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Sestina Death Poems | Sestina Poems About Death

These Sestina Death poems are examples of Sestina poems about Death. These are the best examples of Sestina Death poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Sestina |

Things We Think

                              Things We Think

He said, “Every man is busy earning money.” 
She said, “Is there anything more important than love?”
He said, “Is there anything more important than sex?”
She said, “I think we all just fear death.”
He said, “It’s like the Cats in the Cradle we just need more time.”
She said, “I think we really need more space.”

He moved out to a place with more space.
She soon did not have enough money.
She had to leave behind the house and love.
Once they vowed nothing would do them part not even death.
She never learned the aborted child’s sex.
Biologically he still had more time.

He was ambitious, indoctrinated into the ascent of money.
She worked her fingers to the bone, until her death.
He afforded local expensive sex.
She began to view local nature as expansive space.
He did not connect space and time.
She knew what connected it all was love.

In time he found a new love.
In love, she found time.
He equated good passion with good sex.
She found the emerald walls of nature the best space.
He loved the crisp or dirty, rumpled, green of money.
Homeless— she was reprimanded in the rain “You’ll catch your death!”

it's been said,

The root of all evil is money.
Money can’t buy you love.
Nothing is certain but taxes and death.
I don’t know the question, but the answer is sex.
I need my space.
All we have is time.

I’ve learned to give love and learned that is love.
I’ve learned one’s time is worth more than one’s money.
I’ve learned a small space in nature explains all infinite space.
I’ve learned that gender should not be judged by one’s sex.
I’ve learned that empathy slows time.
I’ve learned from the leaves of grass there is no death.

He is more than his money and she is more than her sex.
In death we find love.
In space there exist time.

Copyright © Toni Orban | Year Posted 2016



Details | Sestina |

Columbine

That tragic day the school bells tolled
in April nineteen ninety-nine:
the massacre at Columbine,
the rage of Harris and Klebold.

Some say that Harris was a cold
and grandiose young psychopath,
who wished to show the world his wrath:
the rage of Harris and Klebold.

Some say that guns should not be sold.
Some blame it on deep discontent.
Can we predict? Can we prevent
the rage of Harris and Klebold?

That tragic day the school bells told 
the rage of Harris and Klebold.

Copyright © evan bowen | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |

Death Undignified, Fort Laramie 1860

High noon in Fort Laramie, the summer sun is oppressive.
A whalebone corset digs into my body’s tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of incoming riders.
The pale blue sky disappears in a cloud of dust. 
Children playing hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Mrs. Dreary’s provisioner, cutlery falls with a clatters.
Outside the store, horses race pell-mell with the oppressive
sound of thunder. “Indians,” children scream, running through the dust.
Folks in buggies, wagons, and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
Mrs. runs up the backstairs carrying the baby. There’s a scream of pain.
Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The Indians leap from horse back to the tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary descends, Sharp shooter in hand, and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display; the scent of fear oppresses.
He slams the door shut as shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git, Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes wide-open owlish are full of tears and dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, his spurs clattering.
The baby screams from upstairs. I turn to see Mrs. Dreary’s oppressive
grip on her dead husband. She grabs the Sharp, kills a passing rider.

The arriving soldiers round up the band of native riders.
Mrs. Dreary gets the babe, kicks the fallen marble in the dust
and walks through the door, into another type of oppression.
The soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and hits me life begins to part.

Blind with pain I fall forward facedown, numb, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the town’s riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departure through the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” is my last lucid thought, oppressive.

The clatter of hoofs rocks the trough punctuating my parting.
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remain.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sestina |

Dying Heart

Stabbed in the heart, I’m starting to bleed
I’m becoming cold as the touch of death
Yet I don’t want to say goodbye

Painful word, insane cry, sweet goodbye
Pain pounds on me as I bleed
Thumping me until I reach death

Life is being drained by the angel of death
Forcing me to say goodbye
Suffering the more I bleed

Yet even as I bleed to death I refuse to tell you goodbye

Copyright © Julie Alcin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |

Death Undignified, Fort Laramie 1860

The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
The whalebone corset dug into the body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touching the pane
of dearly brought glass, I feel the vibration of the incoming riders.
The weak blue sky pales, and clouds over with the dust. 
Children playing at hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary’s dropped plate clatters.
Outside the general store, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat oppressive.
“Indians,” the children scream, running through the miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife runs up the back stairs. Her baby screams in pain.

Arrow flights buzz by shattering shop window panes.
The indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door. The shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window now! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owls, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens” Mr. Dreary cusses. Bullets clip through the broken pane.
Pulling me behind, opening the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls backward, landing beside me, spurs clattering.
The wee baby screams again and I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabbing the Sharp. She kills a rider.

The arriving soldiers chase the mongrel band of heathen riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the fallen marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.

Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the incoming riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the days dust.
My open mouth fills with the rancid, taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, oppressive.

The clatter of hoofs rocks my parting
The oppression of man against man leaves with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remains.

Poet: Debbie Guzzi



Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

The Maid, the Magpie and the Mirror

Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.

Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.

The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.

The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.

Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.

The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.

The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.




Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Dark Angels of Highgate

Enough Angelina, drop the bouquet of harebells.  
The flowers wilt as your graying hands stiffen. See, how grave
is our newborn son. We gift him a black crêpe layette.
Say Darling Edward, say, Golubushka, make me come alive.
Leave this chapel, return to his cradle, quicken your deadwood.  
Come, rock his sweet little boat, croon, sladkiy bairdark.
 
Your shade sighs as the mourners trudge into the dark
of All Hallow's Eve. A breeze stirs the hairs on my nape. Bells 
toll, the ringer incants “Unto the Church, I do You call, Death              
to the grave will summon all.” Freshly turned gravel
rolls from the burial mound, the earth’s answer to life’s 
reticence. Our son, whom I cradle, mutely lays.       
 
See, the ground moves.  There, there, my boy. Love's only mislaid.
Father, Mother, take the babe, go, shield him from Highgate’s darkness.
I stay. By will alone, I'll not let maggots deface beauty that lives.    
My Angel, please, tug the cord housed in your coffin so the bell
will ring, rouse London’s rigor. You will waltz on this grave,
speak of Siberian winters, then scoff, roll eyes at the vigor of death. 
 
Insubstantial lips brush the babe’s forehead, even death
cannot stay her reply. Ed’ard, Mother will take him home to lie. 
A chill north wind rises as if to show your sorrow from the grave,
clawing the headstone with twigs and pebbles; clouds darken
the moon. Your shade screams; a bough whips Mother's cheek, the bell  
on its gold cord is silent. Wind nigh swallows my howl, Angelina, live!
 
We are alone, Angel, save for those cemetery ravens which liven
roan weeds. Three nights I've troubled Highgate, plucking deadheads   
from your boney wreath. Obstinate wife, revive the grieving bell.
I hear them calling Ed’ard, Come. I am torn from your stone: waylaid,
outnumbered, locked in our bedchamber. At the next darkening,  
the babe's rattle rings, calling your name. I escape to your grave.  
 
Nightclothes drenched and shoeless, I topple onto the grave.
Yea though I walk … ring, damn you, bell, ring! Curse this life!
The sky cracks open, sheet lightning pierces the craven darkness
as if in answer a mother oak’s limb shatters. The deadweight
crushes me against the granite angel where you lay.
At sunrise, church bells rang Angelus prayer from the chapel’s belfry.
 
Angelina, Angelina, our grown son visits our grave to honor the dead.
He is our true afterlife; all my fears have been allayed.
All is too calm and well 'til his eyes darken as he batters your bell.

A collaboration by Debbie Guzzi and Cyndi MacMillan, 

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014

Details | Sestina |

The Garden

Sometimes it all feels like a dream.
A dream full of love,
Full of life,
And full of happiness.
It is as though I am surrounded by flowers;
Yet, every pedal stings like the nick of a blade.

A sharp, jagged blade.
Carving every inch of my body. Could this really be a dream?
I lie here, trying to escape, but I keep drowning in the flowers.
Even through all of this pain, I still feel the joy of love.
With every tear I shed, I still feel happy.
My world seems empty and cold, but I still feel the warmth of life.

I wonder if this is the end. If my life
Could really be taken by a simple blade.
I begin to stray away from my happiness
And realize that this is no dream.
I thought I was draped with love,
But little did I know that this garden was filled with malicious flowers.

I once felt delighted in the presence of a flower.
The cheer it brought made me burst with life.
I thought I knew the meaning of love,
But I never knew the pain of a blade.
It helped me distinguish reality form a dream
And determine what would truly make me happy.

It seems so far away, the hope of happiness.
The pedals turned black, darkening the hate within the flowers.
I close my eyes, begging for it all to be a dream.
Praying for a prolonged life.
I lay in the garden of vengeance, awaiting the pierce of a blade.
Longing for the compassion of love.

Not even a moment later, I realize there is no love;
Nothing that can make me believe in the existence of happiness.
Again and again I feel the torment of the blades;
The misery that began in this garden of flowers.
I feel my grip loosening, about to let go of life.
I am beginning to disappear like the memory of a dream.

At that moment, the light shines through the flowers.
My body fills with life,
And I finally wake from that horrific dream.

Copyright © Corinne Meade | Year Posted 2015

Details | Sestina |

Fly



Standing on a tower, more than three hundred feet
She was watching a movie of her life,
in her head, as tears fall, and she tries to smile
She spread her arms like wings
Tears still falling, but she wants to fly
She closes her eyes, and held her head
high

Should have known better, her expectations too high
She's someone with two legs but can't stand on her feet
She may have been breathing, but she did not have life
She's undead blend with living, greet them with a fake smile.
And at night when she breaks, she would grasp for her wings
She forgot she was human, and therefore cannot fly.

How she wanted to fly!
More than thousand feet high
Never walk on her feet
And explore her whole life
Maybe then she could smile
She would look for those wings

She'd been hoping for wings
For she wanted to fly
She wanted to be happy, like she's on sugar high
Like someone lift her up, and swept her off of her feet
How she long for it! She wanted that her whole life
She just wanted to be happy, she just wanted to smile. 

