Best Bemoans Poems
An ancient twilight tree now stands alone
with weakened cries of olden creak and groan;
winter’s rattling winds do rise and shake it -
in stark silhouette shriveled and reaching
wizened limbs thirst for Mercy beseeching;
prides the deep roots he laid down that did knit -
Nature bemoans as old oak's overblown.
Susan Ashley
November 29, 2018
~ Second Place ~
Contest: The Last
Sponsor: Silent One
*Overblown: to blow over, away, or across. Late 15c., blown over, passed away. For the purpose of this poem, ‘overblown’ means to fall over by force of the wind.. ‘overblown’ can also be defined as ‘passed away’, which in the context of this poem means ‘the death of’
*Rhyme scheme: AA B CC B A*
She speaks of trees in morning mist
A promise of leaves all color kissed.
Discourse in shades of russet tones
Her loss of emerald leaves bemoans
Her cadence heard in whispering leaves
With cooling winds she summer grieves
In mellow tones her course made known
She squalls till all her leaves have blown
And with her branches bare to sky
Bids to summer a fond goodbye.
When tons of doom filled nights fall on your head,
hot embers glow and fires burn unabated,
you recall her last breath and wish you were dead.
In a poem's sad lines you've been castrated.
From the heavens a voice thunders dire threats
about losses and breakfasts consumed without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawn's hard hammer fell
last night's burns are reminders of strife.
You stumble and look up from the pits of Hell,
recounting the reasons why you lost your wife.
Your clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with its wretched lucent moon.
You dream of hungry tigers eating your boots.
Your house is perched atop two adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; but it's not a tiger he shoots.
Your second wife cuts off your legs at the knees.
With life's blood flowing from your severed veins
your heart bemoans that you married once more.
By morning you were free from nightmare's pains
but horrid memories linger behind closed doors.
What vast burdens you bear in fear of sleep
and hollows in your mind fill quickly with dread.
When your clock strikes twelve, I hear you weep,
" Odious anguish! I wish I were dead."
Shadows dance on your walls in candle light.
Dark images of her body pressed close to you,
waltzing in your arms on a moonlit night
but she vanishes when dawn's rays break through.
Which sort of dream scars your mind with more grief?
The ones in which you're butchered; burned by fire,
or when daylight steals her away like a furtive thief?
Will your penance release you from the leeching mire...
the terror you encounter each night as you lie abed?
Foolishly, you once thought love claimed your heart.
Therein lies the angst of what you most dread...
the vexing memories in dreams that tear you apart.
Co-Written with Robert Lindley based on the original
verses he offered in the open challenge on his blog.
Essence melancholic bemoans, echoing soul’s doleful cry
When clamors of unrequited love, earnestly amplify,
Bruised yearnings of deep desires, as lovelorn heart sighs,
For the longings of shattered passions, tearing her eyes.
Deep feelings of emptiness, no longer can she bear,
Burning with intensity, as wistful flames of rejection flare,
From the void of emotions, from sinful, loveless affair,
Bawling now in frustration, blaring anguish of despair.
Soul grieves for love elusive, she believed to be true,
The kind that blossoms hearts; and doting minds woo,
Alas! It was a tantalizing allure, irrevocably gone askew,
An illusion, alike gems, refracting from morning dew.
Soul rises from abandonment, escaping abyss of grief,
Deploying enlightenment, vying calm of ethereal relief,
As cohesion and congruity reconnect to angelic bliss,
Releasing negative feelings, rekindling love-vibes amiss.
Spirits reinvigorated emerge from dreaded goodbye
As soul’s insight redirects influence of love drifting awry,
Exiting barren desert, to find oasis on the other side,
Entrusting mystique of love, passions romantic confide.
His home is beneath the theater stage
Disfigured, he remains within his cage
Listening to melodies played onstage
Fills him with loneliness, not rage
Once a fine actor, the Phantom awaits midnight
To sing alone, so fear he won’t incite
For the “garish light of day” he finds too bright
When he hears Christine sing, he bemoans his plight
Hours pass until midnight when the theater’s empty
And he lays his hands on each piano key
Stroking them as he would her face on the marquis
But only at midnight is his soul set free
What would Christine think if she saw his face
He senses the need his feelings to encase
As much as he longs for her tender embrace
He fears she would just leave him in disgrace
Midnight, midnight, he awaits patiently
So he can finally perform shamelessly
This midnight ritual he enacts faithfully
Singing to a woman he’d love undyingly
He croons sadly, wishing for her ovation
Absorbing the power of each note’s vibration
Dreaming one day he’ll submit to temptation
And reveal himself to discover her elation
* Based on the Broadway play “Phantom of the Opera”
and its powerful song, “Music of the Night.” Most
plays end just before midnight. “Garish light of day”
is a line from the song.
