Best Bereavement Poems | Poetry

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The Best Bereavement Poems

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She Wept In Languished Moan

         She wept as they buried her one true love.
             Each day thereafter she brought him a rose,
         the flower she knew he was fondest of.
             Her grief unbearable, beyond repose.
                What pain and suffering his death bestows.

         Nothing prevented her daily visit.
             She didn't want him to feel all alone.
        When beside him her face was exquisite.
            When weary she would sigh and then lay prone,
                 weeping for her love in soft languished moan.


                     Originally written on 23rd of July 2016
            Two Stanzas - English Quintain, 10 syllables per line 
                    with a rhyme scheme of a-b-a-b-b


Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2016


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ADIEU UNTIL I SEE YOU IN HEAVEN - EMOTIVE WRITE

I know your spirit is finally free when I scattered your ashes yesterday Cancer has taken you away from me solitude is now the price I must pay When I scattered your ashes yesterday I said adieu to the love of my life Solitude is now the price I must pay I’m now a widow, no longer a wife I said adieu to the love of my life I look to heaven and I question why I’m left a widow, no longer a wife as seagulls circle in bright azure sky I look to heaven and I question why cancer has taken you away from me As seagulls circle in bright azure sky I know your spirit is finally free New Poems Only Contest Sponsored by Emile Pinet 16 lines, 10 syllables per line FICTION POEM WRITTEN FOR CONTEST 4/12/18


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2018


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It was Beautiful Yesterday



Bha e brèagha an-de
(It was Beautiful Yesterday)


There was a sailing vessel
With many a sail proudly lapping in the wind
A flag of the Celtic honor, in ruin an rented
As all the sailors sing
Of my love for you
From long ago
Before death became our friend
Oh would I be sailing from stormy seas to the Scottish glens
To lay some flowers at your side
Your beauty is now far under
My love ill wait for all eternity
For loves resurrection’s stormy thunder
Our bodies may be under stone
Our memories long lost in tales and fable
Let no man ever lay any such claim
Our love was not the gift of briny seaworthy fame

We be only stones, in a meadow blue
When you come upon our fate
Tiss with this verse, I state my case
The life that escaped our sadly date
Love though was true as sky
For long ago, she bid adieu
Her sadness at my drowning departure
As I her lover was told to be 
Buried deep and under sea


Both sadness and the tossing waves
Took the life out of her and me
So when you look at fading stones
Remember the love that used to be



Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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In a Field of Lavender She Lay

The weeping willow stands high on the hill
as though a sentry, watching o'er the land.
One wonders, does the weeper understand
how hearts once warm can freeze in bitter chill?

Across the span I hear the piper's song,
a mournful tune that echoes through the trees.
Impulsively I fall upon my knees
and pray for grace and strength to carry on.

There was a time when love was truly mine;
a goddess who became my very own.
Red roses would I lay before her throne;
each night we'd drink our fill of honey wine.

If only God would void that fateful day,
for in this field of lavender love lays.












Copyright © July Morning | Year Posted 2018


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My Heart Beats For You

Walking aimlessly through the woods
Searching for that spot we once stood
Pouring out my heart and my tears
Reliving memories of those special years

Red and orange and purple from green
Rich autumn colors, a sight to be seen
The winds of change quickly blowing in
With it a new chapter will soon begin

Not ready to give up, I can't let go
Where am I headed, where will I blow
Lost without you, what am I to do
Darling, my heart is still beating for you


Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2014


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Caressed By Vines


Caressed By Vines


Like tender loving arms, they wrap around
   old monuments of stone set on the ground.
Those silent sentinels that stand their guard
   above the souls, we honor and regard.

To honor and regard through all the years
   where loved ones come to speak unhappy tears.
Beneath the summer rain and winter snow,
   these monuments of stone, their sorrow show.

Like tender arms, the vines embrace the stones
   to comfort them, these guardians of bones
who bear the sadness brought to them to share,
   by those who stand and weep in silent prayer.

The tender vines grow thicker 'round the tombs...
   create a leafy shawl that lives and blooms,
and shows the hope of new life after death 
   which tangled vines embrace with living breath.

