Sestina Loss Poems | Sestina Poems About Loss

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

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Details | Sestina |

Gift

The day’s beginning is a special gift.
Given over a life’s eternity,
One can’t help but feel the daily change.
How often we stay into the evening.  An attempt to hold
Onto the feelings of joy and elation,
That made our day so emphatically special.

Are not the future possibilities also special?
That we dream of yet other gifts,
gifts  of such thought, that might also inspire elation
From giver and receiver for all eternity.
Constantly close to both, holding,
As if to say, “Don’t Ever Change.”

Does growth not require change?
Should not that change be also special?
Only if you have forgotten about holding,
The longing embrace of previous gifts,
One that requires attention for all eternity,
fueling existential feelings of elation.

Even when intentionally forgotten, holding
On to the recipient, despite elation.
At one point, this internal agony was a gift.
What could ever make this change?
This gift that could never be more special.
Now it has changed for eternity.

The re-direct of energy through eternity,
The loss of love’s forever embrace.
Love, making pain beautifully special.
Will there ever be elation?
Maybe if we only change
The way we exchange special gifts.

Our future’s eternity might fill with elation
From  holding the exchange
Of something special,
… the mere appreciation of a gift..

Copyright © Matthew Sample | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sestina |

Lament The Loss and Nurture Hope

Drought cooks a garden; 
foliage’s veins and arteries burn.
One wonders if rain will return; 
the ground, an abstract of cracks.
Baked by the sunlight, 
plants retreat; leave desolate dry land.

Miles of parched land, 
can’t share its lifeblood, with thirsty farms and gardens.
Farmers pray for rain and sunlight; 
when they lose crops, they feel nature’s burn.
Dying fields of cracks, 
pray in secret for rain’s return.

As the farmer prays over his tax returns; 
he lists lost crop overhead and pictures his dry land.
A tear falls upon the memory of dry, gaping cracks.
Unlike the gardener both feel the same burning.
Both are vulnerable; farm and garden;
to the ultraviolet blades of searing sunlight.

Many years of fiery sunlight,
Without rain, leaves a bleak tax return.
A farmer’s inner light still burns; 
he’ll see, if a job, he can land.
He and the gardener,
will have success; when the spring rain fills the cracks.

Over-achieving clouds spit; crops thrive in the sunlight.
Unlike the gardener; 
The farmer has a more interesting tax return.
Spring rains will fill the gaping cracks.
At one with the land,
his rage, no longer burns.

Come fall, his fireplace logs, will burn.
The coming winter, brings its own style of cracks.
Snow-blanketed land,
gleams in the sunlight.
When spring makes its return;
birth comes to crops and gardens.

Both celebrate, with anxiety burning;
formulating planting plans, for their land.
Land without cracks, 
will yield plants, upon the rains return.
Praying that the sunlight,
will be kind to their crops and gardens.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser | Year Posted 2014

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

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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 |

A GRIM OUTLOOK

Prices rising:  the reality of this plunging economy,
thriftiness and frugality are greatly demanded
in order to survive, and having less to spend
is a deterrent to those once-easily-obtainable luxuries;
I have become very frugal, to buy more for less,
and waste of food is not allowed to incur scarcity...


I squandered my money on items laying in unopened boxes,
never displayed:  I could have saved those dollars,
and not put on a grim outlook as dispirited as this;
so embittered and hard-to-get-used-to, and yet hopeful that
the New York's Stock Market will improve, by the bell's sound,
bringing stability to the Nation and the optimist's mind... 

  
The extended warranty on my Honda has run out,
and repairs must wait...back on jammed buses and trains,
standing up and putting up with noisy and naughty kids;
my savings account is running dry and worries amount,
repression or recession are bad news for an honest working man:
no planned vacations, and no expensive gifts for that matter...


Here, in the United States, Mega Millions and Lotto promise to make people millionaires,
but every winner has deprived himself of many needed things
before striking it rich, and with tons of money:  how will one handle it wisely?
For now, this fate remains unchanged...following the same routine:
getting up and going to work, just being normal and making ends meet;
being thankful to have a job to ease up this grim outlook:  not awfully dull and daffy...