But it takes all her strength, just to muster one smile
For all that's left was a set of broken wings
Never better than angels, even worse than a fly.
Always falls at the bottom, and no chance to get high
Always stuck on the ground, with her two broken feet
She was tired of these things, she was tired of this life

There was no one out there who cares for her life
But she tried to be strong, while she wear a fake smile
She cried out for help, but they pulled out her wings
Screaming "Girl, you are human, and therefore cannot fly!"
She know it herself, but is it bad to aim high?
"I will show them," she says, as she ran on her feet

Life, now hanging on a tower, more than three hundred feet
She wears a real smile while she stood way up high
Spread her arms just like wings, took off--- and fly.

Copyright © Julie Anne | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |

In 10 seconds

"I have dipped my pen in the sublime, it is my gift to you . . ."

                                                            A Rambling Poet



There’s always been a significant person 
Who has guided me through life
And taught me everything 
A growing girl should learn,
From counting all my numbers,
To knowing how life can be cold.

My gratitude rewards this person
For, I was not easy to train,
Oft’ times I turned my shoulder cold 
I believed I knew everything.
I just wanted to be young and live,
And tried to stray too many times to count.

I’ve grown beholden of the things I’ve learned.
My knowledge floods in large quantities,
Through my veins, from the veins of a special being.
Accepted, and hoarding his words, entirety
My mind suppressing reality of his un-beating hearts coldness
Building castles in air, deceiving myself that he might live.

~”I walk solitaire, but not alone”~

Through the graveyard, choked by after-life.
His name on the monument, bold & stone cold.
I run my hand across the surface, and embrace it whole
Suffer the etching through my fingertips, I’ve new things to learn
“He” isn’t really here, only his flesh and bones.
I close my eyes to preserve it all, and count to 10.

Within that 10 seconds, his spirit enlightens my company,
Sits with me, we discuss everything
“I taught you a lot, especially these things of cold,
I know what I promised, I know what a special person
I was to you. But Randa you must now learn
To do things on your own. In the way of your own life.”

~”I shan’t forget the words he left me with…”~

“Pass my knowledge to my grandsons, for them to learn.
I see already you’ve taught Logan to count.
Princess, you know I’m still here, even though my flesh is cold
And, even though now I cant do every little thing
That I could when my blood flowed, I can live on through your life
And spiritually lead you to be who you want, as a person”

Then my daddy faded away, and everything
Went back to the way it was. Like numbers
On a clock, must be wound to keep it’s life.

©2011-06-23
Miranda Lambert
Contest: Writing In The Sublime ~

Copyright © Wandering Butterfly | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Class Divide

Poor  men  with  wealthy  lives  are  low  dead
Dead  and  poor  low  mens  lives  were  wealthy 
Wealthy  dead  with  lives  poor  were  low  men
Low  and  wealthy  men  had  dead  poor  lives
Lives  low  remembering  poor  wealthy  dead  men
Wealthy  lives  are  dead  those  low  poor  men
Poor  lives  are  dead  those  low  wealthy  men

Copyright © Zack Dicks | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sestina |

Raven's Love and Hope Kept Alive

Part II



“I walk a decrepit graveyard alone, in mists stirred by contrast winds
As a storm brews, I am grateful that I know in my heart he's alive 
Skies bream with promise of torrent rain and shelter must be found
It appears; I’ve lost my shawl, and feel the cold chill even as I dream
I’m convinced it’s due to the storm; not because I walk amidst the dead
Further, I see through clammy mist a mausoleum, looms in the silence 

As I near those rusty iron gates, leaves rustle loud in the silence 
And I picture armed vagrants once here, perhaps chased by the winds
Now I rest assured, I am alone as I search this place of the dead
Painful moans erupt from within; my heart leaps; could it be, he's alive?
‘Who are you?’ My hear raced fiercely, convinced, this concludes my dream 
Intermittent moonlight cast upon the floor, My Ross, at last is found!”


In a tomb her Ross laid in the silence; by love and hope kept alive
Calling upon soft summer winds; manifested in persistent dreams 
Which resounded that among the dead, her beloved would be found

~*~
By Annalise Brigham
For: A Rambling Poet’s “Among the Dead” Contest

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

cursed to exhale

If i could exhale, really exhale,
To expire the rubble of the ages, 
1000 years of dread off my belly,
and my fingertips once so dainty
then could grasp stars and not burn,
 I dig my face into the dirt and find eternity.

i gazed into the jackals eyes and he spoke to me from eternity
he said "follow closely so that i might teach you to exhale
and maybe dear in return a smile upon your face will burn"
an expression lost on my brittle jaw for ages
so i walk upon the crust of the earth now bruised and dainty
yet i feel growth between my toes and swelling in my belly

woe does bewilderment plague me here, tearing up my belly
then a soft green garden snake cradles me into eternity,
i watch her curl and dance across the soil of this dainty
room, she looks back from her slither reminding me to exhale,
have i been lost for all these ages?
or have i simply been afraid to burn?

and thus so is it my place to burn?
for i feel welcomed and smooth yet i have poison in my belly
and tomorrow i will remember the pain of the ages
may i retain the knowledge of eternity
or become bodily again when i exhale?
or have no question that my thoughts and ideas are dainty

i have visions of my presence siting crossed and dainty
breathing barley and quiet as i burn
surrounded by a castle of tones that bring me to exhale
into the mouth of god and back into my belly
i feel my self escaping and gasping for eternity
coming back down to the end of my ages

i could sit and cry for the death of the ages 
but this life i despise growing and rooting, dainty
yes, paltry no, and tattering for the rest of my eternity
yet i recall the jackal and his feet where the earth does burn
and i miss the poison in my belly
it not escapes me, but it crusades me to exhale.

before and after the ages, the world will burn and my body will lie dainty 
on the ground filling her great belly with the poison of eternity cursed to exhale.