Like tender loving arms, they wrap around
   these lasting monuments where peace is found,
and frame the name of each whose life reclines...
   now resting safe and sound, caressed by vines.


Sandra M. Haight

~3rd Place~
Contest: Your Best Rhyming Poem 2
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Judged: 02/03/2017

~2nd Place~
Contest: Overgrown With Vines
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 10/08/2016




Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016


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Summer Rain

I wade into the surf and stand alone

Enfolding in my arms, the dust of You

I hear the raving wind lament and moan

As if the summer storm is mourning, too

I breathe your wispy ashes as they're thrown

And whisper your name softly while I do

I lost you once, and now I've lost again

As all my tears are lost ... in summer rain.




** Submitted October 12, 2017, for the "Rhyme Battle: IX" Poetry Contest, Juli-Michelle, Sponsor. **

** FIRST PLACE in the "Late September Standard" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. **


Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017


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Still A Soldier

I lay here today a soldier
I know some don't understand
I will try to explain
So maybe you can

I served my country
For many a year
I retired long ago
The soldier still here

I put on my uniform
I wore it to foreign lands
The soldier I was
Is still in the man

I have been a husband, father, and friend
To some of you here
But I've been a soldier all along
Even after so many a year

My final salute
I render today
I'm still a soldier
I'm just on my way


Copyright © Timothy Emmons | Year Posted 2014


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Soul mates solace

When my final shadows cling on desperately
Where I fight formidable battles
to merely hold the light
I send you loving vibrations
and soul sustenance
Deep from the cathedral
of one heart to another
where today no choirs sing
nor symphonies play
Yet it is here where we meet
in spiritual solace
here to surrender 
and exchange inestimable treasures
recollecting memories 
like unopened letters
Galaxies are stretched
over chronicles of shared history
Nebula birthing stars
will be exposed
in forth-coming conversations
bringing short-lived fulfillment to you
Hungry to feast
now will be the time
to approve your blood art vision
and with my own haunting surrender
as dappled shades ink stain your chest
I will reside with you and share, mesmerised 
pens - by branding
as this will be your written reams to me
your artist's pallet or brushed canvas
no need for words
and yet creating
mysterious magical moments
Bitter-sweet the music
that dances taut guitar strings
but now blood approved
please go kick your heel up
return to your laughter
and ride on the breeze
for not all are lost
change not
for I am with you always
to love, listen and comfort as one
with you in me and I in you
as masterpiece


Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013


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Je suis Charlie

Translation below (in progress)


Celui qui n'a pas de cœur
Ne doit jamais reposer en paix

He who has no heart
Will never rest in peace


J’étais Charlie

De ma tombe
Mon âme pleure encore rouge
L’encre coule encore
Arrosage des fleurs ci-dessus
Les fleurs, fortes et belles
Elles doivent étouffer vos manières diaboliques
J'étais Charlie, je suis Charlie, Charlie toujours
Dans ma tombe
je ris
vous perdez

I was Charlie

In my tomb
my soul still cries red
the ink still flows
Above the flowers grow
the flowers strong and beautiful
they shall choke your evil ways
I was Charlie, I am Charlie, Charlie forever
In my grave
I laugh
You lose





Copyright © Etienne Lariviere | Year Posted 2015


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The Last Call

He left his sneakers by the shore
A backpack too, was laid aside
to pick up when the sun had died

He claimed his other gear, instead
The thrill of rapids filled his head
and sounds of water drew him in
             His sneakers, backpack cast aside
             would wait 'til dusk, upon the grass
             when he returned to don again

They did not hear the roaring tides
They did not hear the shouts of fright
Nor did they hear, at last, the call
That came from voices through the night

Calls from those who searched the dark
While water surged and moonlight fell
And rushed instead,  to grip a life
              His sneakers, backpack, cast aside
              assumed that he would come again

His sneakers wait, .........he kicked them off
In haste his backpack, too, was tossed
The river flows...... and all was lost
The cost was more than words explain

There's someone home who got the call
The words so wild, the last, that came

                 His sneakers, backpack, cast aside
                 assumed that he'd return again
                 It lies not in their province now,
                 to know the cost of human pain


___________________________________________________________
(Based, sadly, on a true event, and someone I once knew)
10/23/15   For the Contest: "Hear The Call" triple prompt
Resubmitted for Skat's Premiere Contest # 11...... 9/16/16



Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015


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That Was a Human

Allow me to be disgusted at the jest
and your halfway happy surprise at the end result
of the missile timed precisely:

Did he just splatter?

