Best Bemoaning Poems
Her trembling twilight
dims with streaking purple tears
bruised by youthful years of bleeding pain
hurting but never hugged—
locked in arms of atmosphere’s apathy
that smeared with fiendish fingers
a contusing plum palette
across any hope in her godforsaken horizon—
this sorrowful songbird
who sings with the shattered purity
of violin strains falling from Heaven
finds her bemoaning musical notes adrift—
lost on breezy deaf days
as she is once again thrown down
from the self-serving skyscape
by the hateful hands of wildcat winds.
In the deep inkwell
of lullaby-less lonely nights
where never a tender nursery rhyme
has ever set her free
are memories scribed of storm-battered days
and weighing heavily on Libra’s scales
are the injustices
of dreams she will never live
nor flights of fancy she will never take
as her sire of solar scorch and temper flare
—a warpath warrior against her springtime
sleeps soundly on a bloated bed
over-stuffed with betrayal and broken promises
while her merciless maternal moon—
distant and cloud covered
does not bother to wander the coal haze
with a lantern’s sharp beam
to cut through stranglehold-folds of darkness
to cast a light upon; to rescue her fractured form—
an angel beckons as breath and beat fade
her guardian as she passes through Earth's shadow
beyond the coldness of mother-moon's umbra
following to where warm sugar-stars soprano sing.
Tonight— a stricken sparrow
folds her fledgling wings never to fly again…
will land or air ever miss her?
she roams cross the land her heart so bitter blue
leaving behind frosty morning dew
icy veil sadly unkept
laden woe upswept
she speechless
wept
left dreamless
numb regret windswept
no kind soul to intercept
cold bemoaning howling winds a clue
she roams cross the land her heart so bitter blue
AP: 2nd place 2020
Submitted on January 22, 2023 for contest WRITING CHALLENGE - ANDAREE sponsored by CONSTANCE LA FRANCE - RANKED 3rd
and July 7, 2019 for contest VERSE A FAVOURED THEME sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 1ST
Last time it rained was in April.
It did not rain that much,
but it was enough to dirty everywhere.
You see, it was a south easterly wind
and the clouds arrived laden with sand from the north African desert.
That was nearly five months ago, and the farmers are already up in arms,
bemoaning lack of water as they till the arid soil.
dust flies in the air
the sun blazes overhead
sweat drips profusely
Prayers have not gone unanswered!
Dark clouds creep from behind the hills
fast multiplying, ominously, obliterating the blue.
The calm hot air is ruffled by a timid breeze which soon turns
to gusty wind. A sudden horizontal flash followed by drawling thunder
precedes a few big drops of rain which testily hit the ground.
increase of tempo
deafening cymbals clash
erupting deluge
Water gathers then flows steadily down the streets;
thirsty fields drink greedily; trees bathe in delight, relishing
heaven’s kiss of life on their moribund leaves, roots breathing in relief.
Then, worn out, the wind slowly abates; so do the thunder and the rain.
The clouds shyly disperse, permitting an unobstructed view of the sky above.
Satiated, the sundrenched land savours the afterglow.
sensual appeal
petrichor emanation
veins pleasantly throb
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Rain Rain Come My Way
Sponsor: binibining P.iNk
8th June 2016
I sense and feel mystique of its appeal
In vibrant, verdant, blossoming spring,
Splendorous prairies undulating breeze,
Resplendent falling of autumnal leaves,
Glacial winds bemoaning a frozen sigh,
A cerulean terpsichore of ocean tides~
I sense and feel, yet can’t cage its wings.
Purposeful, evocative, musings unwind
When elixir of missives invigorates mind
In tears of joy glittering mother’s eyes,
Holding hand of father, an innocent smile,
Hungry bawls tearing impoverished lands,
Cheers echoing hopes of clapping hands,
Grievous calls unleashed by fate unkind,
An uneventful existence berating its grind.
Though I pretend to reign world of words
And impute resonance to songs of birds
And conjure kisses from lovelorn woes
And dare personifying feelings of stone,
I struggle in thoughts to stage my show
Striving to rhyme verses stubbornly prose
Dawdling daydreams of poetic meadows
Attributing forms to shapeless shadows
Clueless of the exit from wordless throes.
Ah! dear reader, the poet in you knows,
Much alike an eagle boundless in freedom
Flight of artistry I’m unable to control,
Passions of its symphony, I do not own,
Depth of its ocean shall remain unknown.
August 12, 2021
Do you want a tear?
Do you want one of mine? I've plenty to share,
for tears pool around my heart, and linger there.
