as songs are sung by mourning doves

...
 
Their love, was a fever, sorely sought
Of passion's quest, she would requite
to bridge the wage of family strife
But, delusion,  rides deceitful plots
To think him dead, she had no doubt
Despaired, beyond her wildest thought
Disquiet of the heart cried out
And death, would dim the stars that night

Their song still lives, as stories will
Upon two graves, we linger here 
Such love divine, is ours to keep
A sonnet binds them, ever still...
A love that cannot be compared
While swollen hearts, with anguish, weep


___________________________
2/11/14

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
The day they fell


He stands before the great woods
Arms stretched, bracing the storm of machines
They roar and bark, trying to break his wall
But he stays put, Save the Forests he screams

The tress stand tall, lush and green
Seedlings sprout, Flowers bloom
Animals frolic in their wonderland 
Is the forest really meeting it's doom?

He stands before the great woods
Protecting everything it confides
Many plants and animals are within
Away from the human eye they hide

Even if you have never seen them
Just take a step inside
The feeling of life the smell of grass
Do u really want them all to die?

The machines don't care 
Around the forest they continue to surround 
They have never seen the wind 
And never heard the sounds 
 
They never felt the wind against their faces
Never heard the rustling of leaves
Never seen the life in the forest
Never understood that it brings relief

Fire shoots up as the forest screams 
Roars and crackles follow too
Animals run, plants sink to the floor 
As the machine consumes the forests full

The trees spend decades growing up
The animals spend years moving in
But it only takes seconds to burn it down
To burn the forest into the size of a pin

What has the forest done he wonders 
As He stands in front of the orange blaze
To deserve this kind of torturous pain
With Heat and sorrow right in his face

Copyright © Sapphire Williams | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
A huge monstrous olive tree not giving shade nor bearing fruits, existing in pains and disappointments together with the others, they live is the exact expression of my grieve. Too hypocritical in being aggressive and defeated by the contraceptive of my try condemn and make me believe I'm failure's chief executive. How am I to know that every attempt completed is success' eve? How am I to know that more failure is effective? How am I to know that I ought to be vigilant and be patient like a detective? faulting the situation, myself I deceive and landing in this mess surely wasn't my motive I should have been more creative instead of staying sensitive to my senses and searching for palliative methods of scoring my goal. I shouldn't have used my cognitive functions this way, perceiving challenges as dangers always attentive to the red light when it is in fact yellow. Running away, when the push seems less attractive and summing up the crash to be definitive. For all these years the agony has been an adhesive to my soul. comparative to a privileged bridegroom who outslept his wedding to an undeserving bride. As descriptive as that, mine is even more corrosive. Now I pay taxes to sadness and my regret more lucrative than ever before as nature chooses my heart to be the dwelling place of sorrow keeping my self-ruin well preserved. I've tried to turn back time I've tried to apply similar energy and pretense is now my best talent but all I get is NOTHING! I'm only left with wishes a million times have I made them and a million times more I'll proclaim them but they will all stand as cup-bearers to my constant regrets. as I forever say........ I wish! Oh I wish!

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013

Details | Rhyme |
I Didn't Mean To Break Your Heart

I wrote a poem of yesterday
a part of me was dying.
Love had come then left again
and left me there just crying.

So long it seemed my reaching out
I hoped somehow you'd see.
Remembered times I cried with you 
that you might cry with me.

I guess I took it much too far
I missed it from the start.
The last thing that I wanted.
I didn't mean to break your heart.

Memories of former days
when maybe love was new.
Must have all come rushing back
somehow crushing you.

Relentlessly I told my tale
about a love that went all wrong.
Not seeing what it did to you
as you followed along.

Feeling somehow some release
I let it all pour out.
Opened wounds inside of you
one more time filled with doubt.

Through the times I lived and loved
my world fell all apart.
Words I write for healing me
I didn't mean to break your heart.

Edwin C Hofert

Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015

Details | Elegy |
I miss the remedies of our past selves,
I miss the extract of blight from the tip of your lips.
I miss your abstract sunrise tumbling down your shoulders,
I miss the offset emeralds looking outward.
I miss our blaze that once caught the world on fire,
I miss the passionate extremities of our youth.
I miss the quite afterthoughts of the nights spent together,
I miss the way you removed me from my paradox.
I miss our alikeness, our kindled spirit,
I missed your final words.
I miss,
I missed.