Copyright © xtevie fernandez | Year Posted 2013

Details | Sestina |

Lost Love Begins

Lost love where lust begins to rise 
Relationships build on betrayals honesty
Grown in the mushroom dark                                         
No one ever really knows their lover
Or another persons heart 
Heavy where secrets sleep in hunger under cover

Cursed men escape into the desert vacancy
Soldiers parched, where no raging rivers run 
Wrinkled lips dry up with ancient wanderers
Including their insides
Skin turns to leather brown
Warriors, dunes, live out the hour with them now

Doomsday is right around the corner of a smile
A tear tries to form but quickly dries
Broken men dream with gushing rivers on the mind
Sun baked with landscape misery 
Thirsty, scorched, craving a glass of water 
Lost on the sand to die
                                                    
Love flourishes on the morning afterwords
Birds still sing in search for something nourishing
Frantic storms lift their last gasp of air
Sail on warm clouds of memory
Laugh at men who used to grasp for flesh
In pleasure for pleasures sake that past 

Lost on the dunes
Under the unforgiving sun
Other men still wander
Wonder for ages yet to come
How love lingers where lust begins again
Over the buried souls of granular fine grandeur 

Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |

Pro Choice Without a voice

My seed, I must admit I never even once wanted
Sitting unreallisticaly, at a doctors office
Waiting for my name to be called and to terminate this

Copyright © shane solomon | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Death Undignified

The summer sun was high. The heat was oppressive.
A whalebone corset dug into my body's tender parts.
Peering from the shop, my hand touches the pane
of dearly brought glass it vibrates with the hoof-beat of riders.
The weak, blue-sky pales, clouding over with the dust. 
Children playing hoop, let it drop with an unheard clatter.

Inside Fort Laramie’s provisioner, Mrs. Dreary's dropped-plate clatters.
Outside, a thunder of hoofs race pell-mell through heat, oppressive.
“Indians!” Children run through the street's miasma of dust.
Folks in wagons and on horseback flee for other parts.
“Sioux,” I nod. Gunshots ring through the air savaging the riders.
The shopkeeper’s wife babe in arms runs up the stairs, baby screams in pain.

Arrow flights buzz by shattering the shop's window panes.
The Indians leap from horse back to tile roof raising a clatter.
Mr. Dreary reaches for his Sharp shooter and aims at the riders.
A cat’s eye marble falls from the toy display, a mundane oppression.
Dreary slams shut the door, shards of glass scatter, bullet parted.
“Mame, git away from that window! Gener’l Connor’ll kill me if y’ur dusted.”

My eyes, now black and hollow as a barn owl's, tear, full of dust.
“Damn heathens,” Mr. Dreary cusses as bullets fly through broken panes.
He pulls me behind him and opens the useless glass door. “Thop” an arrow parts
his scalp. He falls back, landing beside me,his spurs clattering.
The baby screams again. I turn to see Mrs. Dreary's oppressive
grip on the child. “He’s dead.” She says grabs the Sharp and kills the next rider.

The soldiers finally arrive and chase the mongrel band of riders.
Mrs. Dreary, babe in one arm, Sharp in the other, kicks the marble in the dust.
She walks through the door, out of one carnage into another type of oppression,
the soldiers are executing the Sioux braves. Children watch in pain.
Across the street a lone warrior perches. A roof tile clatters
to the dirt. His arrow flies and a soul is parted.

Falling with blind numbness, forward, down, parting
the water in the horse trough left for the riders.
My brass buttons and flint arrowhead scrape the tub clattering,
no one in the street notices my departing in the day's dust.
My open mouth fills with bile and the rancid taste of pain.
“How improper,” was my last lucid thought, truly oppressive.

A clatter of hoofs rocks my parting.
The oppression, of man against man leaves, with the riders.
Only dust and the pain of the living remain.


Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

Fly - Revised Edition

Standing on a tower, more than three hundred feet
As she watched a movie of her life
The rain falls, and she smiled a sad smile
She spread her arms like wings
Tears still falling, but she wanted to fly
Closing her eyes, she lift her head high

Stakes are too high
Cannot stand on her feet
Breathing, but with no life
She's undead with fake smile
And at night when she breaks, she would grasp for her wings
She forgot she was human, she forgot she can't fly

How she wanted to fly!
More than thousand feet high
Never walk on her feet
And explore her whole life
Maybe then she could smile
She would look for those wings

She'd been hoping for wings
For she wanted to fly
Yearning for sugar high
Be swept off of her feet
Oh, she longed for that life
Where she can freely smile

But it's hard just to smile
Left with dull broken wings
Even worse than a fly
And no chance to get high
With her two broken feet
Can't escape in this life.

No one cares for her life
Every day's a fake smile
And they pulled out her wings
Screaming "Girl, you can't fly!"
She let out a sigh, "Is it bad to aim high?"
"I will show them," she says, as she ran on her feet

Life, now hanging, more than three hundred feet
She wears a real smile while she stood way up high
Spread her arms just like wings, took off--and fly.








