Best Cruelest Poems
Here i am away from you
As time just marches on
I can feel it all slip slowly from my hands
Til one day its just all gone.
I think about my love for you
Some days it seems just a dream
And all i can do is hold the memory
Of how things used to be
I gaze upon your photo
And your smile brightens up my heart
But when i lie down in my empty bed
My soul just falls apart.
You were what i always wished for
I thank God for the day that i met you
But life has played the cruelest joke
By stealing my moments planned for you.
Impenetrable fortresses built from stones made of regret
reenforced with the concrete of mistakes we can never forget.
Confined within these walls only your guilt here shall dwell.
The cruelest prisons are the ones that we build for ourselves.
Autumn leaves released against the cruelest winds
unmoored, without a distant shore to land
have no instruction, nor direction,
swept by the tides of winter seas
Surfing waves without an oar
curled tight against themselves
Fall winds spread them far,
until they sink
and crumble
into
dust
While
I must
not stumble
and must not curl
tight against myself
but be kin to nature...
soar the waves of winter seas
adrift in a sea of knowledge
following directions of my heart
unmoored, but with a distant shore to land
against the future of autumn's cruelest wind
__________________________________________
9/12/14 For Shadow's Contest: Double Etheree
There were times you called me vindictive names,
Said so many uncalled for things that hurt.
You played so many emotional games
And with my friends you did shamelessly flirt.
Was there ever a time I lost my shirt ?
Despite your disdain and cruel intent
Your burning barbs and maleficent bent
Most steady, steadfast was my love for you
So t'was the cruelest cut when you went
Forever deserting a love that's true.
~14 May 2016~
Dizain - Ten lines of 10 syllables each line rhyme scheme: A-B-A-B -B-C-C-D -C-D
Syllable count via www.howmanysyllables.com
We blame any obstacles in our ways
The obstacles are cruel
We try all the ways to remove them
We blame the devil as well as God
But who is or which is the cruelest after all
I said it's time
Because there isn't any more chance
And nothing can be done
If without the permission of time
You may grieve on this darkest of days.
You may weep tears of demulcent dew
And ponder the wonder of God's cruelest ways
Though ne'er understand their reason or rhyme,
Nor unravel the ruse that he ruthlessly plays.
Alone in your anguish, your tempest and rain,
Far from the sunshine high summer once brought.
Forlorn in the torture of sadness and pain
Where lightness and brightness have now disappeared,
Bereft in the wilderness ~ alone once again.
Below the clouds drifting blackened and lost
The soul becomes naked, banished and damned,
Mere thoughts become worthless, tumbled and tossed,
And all is now nought in a world void of care,
The price you must pay now ~ the grief is the cost.
And though in the ending, when all has been said,
Nil desperandum, as faith shall go on.
And then all the reading has rudely been read,
And all the misleading has surmounted instead,
Yet when all the bleeding has bravely been bled,
Don't grieve for too long or you'll waken the dead.
Impenetrable fortresses built from stones of regret,
reinforced with concrete mistakes we can never forget.
Confined within these walls only your guilt shall dwell.
The cruelest prisons are the ones that we build for ourselves.
T.S. Eliot said April is the cruelest month. . .
But he was wrong.
August is by far the cruelest.
August with its sultry cloak,
Oppressive shroud,
Baking under the
Relentless sun.
Can you feel it?
Can you smell it?
Don’t go outside,
Not if you value
Your composure;
Not if you value
Your tranquility.
August is a thief.
But September. . . ahhh!
September is a promise.
Tiny hints of delights to come:
Ruby, bronze, ochre.
Hurry up, August!
Be gone,
Your days are numbered.
(“The Heart of It #2”, 2007, original oil)
Honesty is the Cruelest Gift of All
I’m down to the nub of a pencil
I’ve been carrying around in my heart
For over three decades
And as much as I’ve cherished this relic
I feel it’s finally time to let it go.
Over the years every once in a while
I’ve tried to scribble out the lines
That could possibly connect the dots
Of a life that increasingly could fill a Russian novel.
Of course I’m always the hero of my tales
At least in the way it unfolds deep within my heart,
But my head knows better.
It’s not hard after all to see the life-lines
Between the real dots of our experience,
All the people and places we have known
At the affect of what we do.
These moments, holding both
The gains and losses, comings and goings
Are nothing more than mere dots
Until connected in time.