Copyright © Aaron McIntosh | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
One day i will climb that tree, 
Sit at the top to feel the breeze
One day I'll swing on that swing,
So high I can touch the sky
One day i will ride my bike, 
So fast across the land
One day i will play with the other kids, 
When I'm not feeling so sick
One day i know i will be well, 
One day soon i will be cured, no more pain, no more suffering
That day will be 
When god sends his angel's down for me
To forever play in heaven's playground...




Written for little Kiara who lost her fight
fly free baby girl...

Copyright © kerry singleton | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |
Do you sometimes wonder about your self identity
seen through your lens for suicidal risk as opportunity?

It interests me that this lens
evolves as we age.

In later adolescence,
we often look in the face of transition
from good nutritional outcomes on a small stage
about to enter more competitively sharkish waters
within a significantly larger landscape.

Or so I focused my lens in my younger lack-time of wonder.
Not sure why or how these same transitions did not also apply
to nearly all those nonsuicidal 18-24 year olds,
enjoying a more Positive Psychology.

But now, in later adulthood,
I more often look in the face of a potential suicide
as one with at best mediocre outcomes
on a too-small stage,
often familial, or lack thereof,
about to enter no stage at all,
thinking maybe why postpone this mortal inevitability
of decay and disappearance.

From younger suicides,
"What would be the point of continuing
this WinLose Game,
when we all feel RealTime drill,
you never clearly win
until you stop losing,
and you never stop losing,
until you stop playing.
Clearly I am about to lose
what I don't feel all that great about
ever having won
at others' expense."

From older suicides,
"What was the point
of taking so long
to end this rigged Lose to Lose
death-embracing game
called life?"

It feels like these despair and suffering questions
co-arise within exponentially more of us,
asking echoing silos
as our encultured Earth moves
into a new revolutionary millennium.

Given the now nearly inevitable demise
of our polyculturally and climatically climaxing
exterior and interior lenses
of healthy hope v. toxic pathological 
and monocultural decline
of ecological
and economic
and political balance,
how do we know
we are more than an overpopulating parasitic blight
riding Earth's mortuary-in-waiting
where Elders remind was once
a healthy regenerative place
to continue living?

Yet it is so important to notice
not only all despairing souls
jumping off roofs
but also healthfully repairing spirits
building polyculturally positive-deviant landscapes
of organic and synergetic opportunity,
cooperative networks of resonant resolve
sounding Time's dipolar appositional
issues of despair as opportunities to repair,
still seeking reasonable,
yet deviant,
hope for shared regenerational vocations,
with WinWin reiterating integrity
between Earth's adaption and humane adoption,
within  history's proposal and culture's co-evolving disposal.

No ego is autonomously responsible
for feelings or thoughts,
ideation or even beliefs.
So it is no one's right to judge feelings,
our own feelings,
the feelings-beliefs-ideas of others
as unacceptable or somehow cosmically dysfunctional,
condemning or worthy of global applause,
taking all we have been given
far too personally,
too unrealistically removed from comparative
and nuancing context
to discern how we might choose to carry on.

It is our responsibility and opportunity,
personally, and as a species,
to notice trends of suffering and despair,
compared to trends of multisystemic health diversity,
polycultural density of nutritional choices,
ranges of harmonic freedom and wealthy cultural balance,
as they appear to reflect
and not reflect
our shared experience to date.

Not to judge and condemn failures and despair,
but to praise our most regenerative successes
and love for equitably accessible hope
to include all Earth's cooperative economy
among our emerging synergetic Tribe 
of curious interests.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
To the forgotten soul that have ever lived For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved Their cowardice disregarded but courage believed Their fears covered by their bravery revealed Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed With their bodies torn, one nation they weaved One anthem they sing for lives they screamed In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed As our last line of defense, this is how they lead Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand In the war-torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery As every mournful tear, they wept is not a locked mystery ‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory This simple gesture is a constant ministry That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail To cover the brave As they salute, march and wave Not knowing so sorrow they will cave With their blood, they will pave And our salvation they'll save Now on our hearts, they'll engrave “WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE” Now we say: “LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”

Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |

I go to a place of memories
  That haunt my vivid dreams
On a winding path I walk,
  The path is always there ;
Old oaks bend their branches,
   Of dripping leaves and moss ;
The grass is emerald green,
  And many birds chirp unseen,
Chipmunks scurry here and there,
  Running up and down the trees.
And all around are flowers bright
   They flutter in the breeze.
She waits beyond this bend;
   Oh she was my sister love.
How we liked to play and play,
   Until that sad, dark day,
She went to be an angel above.
   I think it was God's will.
A rose I place upon her grave,
  And let me write the pain.