Copyright © Julie Anne | Year Posted 2016

Details | Sestina |

Bastard Child

Like a penny, lost and worthless, woman
mother, and buried within the origin pit, dark
she brought me like a Jezebel into her life of mourning
mistress of the stage and child to horror
born, and off he ran, forced flight my father, loss
the hussy dies but on Edgar lives in awe.

Blood and death and pain feed Poe’s awe.
Why she had done, what soul had she, this woman
leaving him a found fledgling of loss?
“Why, why, bring me into this hellish dark?”
Coal black the pit and pendulum of this zealot father’s horror
the devil’s drink brought penitence and forced, mourning.

“Bastard child!” his stepfather screamed in mourning
as his new Mother looked on in awe.
And, his new brother watched on in horror,
the lash was not spared nor kindness brought by woman.
In the starkness of his mind there was only dark.
Abandoned child, Poe, and his rescuers brought only loss.

“Run, leave, you villains all!” He cried. “There is only loss!”
So on, he wrote into the dark and mourning.
The ink the Prussian blue released the anguish his dark.
Intuition, and superstitious fright will feed him awe.
Cousin, sister, wife, would be his woman
the banshees cry, her bloody death became his horror.

“Alone, alone…” The corbies’s caw brings horror,
but for the devil’s drink, he’s naught but loss........
“Lenore…..” He’ll wall his tainted heart away from woman
and make his blasted soul the start of mourning.
“To hell with you!” He screams at those in awe
of his blank and burned out hulk of dark.

Bricked in or deep within the ripest dark...
“God, so alone……….” He hides in horror,
forlorn, depraved and not at all in awe.
For there is no romance found in loss
no beauteous bounty in the dross of mourning,
no family, friend or wife not tainted, born from woman.

So, Poe lives and dies in awe of the dark. 
Where woman’s deepest depths bring only horror
and loss is all he knows in light of mourning.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Kevin's Sestina

It dawned on me as the smoke would reflect
I, in an empty space deprived of sleep
Fundamental limit to be conceived
Prelude to a dream as vivid as real
Image seared in my head, you watch me drown
The thought, persistent enough to exist

Redefine alive, draw breath to exist
In solitary moments I reflect
Your still lifeless eyes are watching me drown
To fade as though a medicated sleep
To be flawed, scared, normal is to be real
Look beyond what you see, all is conceived

Pure depth is not so easily conceived  
True belief with contempt, will it exist
Second guess or question when this is real
The failure and broken tries I reflect
Replay each moment, haunts me in my sleep
The peace I draw in hopes this too will drown

Feeling numbs as it fades, released I drown
Subjective perception no one conceived
Car crash and broken glass herd in my sleep
My eyes will count the seconds I exist
Mortality I mimic or reflect
The last deep breathe before the storm is real

If what you hold is hollow, what is real?
What we perceive society will drown
Sentiment comes to life as we reflect
Thought process seems difficult when conceived
Resentment I thought would never exist
Faith guide my words to god praying for sleep

Nameless faces blend and fall into sleep
The pain I feel, the tears I cry are real
Hostility will forever exist
Bound to the breathless screams my blood will drown
It’s the fear I chase, I have now conceived 
Discomfort I carry as I reflect
  
Warm white light is soothing, now I may sleep
Profound emotion, aftermath is real
Reassured, there’s no question I exist

Copyright © Kevin Kissane | Year Posted 2011

Details | Sestina |

A World Unexplored

Every day a world unexplored
Because of the invisible chains holding her hostage,
Away from anything she could have wanted.
A revolving world of ecstasy
But still a world of her demise
“What if there were no people?”

All of the other people
Mocked her views of universes unexplored
Leading to their early demise.
All the ideas held hostage
Giving her a false sense of ecstasy
“What if there was no want?”

Everything she could have wanted
Was not the fraternity of other people
But the fraternity of the ecstasy
Taking her to another world unexplored
She never thought herself a hostage
“What if there were no demises?”

She had heard of others' demises
Because of their greediness, they wanted
Too much and bound themselves hostage
To something that wasn't even a person
But an angel’s pill, unexplored
“What if there was no ecstasy?”

Her constructed world would collapse without the ecstasy
She’d probably slash her wrists instead of a slow demise
Because the dealer forgot. Writing a world unexplored
Doesn’t help. Already she’s tight on money, so she gave what he wanted,
Herself, in an alley away from other people.
“What if there were no hostages?”

What if? She was always his hostage
From the moment he forced the first ecstasy
Pill down her throat. Now, isolated from other people,
Let her early demise
Answer the questions she needed to know! This she truly wanted:
“What if there was no world unexplored?”

So many people have left her worlds unexplored
Just a hostage, don’t tell her of her imminent demise
From the pills of ecstasy, all she ever wanted

Copyright © J. Amorose | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sestina |

The Little Princess's Decoronation

Little girl, you who plays princess with the glittery hat perched on your head,
The ribbons cascading down from its tip, tears from your heavenly eyes,
The scepter of a metal pipe and ball gemstones in your hands,
You have no idea who a princess is. You just pretend.
But really, all you know is a virtual reality,
Separated by electronic walls.