And allow me to feel the brunt of the bruising
upon my saddened heart, where for others was felt,
from laughing hard.

Yes, all lives matter

Even the ones who don't bear
our national colors
our political expectations    no matter how wrong or right
For just this occasion let us get back to basics:

That was a human

ten fingers and ten toes
perhaps a wife and family to call his own
but do you even know?

            Or even care to think
beyond the face of it?

Getting kicks at watching the Live Leaks
of people being blown to smithereens      It bothers me
That one should find it amusing
Does it bother      You?

---a single tear of blue
is all I'm asking---

Who he was or what he did
what difference does it make?
When life closes the lid
all we have is the acknowledgement:

That was a human      A human

What if those pixels on the screen
were all that was left of that man's memory

would you still find it funny?

And yet still we turn to Facebook Enlightenment
with quotations that decorate a sniper in a holy moment ---

"And oh God. One more thing.
Ignore my enemies heathen prayers
and help me send those bastards
straight to hell.

Amen."

(The amount of "likes" are disheartening
and should be a sin.
Where's the "vomit button" ... ?)

Reading through the comment's section,
like poetry for the juvenile,
and the criminally insane.
No Alka Seltzer      No pills
I'm riding this crazy train unprotected
as if I'm dying for a thrill.

Dying ... at the very least.
Queasy at the vertigo of a nation
acting to love and loving to act

(Nineteen-Eighty-Four called,
they want their plot back)

And have you read empathy such as this?

ROFL, mate! That's classic!

(you have a doggie bag on ya, by chance?
I think I'm gonna be sick)

That was a human

A HUMAN!!!

And you call yourself a Man of God?
Yet still feel compelled
to pull back His Grace to your own ends

... that slippery tide
between your fingers

As if infinity could only be stretched so far;
it won't last long my friend,
before you look into that celestial mirror
scared at what you see

 Is that            me?

Yet still you wear that outpouring of love
on your neck like a trophy
as if you even deserved it.

a single tear of blue     just one
can you give it to me, son?

t h a t w a s a h u m a n

And do you even care?
Does it phase you in the slightest?
Or does a coat of arms
give you further reason to divide?

Jesus died for all      For all

All that upheld the American flag
      as equal to His words.
All who marched to the beat of the drums
      drowning out the birds.
All who bravely proclaimed: We are Heading to War!
                                       We are Heading to War!
And all those who never asked: And what for? What for?

Do you feel its beating on your soul?
S h  o   u    l     d
      I       t        a        l         k
          s           l            o             w?

(the unwritten verses
you added long ago)

It doesn't even matter now,
because all that remains
is what's been left on the page.

All that remains...

Just four sad words
like hopeless sand
slipping through my fingers

That was a human      (or at least it was)
Before Man forgot what he had,
Believing he could do better,
Egging the Almighty to play his game

... back to the drawing board, smirked the Creation

And what about you, Dear Reader?
What will the eulogizer speak
in your honor
when the lights out?

That was a monster
He won't bother you now


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016


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Do you remember me

They walk silently along my hallways.
Floors littered with faded finery.
Do you remember my Granduer?
I had once been called the Queen of the sea.
Pulled down to the ocean's floor.
Swaying silently, so many sad souls
They are entombed here 
Forever a part of me 
Left to wander my halls
Sharing this watery hell
Faces frozen in skeletal grins
Evidence of our eternal sadness
Fish now swim across my stage
The band is silent
Still I remember
I absorbed them note by note
They played till my last moment
Yet it was not for my benefit
For I had betrayed them
My promises were empty
Temptation, travel, time together
Some mercifuly escaped
What did they remember of me?
Some came back in ghostly form
Searching for those I had taken from them
I will not release them
For I do not wish to be alone.





Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2014


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The Crosses of Night

Rising before me, are the graves,.. like the stars Embracing the light, while reflecting the moon The fields, vast and silent, ... never ending, the valiant Of those who had fallen, never knowing how far Some names forgotten, and some never known Crosses that grow from the wet grass below me I have lost count, as my eyes seek horizons Reflecting on lives of the soldiers, unknown Deeply I'm falling without knowing how far Into the depths of the fields that have drawn me Into reflection and into the questions Tossed into the sky, without answers to why My eyes can't believe all the sadness before me I have lost count and my heart seeks horizons Reflecting the reason, seeking answers, unknown
_________________________________________ 7/15/15


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015


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A Child's Prayer

Clutched tight to my chest, the doll smiles lifelessly
sending vacant stares down the darkened hall.
A solitary line of pink light sneaks through a crack in the door.
Fighting tears hanging loosely in my eyes, I listen.
 
“Please tell daddy that I love him and miss him.”
It has been two months since he died. Long, hard months.
“Keep him safe.”
His smell still lingers on his clothes in the closet.
“and bless mommy to be happy…”
How can I be happy, or even smile, when all I want is to be numb?
The tears burn in my eyes, but I can’t cry, or I might never stop.
“so that she will play with me like she used to”
I can scarcely recall the last time I was able to focus; to give her all my attention.
“help her to forgive me,”
Oh sweet baby, it’s I who needs your forgiveness.
“help her to love me again, even though sometimes I’m bad”
Oh God, is that what she thinks!?
“and please help me to find dolly so she won’t be scared tonight”
Ok, focus…just breathe.
“in Jesus name I pray, Amen.”

Clutched tight to my chest, the doll smiles lifelessly
sending vacant stares into the room lit by a solitary pink lamp.
I sneak through the door, with tears rolling down my cheeks,
and enter with a promise, that all her prayers will get answered.

05/31/15

Submission for Prayertime Memories
Hosted by Isaiah Zerbst


Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015


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Never Out of Season - A Short Story

     I was wiping the dust off an old snow globe in the upstairs attic, when a mop of honey-blonde hair suddenly appeared through the wooden flooring.
     "I thought I'd find you here," said the voice, warm and feminine. It was a lovely contrast to the thoughts that bloomed inside my head. The little red Santa smiling gaily, his gloved hand forever frozen in a wave. Truth be told it was over a hundred degrees outside, and up here in this cobweb-ridden place (by God) was practically unbearable.
     But as I lightly shook the fragile keepsake I found myself dashing through the snow like I once did so many years ago. I heard the sound of high pitched laughter from afar, out in the sultry day (most likely the neighbor kids playing tag through a sprinkler-soaked lawn). But there, at that precise moment, I was taking the road before me, and singing a chorus or two.
     "You miss him don't ya?" the voice broke me out of my thoughts, and for a moment I just stared at her as if she had a left over piece of spinach in her teeth. I nodded quietly in the silence and rubbed the smooth curvature of the glass with my thumb. It somehow felt cold, as if winter wonderland was still trapped inside.
     I knew I hadn't stayed too long, though I knew my wife would be patient throughout this ordeal, however long it took. She didn't need to recite any famous sayings to pick me up, just her being there was enough. It was the unspoken truth between us, and it was always enough.
     "Cody and Angie will be downstairs when you're ready to head out."
     "I'm ready now. I was just doing a little cleaning up." It wasn't quite a lie. It was one of those statements we use to say one thing and mean the other. The attic was "okay", but I knew of more dire things in need of some organization.
     Beth went down the ladder first, naturally. Then it was me, a bit awkwardly, still holding the snow globe. We both came into the living room, where our children sat waiting. Cody was playing some handheld video-game in his Hawaiian swimming trunks. Angie was quietly giggling at something her friend said, via text. Her blue bathing suit was barely more than a strap, and I knew I was this close from losing it. But this was a happy day, so I let it slide, just this once.
     "Are you still not ready?" asked Angie.
     I looked down at my blue work jeans and buttoned-up t-shirt. My wife gave her a fierce look, as if willing her to take back what she said. It didn't really matter though ... my emotions were spent.
     "I was gonna change when we got there," I said, a bit defeated.
     "Whatever." She rolled her eyes and plopped her phone right there on the couch. I just stood there like a lifeless statue, while my family got everything ready to head to the local pool. My wife was as patient as a snail, but the kids bustled about as if they've been down here a lifetime. Cody was mad when Beth took the game-boy from his hand, just before some big important checkpoint. Angie was calling Beth completely unfair for not letting her invite Tom over to come swim as well. My wife told her, "This is a family event, no exceptions, and for Pete's sake, listen to me for just this once!"
     I just stood there, in quiet grief. Their voices were mere sounds, plastic and surreal, and I went along with it as if everything was alright. But it wasn't alright. The world was falling apart all around me, miraculously still turning, and I just stood there! Finally I reached for the doorknob, when I realized I still had the snow globe in my hand.
     I looked at it longingly, with affection, and it came to me. A slightly crazy idea. Not the kind where it's life or death, but the fact that it was a spur of the moment decision, it felt totally crazy. I placed the snow globe on the mantel above the fireplace, where the glass caught the sun just right and the jolly Santa shone a brilliant red.
     Allow me this simple pleasure, I asked God in silence. Let the neighbors gawk and smirk all they want. Let the kids think their father's going senile, thinking it's December and not August. I didn't care. I just watched the little flakes twinkle through out the water-filled dome.
     I displayed it proudly, knowing that good will, kindness and love were never out of season. So I picked myself up out of my gloomy state, got inside the car, and slid into the driver's seat. "Alright, let's go!" I said cheerfully, and everyone looked surprised.
     "Dad, is everything … okay?" asked Cody, from behind. But no answer was necessary. I just smiled, and looked across at Beth without a care in the world.
     And since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.



First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue #3

NOTE: I've written a few short stories, but this one is special to me. It was well received by my family, and I was so excited to discover it was accepted by a magazine. It was my first non-poem to be published.


Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016


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Parasite

==================================
The widow, dressed in glossy black,	
glides from the shadows at the back.	
A veil lies slack across her face	
to mask the grief her features lack.	

Possessed of an insectile grace,	
she sidles to the open case	
and like the reptile smile she bares,	
this too, serves to defile the place.	

Since jealousy insures she cares
less for his death than for her shares,
obsession next finds her engrossed
in leaving with the gold he wears.

A parasite, she'll man her post
and feed from this depleted host 
'til she believes she's bled the most
she can from his departed ghost.
==========================


Copyright © Lycia Harding | Year Posted 2015


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A Game Of Thorns - Collaboration with Maurice Yvonne

i heard a...what do they say...a spine chilling scream ...is that the saying? a spine chilling scream followed by 'he's dead, my G_d he's dead' the phrase echoed inside the whole of me like tennis balls bouncing between two parallel walls i ran up aware i would be at the edge where the road ends and the gates of heaven stand saw a young man looked through the aperture of his existence looked and singed his eyelashes looked and could not see beyond now you know those beautiful fluffy white clouds the kind that feel like large teddy bears that want to hug you she had landed her very own- she cherished him knew who he was felt lucky they shared a mutual love i can't imagine the despair flowed through her when she saw him like that his doughy complexion screamed volumes breaking the thunderous silence he was a pale grey, blank, empty a sight impossible to process at odds with how one survives the experience of this tragedy she was lost in a dreamless mare [most of the time life its outcome depends on the flip of a coin if you don't know that you don't understand life his coin landed on its side ...all the kings men and all the kings horses...] her 'beautiful huge fluffy white cloud' had succumbed to the storm heart in throat hesitantly she touched him he was a frigid cold for a moment she saw her own smokey breath moving as if she was walking through the thick grains of unbearable pain thoughts racing she attempted to make sense of the senseless despair had grabbed her by the throat shook her around like so much thread and fabric she thought he might of seen life as futile society as a guise, as a failed paradigm thought he had reached the last motel on the road to nowhere and just...checked out depression the illness it's unlike any other pain when it peaks few if any survive it the afflicted instinctively self medicate but street drugs are mean she could easily empathize she too was him honestly she was tired of living in her sadness a life marinated in tears basted in blood the experience of having seen her partner lose his life to drugs and alcohol affected her profoundly experiencing his death was like getting hit over the head with a sledgehammer she'd never wash it off it clung to her like a pariah you can't wake up from reality and you can't sleep through it the tragedy had possessed her sensibilities it was a malignant truth she could not ratify singular in its nature unfathomable she'd been blindfolded and spun a ballerina on a high wire across the span of time spiralling down an infinite vortex one plus one is seven the ceiling isn't a celestial painting how many fingers a forty ounce of vodka opioids a hundred times stronger than heroin men in uniforms and and ...lost... what happened? less than two hours ago he could think- speak he had his very own persona now lying there as nothing it could have been her it could have be anyone but it wasn't it was- Him what did occur to her was the loss.


Copyright © Carol B. | Year Posted 2017


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My Sister Says

Listen to poem:
My sister says
               my father was a good man --
but, how should I, 
                        who never "knew" him
    (except as a far-from-good man)
          buy her stories?
                        Am I, the last child
   of that union, 
              too, too judgmental?
     Too far removed in time from 
                              what she knew 
    and now recalls?
My memory is of a different man, 
              who died when I was twenty-two:
       one rarely present, never talking, 
often jailed,
                      unsupportive -- 
  someone I really never knew.
He was no bearer of familial tales, 
              no imparter of the history
                       now I only wish I'd heard...
Obviously, I differ from my sister 
          about what constitutes a good man.
He never seemed to feel that he
      needed to provide basics --
                  food, shelter, clothing, health care --
  to his offspring -- and he almost never did......
         I do remember how he staggered 
            on the street,
                             fell off of curbs, 
sought shelter 
                       and often could be found
asleep -- or at least 
                  stretched out unconscious --
                                          in some vacant lot; 
how he foraged 
                  frenziedly
                                   about for beer, 
or only Gallo muscatel 
                          (thirty-five cents for the flask).
Should I not ask 
                what makes my sister think
                         I could remember him as does she?
In such a different light?
                                   As victim,
                                               and maligned
              by inlaws or by circumstance?
All I know is what I do remember,
               what I survived
                           when she and others,
 grown, were gone.
 
I do not think 
                that I can accept
                                 or change
(nor in absentia, forgive) --
                        and, no, I do not yet
                                                        believe
            what my sister says.




Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2017


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Memories and Mourning


Trickle tender tears - those that take their time born to bathe and baptize bereavement free delivery from a fragile flower of forlorn feelings ~ aged and alone senescent sentiments from sorrowful soul does slowly seep to revive in rising rivulets of rhythmic release emptying from eclipsed eyes in reverberant regrets and reveries ~ retrospective reviews with resilient realism offered to an overdue oldster oppressed by outliving others reflections retrieved and remembrance retained are gifts given from the gravestone-garden of growing grief watered with wept woebegone wine and cherished with chaste caressing care memories and mourning ~ hallowed in a harrowed heart Susan Ashley March 24, 2018 ------------------------------ ~ Second Place ~ Contest: Alliteration Poem Sponsor: Silent One


Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018


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A Dylan Thomas State of Mind

A Dylan Thomas State of Mind

It’s precisely 2:45am...the time when
~ if I’ve fallen asleep ~
I always awake to find
Myself drenched in sweat.

I lie here beside my beloved
~ as I have so steadfastly since
16 November 2016 ~
Thinking about...wondering...pondering
The end of my existence.

I am not talking about
Taking my own life.
          NO!
I’ve seen, heard, touched, tasted, smelt
          too much...
I’ve survived too much, felt too much...
I value Howard’s sweet...sweet...
Nurturing soul’s devotion 
To keeping me alive these past 40 years
To raise my hand against myself...now.

I AM talking about these things:
     Where do we go when we die?
     Do I have a soul?
     Will I be conscious — at the moment it happens —
     That I am drawing my very last breath?

Sometimes, when I awake in the early morn,
Howard is motionless beside me
And I stare at his beautiful face.
Dare I reach out and touch it with one finger?
What if it’s stone cold?
His flesh heavy...dead?

Death.
The End of Living.
The End...The End...The End...

Last January I begged for surcease...
For an end to the pain...
An end to the physical torture...
An end to the psychic suffering...
The constant thoughts of:
        “Is there a Hell?”
        “Will I go there if I take my own life?”
        “What does ‘eternity’ mean?”