The last time I saw my sister love,
   She lay in repose so sweetly;
Her lips were rosy in death stillness.
   Arms folded as if in prayer,
I kissed her cold dead cheek,
   And I will remember her ;
Sleeping in her eternal ever rest,
  Her dress of the softest pink.
The years have slipped past me,
  I am no longer a little girl ;
But a woman of many years,
  Yet when I walk this path,
I go back to that sad day.
  The day I watched sister love,
Lowered into the earth below;
  Mother Earth opened wide,
And then she was a memory.
   A memory that will haunt me,
In all my days that remain ;
  This place of deep sorrow,
A winding path beneath the trees,
   A name upon cold stone ;
In poems inspired I write the pain,
  Of a my beloved sister love.



Inspired by the poem, Pictures Of Memory
Written by Alice Cary, 1820 - 1870

Among the beautiful pictures
  That hang of Memory's wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
  That seemeth best of all ;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
  Dark with mistletoe ;
Not for the violets golden
  That sprinkle the vale below ;
Not for the milk-white lilies
  That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
  And stealing their golden edge ;
Not for the vines on the upland,
  Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
  It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,
  With eyes that were dark and deep ;
In the lap of that old dim forest
  He lieth in peace asleep :
Light as the down of the thistle,
  Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
  The summers of long ago ;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
  And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
  A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
  My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
  Silently covered his face ;
And when the arrows of sunset
  Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
  Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
  That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
  Seemeth the best of all.

________________________
August 15, 2015

Verse

For the contest, No More Masks, sponsor, Catie Lindsay

8th Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

Details | Imagism |
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast

Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds

Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are

Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs

Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens

#Poem by +Gokul Alex

Copyright © Gokul Alex | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |

nothing to man is at hand, neither his force
 nor his weakness, or his heart; and even when
   open armed, his shadow looks like a cross, then
     his joy will crush, to keep it tight, if he can !!
         his life is a strange and painful divorce
                             there is no happy love.

his life is just like these armless soldiers
 who are geared just for a diferent fate
    what for then, to open morning gate
       when back home, jobless after due date?
         tell these words, My life, and keep your tears

                          there is no happy love.

my beautiful love my dear love, my wound
   i bear you within me like a bird, aching
       and those without our being seen passing
          repeating after me the words, i've been weaving   
            and who to the wide eyes, will not stay around!

                         there is no happy love.

by the time to learn to live, it will be already too late, 
 how many tears must our hearts shed in harmony at night?
    how much more sorrow that could give a little song
       how  much more regrets that could pây a thrill
         how much more sobs that could give a tune of guitar   
        
                        there is no happy love


Louis Aragon translation* Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux*

Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2016

Details | Light Poetry |
I will grow old
I tremble in the cold
None to care
I have nothing to fear...

But my love is alive
Though I strive
Beautiful roses to pluck
Yet I am stuck..

I grow old with wrinkle
Yet I will kinker
You will always remain in my mind
This is how you will find...

Copyright © Surajit Dahal | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
Yes! I become frail 
Yes! You pushed me hard 
Yes! I fall; 
Yes! You made me stronger, 
To the point that i think you are fortuitous, 
I pray, I pray you to be the one 
When you feel betrayed; 
I heard Love turns into a antagonism and a curse, 
To the point, I feel you are blessed 
I still pray for you; to be happy 
Yes! I cried.. I sob 
Yes! You made me feel worse 
Yes! I missed you 
Yes! You made me who i am. 
To the point, you are admired 
I pray, I pray you to be blissful, 
Now that, you are gone I feel, what was so exemplary about you? 
I still pray for you to get what you want.