Your path to paradise separated by walls
Of incompetence, little girl. In shame hang your head.
If only you knew your life was a game you already lost, in reality.
When your subjects look upon your tattered dress and your downcast, shady grey eyes,
Go out to your balcony of segregation. Wave and pretend
Their lives are not in your hands.

The world is in your hands.
With them you can slay dragons, knight worthy men, build walls
In your castle, your little realm of pretend.
In it you have corruption and power. Tell them to chop of a man’s head
And that they do, without a glimmer of remorse in their eyes.
Little girl, if only you knew this could never be reality.

The scepter you claim is a diamond, in reality,
Just your mother’s glass necklace, clutched in your hands
To match the long-gone glimmer in your childish eyes.
Throughout the years, little girl, you’ve built all the fake walls
Between the princess of yesteryears and the current fog in your head.
Just remember – you are a marionette. Free will is pretend.

Little girl, you have always played pretend.
It’s your feeble attempt at escaping reality.
But now that your scepter is broken, your kingdom is in your head,
Pouring out onto the paper with a broken heart, a pencil and two hands.
All your impassible, unbreakable walls
Left unbetrayed by your cloudy, lying eyes.

You could never tell the color of your eyes.
On the color spectrum, they fell in lying or pretend.
Little girl keeps building those walls
To put more distance between her own broken soul and reality.
As you grow cold, your pale hands
And arms mimic the destructive bloodshed in your head.

Your impenetrable walls to the secret worlds burrowed inside your head
Little girl’s mastery at lying not even deceived by your eyes, when reality
Dictated that your world of pretend would die in your scarred arms and hands.

Copyright © J. Amorose | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sestina |

Blue Ascendance

In the teasing bouts of an early spring,
One must have patience to watch a flower bloom
From the municipal bud to the ripe decor
From which pursed pedals seek to open.
The contents of sweet pollen rise,
Sway, circle and drift like an aging spirit.

Watch closely; you may find a spirit
Splashing the waters from where life springs
Lively enough to make the ocean rise
Above old towns where civilizations bloomed.
Let your shields down; keep your hearts and minds open,
Permeating love with an earthly decoration.

Strive to laugh and decorate
The petty who set fire to spirits
With the same buoyancy that keeps our eyes open,
Veering from traps that devils spring.
Search beyond the vile bloom,
Taking pride in ashes that fall and rise.

I will soon see myself rise
High enough to cast my decorations
Far enough to make the deserts bloom.
I'll paint the coast blue to match my spirit
As winds grow warm with spring.
Hearts will sing and channels will be open.

Likewise, the pores of the Earth shall one day open.
As that molten lava rises,
Ancient fireballs shall spring,
Coating the ground with horrid decoration,
But we shall lie dormant as spirits
Awaiting new life's bloom.

Winds will cool and aid that bloom,
And, beautifully, we will open,
For every spirit
Rises
And, decoratively,
Springs,

For everything that blooms, rises,
And every open heart is decorated,
And every loving spirit eventually springs.

Copyright © Mike Frampton | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

ROXY, THE ROTTWEILER

Roxy as the loudest rottweiler in Waterbury, an historic town in Connecticut,
Roxy was a vigilante dog, which never let a stranger or a burglar in;
once this ranch home was a haven, thanks for the love she had shown!
While I was watching my favorite movie, she joined in with interest; 
I padded her to let her know that I approved of her curiosity,
and I spoiled her with foods that dogs shouldn't eat: like cookies and pastry! 



On the sunniest days of spring and summert, we spent many hours playing, I threw the ball
and she would find it anywhere on the lawn and bring it back breathing heavily;
whoever says that dogs can't be human?....They have already proven that to us
by being our best friends! A dog can rescue a child from a burning house,
and jump into the coldest pool and bring that baby unharmed to safety;
and many of them take risks that we wouldn't take, to protect us in dangerous situations!



Canines have been our bodyguards since ancient times...Homer, the blind poet, had one, too,
but what they don't have is a spirit like ours, that spirit which returns, upon death, to God;
and will they ever go to Heaven with us? Our answer should be no, but the odds of taking  
them with us, wouldn't be favorable, so we must leave them behind in their earthly dwelling! 
When we'll be resurrected by Christ, we'll remember these loyal and dear companions
that shared our affections, our joy of loving, and our same fate: living and dying like we do!
     



Roxy was the gentlest and the most affectionate dog that ever lived, Roxy kept me from harm;
and what she gave was more than anyone could ever give! And my appreciation and gladness
were demonstrated in my caring ways: making sure she was well-fed and had plenty 
of water to drink, when I would be gone for hours...and on my return, she would greet me 
with a loud bark, and licking my cheeks, she jumped on me and tickled me with her paws!  
Roxy was a gift from a neighbor who died alone; she entrusted her to me, and called me son!