* Poem written Jun 6, 2014
Time
Nothingness in it belies
A continuum, uncanny
In all lives it defines
Love, hate, rage and litany
A motion on its own
Sweeping, inescapable
A yardstick mankind bemoans
Perpetual journey, irreversible
It’s life’s anathema
Yet it counts life
It’s a thing of enigma
That heaven had contrived
To it the mind ascribes
Its values and permanence
From these, it proscribes
Denying life’s resistance
Our minds’ affixed
To it we subordinate
Subservience afflicts
Our minds it subrogates
It obfuscates reality
Yet mortal minds believe
Its power and ability
We could not, but receive
In truth, it exists
Only in our minds
Its dwelling crevice
From where it unwinds
In consciousness, it’s framed
Weaved to life, togetherness
For all excuses, it’s claimed
Indistinguishable, oneness
But for consciousness
It would not exist
Nothingness, meaningless
Like a vanquished beast
What is this thing of enigma?
Given life by consciousness
Unfathomable, life’s anathema
Yet, treated with utmost seriousness
What is this thing of enigma?
Ephemeral, elusive
Ethereal like an Avatar
Too convoluted to perceive
It’s life’s inexplicable debt
But to consciousness it owes
Payable only by death
Yet its interest never grows
You and I we share this thing
Only in consciousness it’s sublime
But in death there would be nothing
Of this enigmatic thing called “Time”
Jit H. Lim
12 March 2012
12:36am
Singapore
Confined beneath the theater's stage
Disgraced, he paces within his cage
Listening to music played onstage
Beset by abject loneliness, not rage
Disfigured Phantom shrouded by night
Once Broadway's toast, he sings alone so fear won’t incite
“Garish light of day” offends, too bright
As Christine sings, he bemoans his plight
Hours pass till the theater’s empty
Gently his hands caress each piano key
Like he is stroking her face on the marquis
When the play ends, his soul is set free
Would Christine scream if she saw his face
He dares not step forth; his feelings encase
Her song to his ears wraps him with tender embrace
But concealed he remains, not inviting disgrace
Play's chorus resounds; he waits patiently
Only after hours might he perform shamelessly
His late-night ritual enacts faithfully
Singing for the woman he’ll love endlessly
He dreams one day of resigning to temptation
Revealing himself and discovering her elation
Trouble, trouble stirs the wind
ghastly ghosts rise and ascend
warty toads croak
vile spells are spoke
witches’ covens evil intend
Burbling, gurgling cauldron hot
with purple vein, red blood clot
virgins hopeful eyes
fear and dread belies
throw them in and stir the pot
Screeching, screaming banshee songs
garish ghouls with pointy prongs
mulish mummies
reeking rummies
to evil spirits the night belongs
Trembling, tremoring witches fear
townsfolk are coming too near
sticks and stones
fire bemoans
the end becoming too clear
Freaking, shrieking their cry drums
slicing the air with its thrums
unwilling to face
they cut to the chase
quickly flee to save their bums
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Cry of the lonely night is seldom heard
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Facing choice stark in dread of fate’s call
Alone she bemoans of dreams deferred
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Enduring deep pain her emotions squall
Concealing the blows of bashing incurred
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Sensing signs of impending harm, fears befall
As bawl of her laments remains unheard
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Her stone-cold beats in servitude thrall
From passions parched and love interred
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
Shattered tones of her heartbeats appall
Repelled by futility of the vows conferred
When silent tears of her aching heart fall
Muffling her sound against a callous wall
January 19, 2020
HM: Strand choice 10 contest by Brian Strand
She was lovely, a beautiful kind soul, giving, loving, generous, but also apologetic for being alive.
Her light gray eyes danced and pranced, and her laugh was hearty when you got to know her.
Lots of people thought she should be invisible.
They wanted their garbage dumped, and their rooms vacuumed and cleaned silently.
Knowing this, she usually kept her head down, saying few words, afraid of being rebuffed.
I brought her a sandwich, and stayed late one afternoon, to get to know her.
She had sacrificed her whole life to help her drug-addicted mother, and now her drug-addicted sister.
All of her money went into her mother’s bills, her mother’s habits, and her sister’s four children.
Her sister was currently serving another sentence in Leavenworth prison. Pregnant, of course.
In a few months, my friend would get a call to come pick up the new baby from the prison.
What choice do I have? She asked me. We cannot have her babies raised by strangers.
She would drop off the baby with her drug-addicted mother who keeps the blinds closed all day,
And bemoans the fact that the other children there are hungry, and crabby and wake her up with their noise.
She did the best she could, enabling her mother and her sister, sometimes taking the babies to their well-check appointments and paying for them of course.
She gave everything she could to her family. A beautiful soul. I asked her what she had wanted to do as a child, what she dreamed about doing when she grew up.
I dreamed someone would take care of me, she said.
I wanted someone to save me, but they never came.
No, we would not want these babies raised by strangers.
