Best Dead End Poems
Walking in circles
Of depression
Silence the ever present killer
On the cul du sac
Of life
Inspired by the Rat Pack
...inspired by 'Cul-De-Sac' by Allen Tate
The golden sheen had turned to rust,
the laughter to a pile of rags,
the joy to ghostly lamentations,
how the weighted second drags.
Blind and deaf to consecration,
weak the beatings of the heart,
barren now what once was fertile,
love's become a dying art.
The chasm of their lives together
broadens with each passing day,
echoes barely audible
now rattle in a death-mask play.
He spends his time in retrospection,
trying to ignite the flame,
all the tinder is but ashes,
all their tenderness a game.
Passing in the hallway, they will
glance away in silent grief,
post-it notes and conversations
miss their mark, the practised thief.
He concerns himself with models,
crafting planes no one will see,
for an unborn son or daughter,
generations not to be.
Would a child have made a difference?
(would that he were strong and able),
tiny sneakers, matching socks,
another place to set at table.
Living with an empty feeling,
she tries not to blame or doubt,
busies with the darning, dusting,
looking for a quick way out.
Finances keep them together,
stocks and bonds, annuities,
the only glue that holds the airplane,
slim and thin prosperities.
Fifty years, and inching slowly,
they will not be One with God,
separate, they make arrangements,
he cremated, she to sod.
There was happiness and laughter,
lo, those many years ago,
back before they wanted children,
the physician told them no.
They are dead and gone, I'll warrant,
separate, and in repose,
Heaven opened, they crossed inward,
What they said? God only knows.
...inspired by 'Cul-De-Sac' by Allen Tate
The golden sheen had turned to rust,
the laughter to a pile of rags,
the joy to ghostly lamentations,
how the weighted second drags.
Blind and deaf to consecration,
weak the beatings of the heart,
barren now what once was fertile,
love's become a dying art.
The chasm of their lives together
broadens with each passing day,
echoes barely audible
now rattle in a death-mask play.
He spends his time in retrospection,
trying to ignite the flame,
all the tinder is but ashes,
all their tenderness a game.
Passing in the hallway, they will
glance away in silent grief,
post-it notes and conversations
miss their mark, the practised thief.
He concerns himself with models,
crafting planes no one will see,
for an unborn son or daughter,
generations not to be.
Would a child have made a difference?
(would that he were strong and able),
tiny sneakers, matching socks,
another place to set at table.
Living with an empty feeling,
she tries not to blame or doubt,
busies with the darning, dusting,
looking for a quick way out.
Finances keep them together,
stocks and bonds, annuities,
the only glue that holds the airplane,
slim and thin prosperities.
Fifty years, and inching slowly,
they will not be One with God,
separate, they make arrangements,
he cremated, she to sod.
There was happiness and laughter,
lo, those many years ago,
back before they wanted children,
the physician told them no.
They are dead and gone, I'll warrant,
separate, and in repose,
Heaven opened, they crossed inward,
What they said? God only knows.
There are many kinds of writes,
some write wonderful songs.
Their words will make you sing along,
the music will keep running through your head.
Some write poems,
they can make them rhyme.
A poem could tell a happy or sad story,
or make you laugh out loud.
Some write books,
it could be about a dead end street.
The characters find the road has ended,
what a great place to park.
Park under the silver moon,
and count the shining stars.
Speaking of Sedoka 5-28-26 Nette Onclaud
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sedoka Dead End
faded street signs point
into overgrown byways
unlit blind alley encores
cryptic curlicues
chant beats of new directions
my heart seeks for sacred roads
You know a cellphone discharges
Electric cars swamp like barges!
You can't make a case
For drivers who face
Assault a battery charges!