Copyright © Asma Memon | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sonnet |
Where were you when my world fell apart?
The Sun darkened and the Moon just fled.
All had been done and all had been said.
And ripped to shreds was my beating heart.

Even the Seas began to part.
And the Mountain tops spread.
I lay there completely dead.
Even the Stars I could not chart.

If only you knew,
If only you were there,
If only you had a clue!
If only life had been fair!

I’d turn the clocks back,
Still standing dead in my track!

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2013

Details | Couplet |
I am
As I gaze up towards the universe

I am
As a fading star lingering in the night

I am
Lost inside the twilight's whispered dreams

I am
Reality inside tomorrows twisted illusions

I am
Without purpose

I am
Nothing, nothing at all

I am
One with not even a reason to die

I am
The one who sold his insanity

I am
Alone and so very afraid 

Eating the dirt and decay infiltrating my solitude grave

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017

Details | Prose Poetry |
When ever I see the butterflies flying
I am reminded of your smiling face,
As I see them taking wing into the sky
I feel emotions which are never displaced

For deep in my heart also live the butterflies
As they come to life within my heart each day
While I count the many sweet memories of you
Which in my thoughts and dreams now stay

The sheer brilliance of their many vibrant colors
Produce a vivid rainbow deep within my mind
Which fills my heart with such an unwavering joy
Allowing me to enjoy them for endless times

And the butterflies will be my dearest treasure
Leaving me never again quite feeling the same
For the peace they bring can never be measured
As on their wings are gently imprinted your name.


Wendell A. Brown, 
2011

Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013

Details | Acrostic |
Who am I?
Question indeed!

  W-eaned from tender 
age,in noble family of ten.
  H-urt by the demise of 
the tube that brought 
me into this theater of 
struggles and pains.
  O-rdered about by the 
whimps of this 
world,facing the hurdles 
of life daily from 
cradle,never giving up 
hope.
  
  A-fine young man of 28 
I am,who has the 
experience and wisdom 
of the aged.
  M-astering the arts of 
life-learning from lessons 
of life's victims and 
didactic poems 'cos man 
of fame I intend to be for 
I bear the name Bob.

  I-lost my poetic gift at a 
stage but recovered it in 
poetrysoup for invisible 
entities say a 
lesser being I shall be,but 
another encourages me 
to move on,for great is 
one who comes out of 
the shackles of life 
undeterred for this is who 
I am.



Name: Ifeanyi Bob 
Ekechukwu.
Date:24-10-2013.

Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013

Details | Elegy |
We only talked sanely a few times, 
About how he also had a condition like me, 
Although my dad, who had a Medical Doctorate, when James was small wouldn’t say, 
Obvious as it was that he had CF from his inward-growing finger-nails, 
Dad decided to bypass the issue, medicine to assail. 

I have CP, and needed James’s comfy chair to read, 
It was given to him in misogyny because it was blue, 
About three months before he died he said, 
I could have it, and must convince mum and dad that it was mine;
They were Christians, fundamentalist and strict, 
And so sometimes there was an elephant in the room,
Between me and James, about the physical.

Death is inevitable, but to them it was only a maybe for James, 
When the doctors had said that 14 was the expectation, 
I prepared myself for the worst well before it occurred, 
As an atheist I am, with no qualms or hesitation. 

James wanted for me the best, happiness and friends, 
Wanted me to do my best physically, ‘cos he knew I wanted that too,
But he also suspected that I would grieve for him rightly, 
Not like a sentimental fundamentalist who believes that Jesus is risen, 
But as a steadfast atheist who knows what has been given; 
So he knew to remark on my immediate life without him so as to adjudicate. 

I cherished Christinna Georgina Rossetti’s poem, Remember, 
Long before and for some time after James’s death, 
And quietly held in my heart the loved-one’s good wish, 
Mum used to think that sometimes I was cold as stone, 
But really I'd faced the fact that James was dead and gone. 

Although Rossetti was by no means an atheist, 
Her poem recites the mantra of the bereavement psychologist,  
That to get on with your life as best you can,
Is a right, the partner of grief, and the pathway for your lone self;
In the Bleak Mid-Winter puts Christ as relational to nature,
Instead of pertaining nature to Christ, as it is normally, 
And so we must partake of it within our space and our pasture. 

Rhoda Monihan 


13/09/2015

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015