In my heart’s version the gains are fortuitous
Group efforts of affinity between soulmates,
And the losses inexplicable
Random mistakes perhaps
Clearly regretted by all.
But my head knows a different truth
That every story has at least two sides
One man’s loss being another’s gain
After all.
And if I am honest I can accept
That all my life’s changes
Have always had me as the constant
And so ultimately no one else to blame.
Being set free of the ties that bind
Is perhaps the greatest gift that love gives
And yet clearly the simple honesty of that
Is the cruelest gift of all.
(11/5/24)
It is the cruelest of hate
Creeping like an imposturous reptile
In the morning light of Eve’s Garden
Fangs dripping with malice
Searching for tender flesh to taste
Cruel hate clandestinely charging
Uncharged minds
Innocent ones
Too young to leave
Too old to hold on
Hissing rancorous lyrics
Like a street pusher pandering opiates
To abject addicts
Hate creates images of a fresh world
Socially acceptable to his guiltless prey
It is the cruelest of hate
Proffering empty promises of transcendent fame
Lying in the wake of the fallen ones
Dead on square tiled floors
As muted school bells forget to ring
From sandy grounds to tangled woods
To weeping waterfalls on a westbound highway
Counting the dead
Nineteen names prancing across digital screens
Held in hands too small to tremble
Hate authoring hallucinations
To guard against truth
It is the cruelest of hate
Peering through the eye of a grooved cylinder
Pushing calloused flesh against curved steel
Lead projectiles penetrating
Again, and again
Unblemished innocence
Teddy bears held against beating hearts
And the let go dreams of
Our children
It is the cruelest of hate
The cruelest of cages
A cage of the mind.
No freedom lies
With such heavy binds
Thinking,
Speaking,
Processing
It all becomes difficult.
This cage tight and sealed
Breaking free
It just a dream.
Impenetrable fortresses built from the many stones of regret,
re enforced with the concrete mistakes we can never forget.
Confined within these walls only your guilt shall dwell.
The cruelest prisons are the ones that we build for ourselves.
Is the cruelest of all cancers ironies ?
Not that it is to be met
or end in death ?
Nor the suffering the disease itself
inflicts ?
On both the terminal and those left ?
But rather how it brings us together
than ever before ?
Unfortunately to late ?
And how the every day to day things we
once found a chore or mundane we
have since ironically learned to cherish ?
This poem is written in gratitude and
thanks to a comment posted by
J.A on what is really precious
and worth valuing in life
Life, in its cruelest joke, gives us only enough time to discover ourselves,
we toil through the years of uncertainty, forging identities like soul blacksmiths,
sharpening our talents, enduring betrayals and broken hearts,
reaching the peak of self-possession only to be ready to depart.
This is the irony of life, where maturity comes hand in hand with obsolescence,
wisdom, that hard-earned prize, merely the prelude to irrelevance,
we master existence just in time to leave it, a bitter joke of time,
a brief rehearsal for an unscripted exit, without applause.
We gaze into the abyss of the inevitable, death, with eyes wide open to infinity,
living under the shadow of our own mortality, shadows dancing on the earth,
we crawl through the days of life with the burden of knowing our fate presses upon us,
the weight of the days is dreadful, a sad song in the cold wind.
We practice existence under the indifferent sky, between magical sunrises and sunsets,
like actors on the stage of a play whose end is already written in the stars,
each day, in this theater of time, we seek unseen meaning,
how to find essence when we are destined to be merely passing dreamers?
Perhaps in this journey, between dream and awakening, we find a hidden beauty,
perhaps in each step toward the abyss there is a dance of life and death,
a dance whose rhythm we cannot stop, a waltz of ephemeral eternity,
yet, in our fragility, in the awareness of the end, we find strength.
A strength to love, to create, to hope with intensity and passion,
even knowing that our story will end like any other story,
we live each chapter like a fire that lights up the dark night,
for between light and shadow there is always a beginning and an end.
I often think cruelest thing one can do,
Is to deny the young the opportunity to follow their heart,
All because your heart was once broken,
And you have not learned to forgive.
The hole in their heart,
Now about to become the same size as yours,
With no sewing kit in the house,
To give even one thread of hope to you both.
We can only hope the heart you have broken,
Finds forgiveness before another young one falls in Love.
So that a sewing kit is again to be found in the house.