Once, when I was young – another writer,
A poet and poetry lover, someone undiscovered…
She (it could have been he since I only knew
Pen names that faded from my memory once
The words had left their imagery)…
Anyway, she or he… told me that my poetry,
Yes, MY POETRY, the words that I wrote,
The little flawed victims of my heart, my soul,
Thoughts that were sometimes fleeting –
And, other times, like some leech settling in
Around my life, overwhelmed by the letters,
The rhymes, the rhythms that felt like liquid laughter,
Kissing away the shadows that clung to my mind –
She or he – told me that my poetry reminded them
Of Plath! The one and only… Sylvia Plath..
It felt like a death sentence in a way, but I learned to listen
To the memory like it was one heartbeat away from
Losing its hold on me, the memory has no real power –
It loses its ability to tempt and torture, its gift for doubt
Its capacity and urgency, blaming the winds of autumn,
The sing song sounds of spring, the melancholic mist of winter,
The ache of summer plays in trembling octaves of verse –
While I remember…
Her suicide and then, years past that poet’s pointed clue
Finding out I was bipolar and knowing what it is…
Feeling crazy, like a druggie or – the woodpecker must…
Feel the crazy that comes from thumping away at that oak,
Striking it again and again with a beak that couldn’t have been
Made by man.
Only God could have created the woodpecker and only God
Could have silenced the fear in my heart when I thought of…
The mania that shredded my hopes and plunged me into doubt,
And, only God could have been such a dependable friend
That I never felt the need to take the life that He gave to me,
The same life He saved when He forgave me for my sins.
Not so much like Plath, you see… not so much like Plath,
Who will always be a lesson to poets who believe…
Only God has the right to whisper farewell to the light,
The light He stirred inside when He promised you this time,
These precious moments, this life – blessed by grace,
Inspired by faith and brought to glory by the love that He gave.
And there you sit -
contemplating a word,
the other one wrote
that you read,
that they -
had the courage
to throw
into the ring
the choice to take
one’s own;
many times
that thought
arrived
in your own time,
it came and went
turned around
it came and went
lingering
cajoling
ever present
what then?
the world abruptly left,
those behind falling
into ruins
never to be peaced back
together again.
fullstop.
all for a dead end.
what a waste
those full stops are,
when saved to
crown an eye;
freedom;
the choice always given,
is always yours to take,
never theirs -
but what a waste
those full stops are,
when saved to
crown an eye
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Dead end jobs,
We all got those,
The ones that hurt your feet
And the bottom of your souls,
Customers complain ***** and moan,
For items that have been long gone,
Get hot headed when their sizes are not in,
We have to stand and hold in our screams,
Keep our cool, when really we just want to say,
Hey why don't you walk in my shoes If it just for a day,
Just for a while maybe you'll see,
We got more problems then just your sizes,
Come on jump in my shoes, I be happy to do it for you,
To feel a day with no pain,
Maybe to smile truly stunning, then this faked smile,
So before you moan about all the silly stuff,
Take a look at the staff,
Some are hiding most pain,
In shed of moaning why don't you say,
Hey are you okay.
Written by Davina Browne
25 / 01 / 15
Living from day to day,
Trying to make life a better day.
Doing the best you can,
To keep food on your plate,
And cool air from your fan.
Bettering yourself ,
The only way you know how.
Constantly wiping,
The sweat from your brow.
Satisfying the same rude boss
And customers working so hard,
To not let them get the best of us.
Crying out to your family at home,
Because you and your colleagues
Don’t get along.
Going home to answer the phone.
Finding yourself, doing the same
Things at work as you do at home.
The same old job that causes you
To prematurely age can’t pay
You more than minimum wage.
While at home watching your T.V.,
Hoping and dreaming, to have a crib
Like a celebrity, you hope to have a
Chandelier like theirs. Then you look up
At your raggedy light fixture. Getting the
Blurry image of you sitting in an old beat
Up chair.
You’re thinking, “Hey, I work every day.”
“I work very hard, and I can’t even get
My job’s credit card.” “What can I do?”
“I can do nothing but sit here and sob.”