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

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 |

Bitter Sympathies

This was her bitter sympathy,
she wished to not be seen,
crying up a sea of tears
and wishing to her last,
suppressed by all her childish fears
haunted by her past-

Grieving from the horrible past
crying for sympathy,
she must find a way to overcome her fears.
She locks a door to not be seen,
these memories are not to last,
so she wipes away those tears.

Wiping away those tears, 
shying away from the past,
she wonders, "will I ever last?" 
she has to stop the moaning sympathy
For who she is, she has to be seen,
she overcomes her worries and she overcomes her fears.

Overcoming her fears, 
there are no more tears, 
for she was finally seen. 
moving on from the past, 
no more crying self-sympathies
for the day it was she had last. 

For a day it was she has last,
she helped others with their fears,
she finished her sympathy,
and she dried away their tears,
she took away their past,
their past never to be seen. 

Their past never to be seen, 
as day for them to last,
they finally forgot their horrible past.
they overcame their fears,
they never shed their tears,
for they were freed from this sympathy.

No more of these fears,
and no more of these tears,
there is no longer a sympathy,
for eye to eye they had seen,
they had finally last, 
from their horrible past...

Copyright © Elaina Dixon | Year Posted 2006

Details | Sestina |

THE POSSESSIONS OF A YOUNGER AGE

Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless  prayer...



Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant; 
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste! 
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!



Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?  
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare! 



An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks, 
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!  


Husbands love your wives devotedly, 
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!  


Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

THESE VERSES BREATH LIFE AS I WEEP

These verses breath life as I weep,
thinking of the shortness of the earthly life;
and they can eternally live, in ageless time,
on the lips of common people that seek
an extraordinary purpose in their subtle defeat,
to build many fabulous dreams out of nothing....


Sorrow can't be masked by joy:
it's a temporary and distressing disguise, 
which nobody should hide behind it for long;
pretender, don't make up unconvincing excuses,
release your fallacious hand that clutches another prey:
it's the self-denial of a liar without courage...


Cry for yourself with ample empathy, remorse
has already shaken up your conscience,
and according to the sympathetic looks you received
by the closest friends who idolized your idealism,
whom you lured into your false kindness to achieve your egotistic dream;
now, you must feel the acute pain:  no guilt can easily be redeemed...    
     

An untruthful voice is only heard by deceitfulness,
it has an inner weakness that honesty awfully rejects;
purify your trust by the humblest spirit:
some are never forgiven by their foes and acquaintances,
Who will read me me these verses that breath life as I weep?
I have put on a Godly image without grief...  
 

Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009

Details | Sestina |

The Loss

Why did you leave- we all wanted you to stay-
I still can't believe, that was your price to pay.
I was laughing when you left,
Now I'm crying every night.
I haven't learned to deal,
With your voice inside my head.
I guess I'll move along, and keep my head
Held high. I knew you couldn't stay
Forever, I was ready to deal
Out the next hand of cards, Cody said "pay
Up." Then you said "I have a long night
Tomorrow." I wish I'd said "Lee wait, stay for one more hand,: you would have left
Anyway, but there could have been that chance. You've left
This world behind, for a palace in my head,
A temple in my heart-and at night-
You'll always have a place to stay-
With never any price to pay-
Just you, me, Deal
Or No Deal muted on tv. Deal
Or no deal, I wish Satan had said to me. He'd stop before you left
And for that my soul I'd pay,
And I know that you'll never leave my head,
Divided on if you should stay.
I can never make it through the night.
All day I'm tortured, at night
I'm in prison, these four walls I'm forced to deal
with you face, in pain I stay.
How could I laugh when you left,
But you never left, still trapped in my head,
I wonder what debt I have left to pay?
What debt is left to pay?
What night, what night will be the night
You finally leave my head,
That I'll finally learn to deal,
That your never coming back, you've left.
I knew you couldn't stay-
Forever-that night you left
One world for another, tears to dirt, hand to head, a sinner must pay-
Their debt, their crime, could I deal if you chose to stay?

Copyright © Dalton Powell | Year Posted 2009