Do you wish someone would shed a tear for you
because in reality—they never do?
Do you save a tear?
Do you save a tiny tear for you alone,
all your grief stored in that drop you call your own?
Do you think your heart can carry such a weight,
or break into fragments—bemoaning life's fate?
Do you fear a tear?
Do you fear you'll drown in a torrent of pain
as the tears spill from your eyes like drops of rain?
Do you believe spilling tears makes you look weak,
undermining the reputation you seek?
Do you hoard a tear?
Do you hoard a secret tear—one you won't share,
a tiny little drop you've hidden somewhere?
Do you silently shed that one single tear,
mourning a lonely life traumatized by fear?
Pippa, sans slipper,loves causing a fight
She dampened Kate's spotlight,inviting her spite
Pip's lured a royal bastard, without much invite
And smiles sly and alluring, to the gossips delight
Unlike Cinderella, she's swept with no broom
Nor scrubbed any floors on her knees in her room
In fact her slim legs are both pampered and groomed
For her dresses are only one inch past her bloom.
Harry's wild antics have stirred some debate
The red headed playboy is in rut and must mate
Poor Harry, your passion's a fly on your plate
The fly's actions have been a royal nuisance of late.!
Britain longs to hear Pippa bemoaning her plight
A fair maiden in heat, a paparazzi's delight
No chance for Prince Harry to rescue this sprite
His sword's stuck in His zipper, it caused quite a bite
This royal fairy tale will end as all others,
Bland William and Kate will beget two royal brothers
Pippa and Harry play the press like two lovers
And we'll await photo's of them under the covers.
The “Christmas Freeze” of ’83 left Mom’s prize Oleander wilted
Bemoaning its demise, her heart gave way in the backyard
Irony cast its spell in spring and revived the Oleander...
If only it could have done the same for Mom
*July 26, 2020
For Constance La France’s “Four Lines Poetry Contest”
I continue to feel
the searing pain.
ever constant.
so keen.
Not the kind
that heals fast,
open wound that closes.
But, the kind that stays vulnerably
with the passing years.
Three decades
and still counting.
Woe to this pain!
With laden anguish,
The heart's bemoaning.
Thinking it was born
without a name.
Only to find then
at a much later time;
giving in.
Oblivious now.
Unashamed
that my bosom groans,
complains.
A Letter to Myself
Should I give up writing
Seems all this bleating and wailing
Bemoaning this lot of love
I am allocated to feel
But never touch
Should I stop showing the world
Such a pitiful and pathetic face
As it twists and grapples
Dug in my heart
With its suffocating blade
Of aloneness
Where I am lost
When are the fluorescing lines
Of my gratitude
What are my words praises to love
With this eternal gift
Floating me in the fires
Of hot air balloons
But still gut wrenches out my soul
In this separation
“Come on,” I tell myself
What wrapped delight have I known more
I should be proud of my hunger
Feed it with all the imagined embraces
Just for her
More a rock I should
Than this wet dripping weak kneed flannel be
More colourful and joyous
In my need
In deliverance believes
Faith it should be
For the ever bonded
To such a fate
Allows my love to consume me
Her heart so tender
Must needs better of me
Than this whimpering sop
Who’s begging and pleading
Has no real foundation in my bones
More eloquent is she
More rapturous
Than the blazing anthologies of Isis
The hymn and rhythm of her
Calls to me
Shout of exultant
Piercing forever’s follicle
Permeable
She saturates
More a kin to glory I should be
More humbled
And less bent to paupers knee
To lift her ankle
And kiss her feet
Rather I should not
Die so
But
Live
Three in the morning, and again I dream
Of waves and windblown sails, driving us on.
A petulant ocean, its mood would seem
Somehow to echo mine, awaiting dawn.
Tossing and turning, creaking and groaning,
It's an old man's bones I hear, bemoaning.
Nearing the end of their fleeting days,
short-inhaled lives infirmly await the long dark
Garrulously tilting fermented liquids in a park,
they watch their former youthful ways
Addled memories of a once robust stride
keep the brown paper covered truth hidden well
Selfish pleasures have left their flesh bodies frail,
weary envious exhalation of tearful pride
Uncomfortable thoughts tinge their mind,
feeble resistance offered in boisterous recollections
Never given to ingest any sobering contemplations,
aged souls possessing only wrinkled opine
Cantankerous wrong heights stooped on a bench,
bemoaning last rites of spirits dead long ago since
"BBBOOOHHH"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SPOOKY SCARY SCREAMS
SKELETONS SPINY SINGING
SHUFFLE SNICKERING.