“My health in success is failing, all
Because I’m dying for a dead end job.”
wrote in college while
sick of retail work
(2003-2004) somewhere in that time
A random road wanders across the desert
as voluminous clouds chase the rising sun
nary a sound can be heard, save for the
whipping wind and clicks of insects.
The yawning horizon stretches out
reaching towards a vast, expansive sea
its crystalline beauty is but a deceptive liar
for death surrounds her ever lapping shores.
Almost uninhabitable she is
like a barren womb in want
her waters are lifeless, a fluid grave
bearing witness of her desolate decay.
Fish carcasses tell their solemn tales
along her distant, lonely shores
their bony apertures are splayed and pecked
hungry seagulls circle, hunting for scraps.
Relentless winds are spreading littered
whitewashed bones
causing them to tumble about
conjuring up a false sense of life.
Now the moon is rising
as acrid air hovers over the sullen sea
the winds seem to shout, “go away”
a dull emptiness prevails.
The blackest night, save for the moon
descends upon this accursed place
where the bony beach rattles its lifeless tunes
along a haunting shoreline
that no one wants to see
where no one wants to be
beside the Salton Sea.
He stood on the tracks in the middle of town
and thought of yesterday with a weighted frown.
Behind him, a life he chose to forget.
Ahead a new day, beyond the sunset.
Memories of his childhood like a train wreck
left him battered and bruised, a noose 'round the neck.
A mother who left him before he was nine,
a dad who never worked, stayed drunk all the time.
His brother, a hero, lost in the 'Nam war.
His sister, an addict, he could help no more.
Nothing left for him in this dead end town,
and so there he stood taking one last look around.
He heard the train whistle and his heart felt renewed.
With hope for the future, happiness, he pursued.
As he boarded and took his seat on the train,
he waved goodbye to the heartache, goodbye to his pain.
He closed his eyes and fell into peaceful sleep.
Then awoke with one memory, he decided to keep.
Long ago, Grandpa gave him his pocket watch and said,
"Give wings to your soul or you might as well be dead."
Just a boy at the time, he did not understand.
Looking up now, he thanked Grandpa, watch in his hand.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders
You know both of us never wanted this,
our lives now are anything but bliss.
I can't wake up in the morning feeling joy,
instead I feel like I'm a broken toy,
Never to be repaired and set in a box,
and not knowing how to undo the locks.
Locks that you've set up in your heart,
and yet I wonder if they were there from the start.
Pleaded my case, mind and heart to you my dear wife,
feeling that I have no choices in my life.
If you want everything to end then just say it,
and I will end my devotion although hard to admit.
I still imagine waking up to you by my side,
you know you can't sit back and say I didn't try.
We're both at the dead end of a marriage.
I've tried everything I know to try and win back your trust and love,
seems like the future of our lives is determined by the almighty up above.
Is My Life Heading Toward A Dead End Road?
As I feel life’s struggles, and carry a heavy load.
I often wonder if my life is at a dead end road?
I think about what I’ve done and where I’ve been.
And never know who’s my adversary or friend.
Many that I thought I could trust. I can trust no more.
It just seems like my life is a big revolving door.
There’s a question I often ponder, in my mind.
“Is my life just a speck on the table of time?”
Scripture says that life is as “a spark in the sky.”
I’m here for a brief moment. And then I’ll die.
I want to make the most of what God has given.
And really think about how I’ve been livin’.
I’m giving my life to Jesus! And all that’s in it.
I need his love, and the help of his spirit!
Please come Jesus, and help me to be strong.
It’s in your loving arms that I surely belong!
Because of Jesus, my life has been set free!
He’s brought to me his grace, so abundantly!
The joy and peace he’s given are ever so sweet!
By his shed blood, my life is now complete!
Life’s dead end road is now a road wide open!
Because of Christ, the roadblocks have been broken!
By Jim Pemberton 06/16/14
Do stop your moaning, for Heaven's Sake!
You're not the first to bellyache!
You can scowl, growl, or howl
Or throw in the towel
But no one can go to your Wake!