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

Autumn Breeze

   A whisper of beauty sets to the night
In ancient time of Autumn breeze
A flightless feather to soar the sky
Records the silent echos of sorrow
Carries through on seasonal change
Keeping time with history's eye.
   A feather passes a tear filled eye
The sacrifice before the night
The day of blood held in the breeze
As a gentle wind through summer sky
Pierced by the blade of sorrow
The Holy man of change.
   New land wandered for man to change
A wishful time to England's eye 
The eagle spies the foot step night
The pilgrims beyond the breeze
As children cry to burn the sky
A massacred Indian sorrow.
   A black man echoes sorrow	
The pain of life to change
Freedom from the blood stained eye
His cry seeks out the night
Caressed by Autumn breeze
As another feather floats the sky.
   Blood stench streams in horrid sky
The bodies of broken sorrow	
The feather sights upon the change
As delusions form in hatred eye
Secrets under night
Their souls become the breeze.
   Reaching upon the new day breeze
A scrape of cloud and sky
A world united in mornings sorrow
The view of landscaped change
Laments cry the tearful eye
Through restless lonely night.
   Unto the land of darkened night
The feather of recorded sorrow
A moments break awaits, the next Autumn breeze.

     BY: DARREN J McMURRAY
     September 25, 2008

Copyright © Darren J McMurray | Year Posted 2008

Details | Sestina |

The Final Page


All the kids at school?
They say writing poetry must be easy; after all, so many words rhyme with ‘love you’.
If they, with fists covered in your blood, only knew.
An art of letting yourself flow into the page,
Of giving in to the forces that define human nature.
That, at its finest, is writing.

Who really cares about your writing?
Would they notice if you never showed up at school?
No. It’s only a human’s nature
To forget anything unimportant, like you.
Maybe you should just turn the page
And descend into your story you never knew.

Nonsense. Don’t tell me you never knew
Of the many anonymous writing
Their broken souls onto the final page
Of the old history textbook they stole from school
Little postscripts of life left for you
A product of nature.

Nature
Mocks the men who knew
About you
Sitting alone in the attic, writing
About the woes of school
Tear and bloodstains on every page.

The book’s final page
Grown into nature
Far away from the school
Where the first pages flew, they knew
All their writing
Inspired you.

It’s you,
This blown-away page,
A scorned piece of writing
Tossed around like trash by nature.
If she knew
What happens at school.

Writing is what kept you in school
Wither away, you, against your own nature
Maybe you should just turn the page and descend into your story you never knew.

Copyright © J. Amorose | Year Posted 2017

Details | Sestina |

MARY WAS THE POETESS

Mary was the poetess
who loved handsome Franco, 
the tall Neapolitan orchestra leader;
and in Naples they met:
at The Galleria Umberto,
under the surveillance of my father...  


Mary was barely eigtheen,
and writing was her only passion;
even her big, hazel eyes were
as light as the Tyrannean Sea in summer,
somehow too melanchonic as a fading moon,
which longed more for a friend than a lover!


Her first song was recorded in Milan, with a brilliant
production of composer Angelo Camis; 
that song became quite popular in Capo D'Istria,
and in all the booth-shaped Italian Peninsula!
Ermanna Melli from the city of Forli was the artist
with that mellow, sensual and expressive voice!


" What's this desire? " a delicate and spontaneous love song,
captured a large audience, both young and old...
it was a song telling of the emotions of a young heart too naive,
falling in love with someone much older that she was, indeed;
and it made many people cry, perhaps recalling the time 
they fell for someone as special and gorgeous as Mary's dream guy! 


Mary, your song still plays on the airwaves of that radio station and although
you no longer sing it in the manner of a famous virtuoso:  the visions 
of your past life become too real as you performed it by surprise;
it is the jewel you left on earth for us to remember you by,
and it immesely dazzles like every rainbow in the Capri's sky...
when an unknown tenor improvises his impassioned aria with an absolute sorrow!  


Mary was the poetess who dedicted her time
writing about love, but never found it in reality;
she was my oldest sister inspiring me with her creativity! 
Mary had the potential of becoming great and shine,
but the tides turned abruptly and fate wasn't kind:
even today, her fearless voice comes alive through her  poetry!  


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

SURVIVE BY HEEDING ADVICE

When the parents are gone,
the kids survive by heeding advice and carry on
their wishes by honoring their true intent;
flowers sprout and then bloom,
never living their fragile, little ones to a fateful gloom...
as sunshine nurtures them!


Glimpses may not give us a full image,
but they can reveal their glossary of life and death,
and it depends on us how to put it
into a consequent sentence and give meaning to it;
our parents raised us up to a certain standard,
hoping we'd pick up the slack where they left off!  


And will we be elated by parental pride,
by doing all things that are beautiful and honorable...
great things that endow us with exuberance and fortitude,
to conquer every boundary and win every battle? 
History can take us there, showing us the ones who fearlessly dared:
Moses who bashed rebellion and Jesus who lashed the whip! 


Many will stumbled on life's deception,
others will cautiously follow its trail to wisdom,
to find themselves acclaimed by glory 
and flourishing in their endeavors:  they will find immortality;
and if anyone was deceived by the notion...
that nothing outlasts us, they are completely wrong!


There's no greater joy than remembering
how our parents leaded a religious life without a spot,
believing that obedience was a reward for longevity; and was
God ever put out of their thoughts...not fortifying
their spirits and making them stand on a solid rock?
Foolish persons shouldn't be pitied for their self-inflicted wounds! 