As we walk towards one another
from a long distance of dare
with a stare straight into each other's soul glare
on a plateau of ancient, barren heartache,
the broken, fine diamond ground
love dry and dusty
bemoans our steps as severe moxie,
yet it's faith that motivates
our forward motion into maybe,
the wind waits not for want
as it stirs dreams from the ruins
of passion fallen short,
the ghosts of gothic romance
howl and whirl in the waste of ashen pulses,
ringed by mountains of ageless endurance
with a sky speaking rare fever
We get closer to the crucible of touch,
your scarlet gown and shawl of lip song
whipping wildly,
my mantle of sapphire sackcloth undulating
to match your confident stride,
We're feet away, the rush rises hot,
You extend your unmarried hand
into my palm of fire,
We give each other a smooth smile
because we know the price,
You give me a token of virgin time,
I hand you a blood jewel,
and suddendly the weather explodes
into a storm of burning roses...
A Widow of poetic warfare,
an Apex Princess in a shadow of love's heartbeat,
with a noble yearn
for honest caress,
weeping strongly on a living prayer,
She sends a warm teared whisper to her Love,
long away saying...
Stay with Me...
She expects not a cure or kiss,
Nightfall comes to envelope her
in soft sadness,
late after Midnight she's awoken
to a firm hand waving along her sleeping arm,
He moves her laying hair
as if it were a delicate beauty,
His lips gently touch her ear,
and He tells her...
I've never left You...
My sighs begin to trace Your borderlines
of beauty ablaze in love mania
with a charcoal ivory smoothness
as your body begins to beckon like warm tides
before the storm,
your heartbeat thunders
for a mouth to mouth kiss,
My tip glides lips tender and open,
You begin to foam sweetly,
My sighs reach your thighs,
A masterpiece enters You
with strokes true and deep...
Feel me in my silence
as I ache for your aplomb approval,
I lay alone,
afflicted with love burn,
I need You to cool me,
to handle my heart devotedly,
come up onto me, supple like,
Kiss me from above the pain and stars,
heal the scars and take me far
into your hunger,
deliver me beyond the dream,
teach me what love means -
J.A.B.
Donald and Rosie
Took a public bath
She’d animate the bubbles
He’d sit and do the math.
They raced to the playground
Jumped on verbal seesaws
Up went their issues
But down came the law.
Hopscotch was so hopeless
A game of stark bemoans
Instead of tossing pebbles
They started hurling bones.
They drifted to a fountain
Dropped pennies for a wish
Before settling to the bottom
They were swallowed by the fish.
People wandered off to food stalls
Unsure which meal to grab
Should one choose the lobster,
Or settle for the crab?
Winning the Lottery
Yes, I dream of winning the Lottery,
Hitting the jackpot on a Saturday night.
Oh, it’s so wonderful to imagine,
So, I cross my fingers and hold them tight.
Our George bemoans his bad luck,
All these years, not even a Tenner.
He told me that a couple from up Orkney,
Won Five million, Mr and Mrs Jenner.
Now I don’t want a fortune,
Just to be comfortable, would be nice.
I could buy me a shiny new sports job,
Without thinking about it twice.
A holiday to the Island of Barbados,
Under tropical skies, that sounds grand.
Or perhaps a Mediterranean cruise,
Lazing on deck, getting tanned.
I would have to update my wardrobe,
With a suit from Ralph Lauren.
A few shirts with the label of Versace,
Oh, and Designer shoes by Donna Karan.
We may have to move from the terrace,
Buy a cottage in the countryside.
Or better still a bungalow by the sea,
With a Veranda, to sit watching the tide.
I could afford to have Guitar lessons,
Learn to play blues like Jimmy Page.
Imagine that, me becoming a rock star,
With adoring groupies at front of stage.
Now, I won’t see our Emily go short,
and I’ll give a bit to John and Jilly.
I’d better return Danny’s Lawnmower,
and give that borrowed Twenty back to Billy.
I could retire and take it easy,
No more working long shifts over-night,
Slaving for that Miserly McGregor,
He’s loaded but so flaming tight.
In truth, I’d leave without notice,
And tell him just where to stick it.
My wife say’s stop daydreaming Jim
You’ve never even bought a ticket.
Sorrow befalls me upon first glance
Heartbreak bemoans my shattered soul
Tears on my pillow bespeak pain in my heart
All for the love of a broken bowl
While memories may dwell in a fractured mist
And some will never be whole
No one if any will ever forget
My ode to a broken bowl
~Piece out Man
Faking feelings is what you do best,
undermining hope with false feelings.
And deceived by lust's many guises:
you’ve shown your vulnerability.
Fantasy divides reality
into darkening shades of despair.
And feeling all alone, you struggle;
believing that no one even cares.
Anger fuels your disappointment,
while jealousy bemoans love's absence.
And truth provides little protection
from the bittersweet lies that flatter.
Sadness deflates inflated egos,
allowing time for thoughts to gestate.
For happiness can't be chained to tears,
love requires trust to make it real.
Spent on a splurge of self-deception,
hope is the last treasure you deplete.
And frustration is a side effect
of dreams, scuttled on the rocks of doubt.
As loneliness devastates your heart,
practiced smiles mask the pain you're feeling.
Yet, like mascara, cosmetic smiles
have but one purpose: to conceal tears.