Now this morning of 19 October 2017
I am thinking...feeling...praying:

         Please...Please...Please...

         God/Goddess/All That Is/The Universe/The Spirit
         Make my neglected hated scorned body
         Healthy and whole.
         So I may live
              today...
                  tomorrow... 
                      next month...
              next year...

Do not let me go gentle into that good night.
I am alive now...
And I rage...
                   I RAGE NOW!
                                       ....against the dying of the light.
       

Barbara Dickenson 
19 October 2017


Copyright © Barbara Dickenson | Year Posted 2017


Details | Bereavement Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Last Gold Leaf

The last gold leaf hangs on the bough;
summer is just a memory now.
You, too, have gone, my golden friend;
our summer days came to an end.

We said goodbye; our chapter closed.
How I will miss you no one knows.
On eagle wings you split the skies;
your spirit soared. You had to fly.

My earthbound soul will bear its grief
severed from you on mortal reef;
but returning from yonder shore,
your love in waves will wash me o'er.

You've gone before, my trusted love;
I wait behind, your mourning dove;
yet, from across the great divide
your voice to me in dreams confides.

No, I think not that dreams they are;
but communion of the near with far.
On such sweet songs I stake my claim
to know and love you once again.

Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson


Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014


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The Teacher of Islam

Islam is non merciful
Islam is about repressive means
Islam has no heart
Over and over this chant shall start

For when we close our eyes
For when we judge our fellow man
Chants may bring us comfort
However false is the ringing of the rant

Men of terror may fly their black flags
Claiming a merciful god orders them to kill
al-Shabab reads no holy books, be sure of this
At reckoning they will be omitted from Allah’s bliss

So let us now pay tribute and honor
Let us hold a tissue for a tear so well deserved
The blood of Islamic hearts shall surely open your eyes
As I myself bow, in despair at a humble mans demise

That day, both miraculous and tragic
Salah Farah, a kind man, now a hero
His Muslim brothers became the strong and the brave
For they followed the true teachings of Islam

Salah Farah has passed on from Gods bountiful earth
A Muslim of brave heart and generous soul
He stood up for the love of his teachings
No man he claimed, should defile his fellow man

As terrorists point their rifles
At Christians shivering in fear
Salah Farah and his Muslim brothers
Stood firm with all of humanity dear

Salah Farah proclaimed “we are all brothers”	
Let us do no harm
Let Muslims protect Christians
Let Christians protect Muslims

For we are one, no matter religion
No matter destiny, we must all hold true
To the values of compassion and love
As every Muslim that day, stood ready die

I proclaim, Salah Farah flew the flag of hope
His brothers choose love over death
The all Merciful’s eyes too had tears
His flock of disciples saw his message clear

Teaching
Mercy
Love
Compassion


Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016


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Tanka 2 about The Cherry Blossom and Life

on melting snow first cherry blossom withers too soon mum ties pink ribbons to the white casket Or on melting snow first cherry blossom withers too soon mum unties ribbons from empty cot-bed
Inspired by Chris`tanka contest,not for the contest


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014


Details | Bereavement Poem | Create an image from this poem.

For Nineteen Years

They are poor…they’re removed, they struggle through life,
Every day is a burden on the edge of a knife,
They’re stuck in the circle, that’s all that they know,
And there’s not work around, and nowhere to go.
 
But a man full of promise says he does understand,
‘My names Uncle Sam, please take hold of my hand,
I’ll break the circle, and then I’ll bring you back,
After a year from somewhere in Iraq.’

She stands at the cemetery gates.
A small bunch of roses and holding back tears.
Just three hundred steps to a name etched in stone
That’s all she has now… for nineteen years.

On the mantelpiece over the burning wood fire,
A son’s photos, citations from her country’s desire  
as she sits and she weeps on the madness of war,
And his last words she heard, “What am I fighting for?”

She stands at the cemetery gates.
A small bunch of roses and holding back tears.
Just three hundred steps to a name etched in stone
That’s all she has now… for nineteen years.

2nd January 2010 ©Lindsay Laurie


Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015