The kids can survive by heeding advice, unfraidly facing their challenges,
alleviating their fears with the words that they received from the elders:
walking on a straight path, avoiding danger and harm, to live a golden youth
and a longer life...when most youngsters lose these to drugs and lust;
and with no gray hair on their heads and no stories to tell their granchildren,
who are the victorious ones that should declare thier well-merited crown?  


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

MY DOUBT GAVE NO INDICATION...

Will I live longer than I suppose to be living...possibly a centenary,
and struggle on a cane to sustain my weakness?
Those beautiful and vibrant years have fled to impose fears,
making my presence unattractive and more blowzy,
and in the present time, I am isolated and frowzy; 
a deteriorated mind feeling the burden of senility?   



My motto wasn't " Conquer and be invincible!" No-first mistake was allowed
to mar my perfect character; body and mind in full accord, blending together, 
so obstinate in defiance to obstruct any possible pleasure...
was it a deference to holiness?  Everywhere explicit posters encouraged promiscuity:
an indulging nation...diverging from the concept of morality!  



And however strong was urge to indulge in wrongful acts incoherently, 
my doubt gave no indication...that I would have gained from my inequity;
and ruin would have wrecked this conscience and wrenched my spirit;
alone to face the sure wrath of the Divine...while wrestling with my lost worth!
One-stand night didn't nurture a sensation so momentary and insipid,
many times, staring in the cold darkness, I was glad that my behavior wasn't lurid!
  


And today new pills promise to give more virility,
causing blindness and a probable, sudden death;
and Lord, my intention is not to use them to harm myself,
the gift of longevity was well-received and is well-kept by me!
Unlikely the times past, when my doubt gave no indication,
now it does so plainly and clearly... not swaying my attention!


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

The Passage

A young man’s walk was careful,
As he strode through the passage. 
The walls were dotted with a red
That refused to be washed away with water.
The young man’s memory still pictured the fangs,
As they plunged into the neck of the woman.

The infirmary was in charge of the woman
Now. The hands of the nurses were careful 
As they tended to her wounds. The beast’s fangs
Killing her. A bible was brought and a passage 
Was read. The twisting and turning of the water
That dripped down her face made her cheeks red.

The young man’s face was painted red
With fury. The one dying on the bed was his woman,
His wife. The walls he passed oozed with slime and water.
To sneak upon the beast in slumber, he must care o’ full
Not to stumble. A room appeared at the end of his passage,
The evidence of the beast’s presences was made by the work of his fangs.

The victim lay dreaming of the gleaming white fangs,
That punctured her neck. The blood trickling out was crimson red.
She scrambled to reach the safety of the passage,
But the reason for her tumble was her clothing of a woman.
They were not made for escaping even if one was careful,
Her terror caused her eyes to water.

In his pocket, the young man stored a vile of holy water,
And a wooden stake to end the reign of the evil beast’s fangs.
The young mans creep must not have been as careful,
As he thought for the beast sat up, his eyes a blood red.
A flutter of frantic thoughts ran through his mind, mostly the woman.
He glanced once more, before he faced it, at his safety…the passage.

The words drew to a close, the ending of the passage.
The elderly nurse brought a glass to her lips, water.
The eyes gave one last flicker, the body one last shudder as the woman
Died. A flash across the sky, two bolts struck the ground, fangs.
The beast saw naught but red,
His body fell; he smiled as he passed on. The victor’s step over the fallen was 
careful.

His stride up the passage was careful as he went to see her.
He ran water over his hands to wash away the red.
He saw her last, his woman, no more then a victim of the fangs. 

Copyright © Hannah Goddard | Year Posted 2006

Details | Sestina |

FETAL POSITION IN THE ER

 
Broken but disbelieving, we wait   
for any doctor to say it’s just blood
as the gray man greens, throws-
up in triage. A Goth teen holds Band-Aids
to her scalped thumb.  Somebody loses  
patience, explodes, Why are the sick 
 
treated this way? Doors dilate & the sick 
smell of antiseptics greets a waitress    
wearing a steak knife. We are cribbed by loss;   
gone, teeny heartbeats as I pass blood 
clots. A junkie limps, unaided,
to the bathroom,  another throw 
 
away human, unlike a tot thrown   
from a fire. Unforgettable, that sickening  
sound, shrill scream after scream raids  
the room of complaints. Hell won’t wait 
for examination, I learn, as bloodshot 
eyes meet mine. Hope is lost. 
 
Patients stoically sit. Some lose 
change to a vending machine.  A cop throws 
a look to his charge.  Words drift, bloody 
stool, x-rays, concussion. Sick talk to the sick.   
My hand is gently squeezed. No one else waits- 
out a miscarriage. I watch an aid 
 
swab vintage tiles, restack HIV/AIDS 
pamphlets as if they’re a deck of cards, like loss 
is just some hand dealt. Somewhere, a mother waits
for her boy to sleep, will wash bottles, throw
out dirty diapers.  Somewhere, a heartsick 
father releases bloodcurdling  
 
sobs because a body was found.  Blood
is both bond & amputation.  I took first aid
so I know why the sickest
get priority.  Besides, we've already lost                            
each other,  little one.  Our separation has thrown
me off balance. Why couldn't you wait?
 
As if I need hearing aids, a nurse throws 
my name out to the sick, the lost, ER roommates. 

No. I'll never be ready. Let the bloody stirrups wait...



Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2017