HAUNTED HOUSE HOVERS
HALLOWEEN HOLIDAY HOSTS
HAVOC HAPPENINGS.
VOICES VIBRATE VEINS
VAMPIRES VEX VINTAGE VINE
VOLUMIZING VIEW.
GOBLINS GROAN GROWL GGGRRRHHH!
GHOST GAZEBO GRACES GLEE
GENERATES GRAND GLOW.
WITCHES WONDERLUST
WATCH, WAIT, WINK WITH WITCHERY
WISP WITHOUT WIDE WINGS.
BOOGIE BATS BELFRY
BLOODY BATH BELLOWS BEYOND
BEASTS BEMOANING BBBOOOHHH!!!
ALLITERATION WRITTEN IN HAIKU FOR HALLOWEEN FUN!
"cor meum"
Within the end of "IT" all
no matter gender, cause, colour, creed,
place in life, entitled or without title,
healthy or diseased, or
the choice of who we are,
who we lay in life with and
Love –
yet must never harm a child -
when that time comes,
water in the blood
blood in the water,
there will be great misspellings
of misread meanings
the talking in tongues
of minds in idle
treading water
with all
the lost and found
bemoaning
vaccuous ghostings
and small trolls time wasting
the Woolfish hours in small ponds
on great tidal waves of walls,
the message, poetically
is clearly spelt –
within the End
of IT all,
Love is Love is Love
perfectum imperfectum
immaculatum cor meum
in omnibus
arcanum penetrabile
gemma Christi
the decoded glistening read jewel
found in that dark place
embedded in every heart
Love is Love is Love
then, as One
cor meum
One has won
Candide Diderot. ‘25
I wake up in the morning and have to decide which side of the bed I will get out of today – it
doesn’t really matter, because there is no one there to block my exit on either side.
I turn on the TV, not to see what’s on, but just to hear another voice in the kitchen other than
the one’s inside my head reminding me that I am having breakfast alone once again.
I once thought that working from home, through the internet, for myself and by myself,
would be a wonderful thing – but, that was when I used to change out of my pajamas at
some time during the day.
Now the keyboard sits there mocking me in my loneliness. The monitor acts more as a
mirror to remind me I haven’t shaved in weeks than it does to display words of a manuscript
that I should be working on.
How lonely am I? I actually called my mother the other day. Rock bottom.
I watch out my window for the approaching mailman so I can open the door as he is
depositing bills I can no longer pay into the mail slot on my door. He says he likes my
Spiderman pajamas the best.
If I had a reason to do so, I would probably take a shower. But then, I have become
accustomed to my own stench and there is nobody else around to offend, save for the
mailman, who I noticed doesn’t hang around to talk much any more. Could be related, I
suppose.
I don’t even please myself any more. My imagination is not sharp enough to fantasize about
things I haven’t experienced for real in such a long time.
There was a time when I would not answer my phone when an 800 number was displayed on
the handset. Today I do. Talking to someone bemoaning that I am late with another
payment, again, is, at least, talking to someone.
Stop mocking me Qwerty!
I have given names to the inanimate objects in my apartment. At times, they talk back to
me. I think today may be my birthday; the dishwasher was smiling at me. The dirty dishes
inside now have mold on them.
The mailman didn’t come today – perhaps it is Sunday. I wore my Spiderman pajamas for
no good reason.
I didn’t write anything again today. These words are just floating around in my head. I am
pretending you are a stranger reading them to make me feel a little less lonely. You
believing you are that stranger is just further validation that I am, indeed, crazy.
The Lord will supply all my needs and will fill up my cup.
You are a child of the King, bow to no negative circumstance or critical invective, so stand up!
God has wonderful plans for your life if you will just listen up!
God's spirit breathe new hope and life into you.
Believe who He says you are, not what others say to insult and humiliate you.
Embrace a bold and courageous attitude.
Always be polite never rude.
Believe who God says you are, not what enemies tag you,
To yourself just be honest and remain true.
Ask God to help you to "open your mouth and increase your territory" (prayer of Jabez in 1
Chronicles 4:10).
Prepare what you are going to say and then practice articulating your message clearly.
When all is dark around you and no light shines at the end of your tunnel of despair,
Always remember God loves you and cares.
Get up and walk; don't just sit around bemoaning your problems.
Beloved only our God can solve them.
Allow God to do a "new thing" in you (Isaiah 43)., Choose to become new again.
Ask God for a vision for your life, talk with God as you would a friend.
Take a sabbatical rest especially when you are being blessed.
He does all of this so we can ready where there is new danger.
Be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger.