Best Dirge Poems | Poetry
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New Dirge Poems
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A dirge to a friend in captivity
by Ituma, Patrick
by Enriquez, Leon
Urge To Discover A Dirge
by Horn, James
No Dreary Dirge for Me
by Buhagiar, Victor
by Enriquez, Leon
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001 A DIRGE
by Enriquez, Leon
by CHAKRABARTY, RAJAT KANTI
A Dirge for Old and Absent Friends
by Amadore, Leo Larry
A Dirge From My Shrieked Silence
by Ansur, Khan
DIRGE BY THE SEA-SHORE
by Agarwala, Amar
View all new Dirge Poems
The Best Dirge Poems
POTW 15 July 2018
Reverberations of the burbling stream ahead evokes
anticipations of fantasies and distorted expectations
Perfect porcelain skin ~ russet curls ~ ruby red lips
Surely even the gods would weep
at this manifested apotheosis of angelic perfections?
Trudging the lonely winding path once more
oblivious to the brambles tearing at his limbs
a small sacrifice ~ the blood he sheds matters not
Time’s swift flight may alleviate the aching heart
that suffers the pangs of an unrequited love
Etched in his mind this image that has fragmented
the filigree web of his repetitious dreams
Where his nightmarish inflictions are wrought
of an agonising sweat soaking torment
in the gloom of the nights that liberate him not
Proclamations of love feverishly spilling
On parchment in the wakening dawn
Bled out in words to where beckoning waters flow
Euphonious notes that the winds have borne
Streaming from the very core of his being
Spinning senses abandoning their out of control defences
Yet nothing … Nothing ... in his wretchedness can bridge
the gap to the void in his desolate soul
Deprived by a selfish god of this splendor
for him to gaze on by day ~ yet in dismal nights Heaven denies
Day after day to this enigma he brings
serenades that would whip fallen leaves into a frenzy
and calm raging torrents into lapping stillness
Mindless he to the lone song bird that flutes soulfully
Or the reiterated sounds of the whispering Echo
He weeps and grins like a madman at
the sudden outburst of mirth on those ruby lips
Fingers dip in to caress once again
Collapsing the perfection into
a thousand shimmering, mocking ripples.
Must he drown in his very own tears?
Surrender to his darkest dreams?
A slave to an intoxication of his own making
On the morrow perchance the gods may be kinder
A whisper carried on a teasing wind floats to his ears
Above throughout the high mountains,
He can hear Echo whispering softly
Her mellifluous dirge of death.
Yet he cares not ~ His mind centres
on the god that so oft appears in the stream.
Lust eats at his heart as he feels the urge
to plunge down into the depths of the viridian stream,
To copulate in bliss with his newly found love.
Yet something holds him back.
Curse Nemesis for depriving him from his ambrosial love.
Weak in dreamy languor, he falls faint,
And dies ………Unable to kiss his shadow in the stream.
In Greek mythology, Narcissus was a hunter from Thespiae in Boeotia, known for his beauty. The son of the river god Cephissus and nymph Liriope, he was so self-opinionated, disdaining those who loved him. Nemesis disliked his behaviour and lured Narcissus to a pool where he saw an image of beauty reflected in the water. He instantly fell in love with it not realising it was the reflection of himself. Unable to tangibly connect with this epitome of beauty, Narcissus lost his will to live. He stared at his reflection by day and was distraught at nightfall when he could not see it.
Echo, the woodland nymph, with her ceaseless chattering, perhaps in an effort to conceal, angered the goddess queen Terra when she demanded to know the whereabouts of her husband Zeus who was cavorting with the woodland nymphs at the time. Terra punished her with a curse that only allowed her to speak the last words she heard. Perchance, while haplessly wandering in the woods, Echo saw and secretly fell desperately in love with Narcissus who sadly wasn’t aware of her, in spite of Echo cleverly repeating his last words in order to attract his attention.
POTW 15 July 2018
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2018
Sing a dirge with crowns of marigolds.
But not for me for I am much alive, my dear.
Listen to the lovely lively rain,
Pitter-patter on the thriving flower beds,
Let them grow in all hues and shapes.
I’ll pick the marigolds’ white petals.
See, I love you not, I love myself.
Next autumn I’ll fill my lovely cottage
With the most beautiful fragrant narcissus.
14 April 2016
Any Poem You Ever Penned Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2016
To release me from hellish nights
let's talk now, Fear...
I leave, yet your shadow follows me;
a darkened grime blowing on my mind
like an uninvited guest from a demonic realm.
The macabre of nights holds no clues
but reflects my image through you:
Realizing this now I oppose
those vicious whispers,
and embed them in the dirge of sand:
When confronted with inner warfare
O Fear, you turn from rage to cowardice;
I walk away, never to come back...
that phantom of rain tumbles as mist shines.
Feeling empowered now, your hunts lose
as my soul claims its final deliverance--
I’m no longer a pawn.
Fear Contest for Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014
A pregnant lass with eyes of glass had never learned to cope;
once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry slope.
She fled the curse of worlds perverse by shooting shots of dope,
and stalked discreet’ Asylum Street her daily horoscope.
The stray was struck by passing truck which was her only hope.
Well, Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire
(born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire)
for no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
though faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood are spattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”
Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, unwed, her soul stained red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.
Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
(the twisted grin seemed dark and thin behind the robed façade).
“She’ll burn in hell with sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.
Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012
I awakened about midnight in the middle of the day.
I was crawling swiftly toward you as I slowly raced away.
I hummed a merry melody that truly had no tune
As I ate my cup of coffee and then drank my bowl of prune.
The pot of beans boiled over upon the pristine ceiling
So I tossed out the banana and I ate the wormy peeling.
The cat was barking at me and the happy dog meowed
As I stood out there so lonely in the middle of a crowd.
The sun was shining brightly in a snowy blackened sky,
I was a girl so much in hate I wished I that I could die.
The wilted flowers were nice and fresh just as they ought to be,
The ugly ones you sent me from so far across the sea.
The postman brought the email that I had mailed to you.
He said it had no stamp and so he couldn't let it through.
I long so much to see you and to look in your brown eye
And I cannot wait to hold you and to say a sad goodbye.
If you want to read my letter, please do call me yesterday.
I cannot wait to see you so please take the long hard way.
My daddy said he’s happy to give you my eager hand,
The one that’s always begging for his money, understand.
The guests are now arriving in their wrinkled, tattered rags
And the ushers have been drinking rare champagne from paper bags.
The musicians have their bag pipes out to play a cheerful dirge.
And I'm waiting for my bridegroom from his boudoir to emerge.
The honored guests are seated in the front of the back row
And the flower girl is directing everybody where to go.
The preacher stands beside me as I search the smoke filled room
For a candidate who's better than is my intended groom.
You know I love you more than all the pimples on my face,
As I claim you as my husband in your denim dress of lace.
Oxymoronica Contest by Kristen Bruni 13th p[lace
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2011
A saddening song swishes subtly in the bitter breeze,
Mad mournful music meets me everywhere I move,
Like a dolorous dirge drumming through the dark;
Wistful winds wearily bring to mind stinging salt drops,
All energy expended in trying to make sense of this forlorn fusion
As a painfully pensive psalm is penned down
in the ragged remnants of war...
Copyright © Jo Daniel | Year Posted 2017
Play Not A Dirge When I Am Gone
Play not a dirge when I am gone;
light no candles, not even one.
A treasured poem would be enough
to mark my end when curtain’s drawn.
Hold no sad wakes to honor me
some happy poems, I’d rather be
recited on a night for friends
then spread my ashes o'er the sea.
And wonder not nor be afraid
if less of love you have conveyed;
you’re part of me and that’s enough,
while life’s not fair, I’m not dismayed.
If comes a time that you remember
that one fine day in November,
then send a kiss toward the sea
and just forget this fly in amber.*
When I Am Dead My Dearest
by Cristina Georgina Rossetti
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
*fly in amber - noun, reminder of the past
No More Masks Contest
Sponsor: Catie Lindsey
Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015
Oh, this impish ill!
this mystic flock of ever-roaming pain;
You now possess fully
my body and my life.
I am at your full attention and mercy;
Do you not rejoice?
Are you not overwhelmingly triumphant?
This very body that shamed kings into beggars,
that made cowards into martyrs,
songs to motivation,
and indisputable chaos to nation;
All of my great works till now
are devoured by this deplorable disease!
Indeed, now all are indifferent to my successes,
to my brilliance and my legendary valiance;
You see no more but a breakable man-
Another mortal undeniably, indefinably, irrevocably….dying
This misshapen swarm inside distorts my frame;
These bones weaken as I lay
isolated in the mist below the disparaging judges—
Away from the ordinary who spat on me in revulsion;
The known healthy and the blessed—
The cursed clean!
Even relieving the dogs and the fiends from this stinking burden I am
but a rogue omen, and a threat
to their meaningless power.
My skin is paling, flaking—I feel it!
Though dread long has fled to sorrier lands,
seeping in the heavenly regions of trembling angels,
crying out to me to submit, and repent
to a god who has enslaved us—
To—in the end—die,
and for the bravest, and the best,
perish harshly and horribly!
Agony places itself in all that cries out in me—
tired agony mixed with the sting of venomous words;
My family—additions to the cursed clean—
They visited me once in prison;
My father, rigid, alien to me,
Colder than the prison walls surrounding,
and—of course—unwilling to be written upon,
stood silent, as my mother wept,
as my brother, his son whom he loves,
stared through me hollowly, dumbly,
possessing traits too doleful to acknowledge,
yet always, he is
more than anything I die to achieve.
Dead flowers crumble in my palms;
Now their known beauty is long gone.
I had been ailing, though enduring,
spreading and killing off fellow prisoners one by one;
The jailer became furious with the disease,
his dying wish to have me alone with the ground and worm;
His death and his bitter will against me touched the queen,
Who deemed the clean oppressed.
The solemn king whom I had served once with reverence
so soon sentenced me prematurely to this tomb,
to enclose a black hell of chilling cold around me,
and—as was ordinary—granted me
no walls to write on.
I have learned in the silence even fury sighs and dims
Pacing and pacing,
I was soon reduced to feverish quaking,
and in every sense aching,
till the floor met my lips,
as the weakness took a fragile but substantial grip on my hope;
That moment, I begged this tomb to take me.
As fate has seen fit,
this is my dirge of a conclusion:
We all—cursed man—
All—ordinary and brilliant alike,
meet the same filthy fate
involving unassuming worms and dirt-
senseless deafness, blindness and darkness.
If I ever bloomed,
in your eyes, my father,
like your sons before me, I bloomed for naught,
only to, like infants, cry-
For Justin Bordner's "A Tomb of Ancient Bloom" contest
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2016
So many memories I have are summer-colored, like those walking-down-the-lane days recalled in various hues of green. Green for Grandpa’s cornfields spread all around us and green for the grass on which my sisters and I used to run and play.
Besides that color green, which prettily surrounded me through all my childhood,
I think a favorite memory would be the colors of one lovely day spent with my family, the family created by my spouse and me and a day our kids were young.
We lived near San Francisco. Few troubles plagued us then and I loved our short time in California! One summer day at last we went to see the beach of Santa Cruz.
I don’t remember details of everything we did. We walked along the boardwalk, naturally. I’m sure the kids, both pre-teens, enjoyed the rides. Even I was every bit as excited as the two of them. I’m sure my spouse and I took pictures, ate good-tasting food and watched our children doing things all children love to do.
But what stood out for me was our time spent on the beach and how we all jumped up to greet each wave that tumbled toward us time and time again to knock us down. What pure pleasure in the splashes of blue that fun-filled day, the blue of the Pacific, which chilled me at the start until I warmed to it as the yellow sun in blue of sky above smiled down on us.
Yes, the blue of sky and water and the constant shining yellow of the sun:
those would be the colors of my favorite summer memory -when times were good and we were young and simply having fun.
new colors emerge
in the autumn of one's life
soon is winter's dirge
as blue asters wave in fields
bye-bye to sweet summer time
For the Haibun Free-Style Contest of scott thirtyseven
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
How would you like your death announced?
In joyous bells, sweet song through the town
or a solemn dirge, sung in an otherwise quiet church?
Don't mind me much, it's completely your choice
but I must make a sale you see.
Whether they throw flowers and toast to your glory
Whether they dress in black and weep til morning
it makes no difference to me
If the fanfare isn't your thing
obscurity is always an option
But an ego, such a fragile thing, can't bear it
A forgotten grave where moss makes its home
too melodramatic for me
Alas, you humans are so strange
There's a ticking
Can you hear it?
It seems your time is fast approaching
So what is your choice
poor soul so close to the end?
Is it joy?
Is it sorrow?
Or a darkness with no light?
I don't mean to rush, but there's the sake of my sale
What's left for you to mend?
And the reaper will not be kept waiting
Copyright © Dia Tucker | Year Posted 2012
Wind sings a dirge where rust leaves have fallen.
In the autumn of her life
one bright leaf has risen
I stand on the hill
we tumbled down as children
brimming with spirit
no longer with me is she
whose remains I am holding
released to the wind
her ashes now are mingling
with the fallen leaves
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
Poet in a Pool of Love
...... For You Ajinle
When my yearning becomes a letter
Of love inside the dust of time
This lyric will deliver my affection to you
Ajinle the precious daughter of Adegboye
For love is always love
For two dreaming hearts
When their hearts never departs each other
When the cloud of love erupt their minds.
Love is not for coward hearts
Love is not for fragile minds
When I thought how I love you in silence
My heart beat faster
My spirit linger through your undiscovers planet
I found myself in a pool of love
When my song becomes a melody of joy
It is because of you!
My poems are not for ragged - minds
But I will read dirge if you departs my life
Or, is their anything to compare with the absence of love?
Our love and present-shadow is a destiny of tomorrow
Though we are way-farers
Ajeyemi Wasiu .A.
Note: Ajinle 'Yoruba linage for female'
Adegboye: 'Royal name belong to monarch family'
Copyright © Ajeyemi Wasiu Ajewumi | Year Posted 2014
My Love Lives In A Maiden's Fallen Tear
I saw sweet love in maiden's fallen tear
a racing orb of light so very bright.
A love lost, great tragedy so many fear
as small children do darkness of night.
If only to live and not be too late
for the appointed day that I died.
Mend the widening cracks in my plate
careful to eat my stolen eggs fried.
Should a poet compose for me a monody
I shall rise again just to hear.
For my sweet soul fled my tortured body
but my love lives in a maiden's tear.
Will I ever hear sweet song sung in tune.
Or peacefully sleep beneath crescent moon?
Robert J. Lindley, 10-25-2015
Note-Tried to go to sleep,but that wicked muse
of mine, demanded just one more! And it had to
be a sonnet!
Monody | Define Monody at Dictionary.com
a Greek ode sung by a single voice, as in a tragedy;
lament. 2. a poem in which the poet or speaker laments
another's death; 3. Music. a style
Monody dictionary definition | monody defined
pl. -·dies. in ancient Greek literature, an ode sung by a
single voice, as in a tragedy; lyric solo, generally a
lament or dirge; a poem in which the poet mourns ..
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015
Oh Juliet! A memory of a love long lost in vain…
thy bridal song, a dirge of darkened madrigal becomes.
Yet thought of you, for me, brings more to mind of hate than pain
and all because you stole away the one who was my Love.
Whilst all the rest swoon ‘Juliet’, their precious turtle dove,
I left my love to serve my Lord, but thou – a concubine!
for Romeo forsook his first and foremost, Rosaline.
Let none be fooled! So cold and cruel thy wicked heart disguised,
behind a face of snow white youth and eyes of clearest blue
resides a witch, a sorceress; I swear it, though surmised.
Thy tender lips with somber kiss bore poison drops of dew
to steal my one and only love, my son of Montague!
Unfair the pair in Heaven will forever live in death,
whilst I, without my Romeo, yet he has Juliet!
*written from the point of view of Rosaline, Romeo's initial love interest before laying eyes on Juliet...
Copyright © Sophia Valentina | Year Posted 2014
'Round about eight o'clock each evening the massive iron gates are closed.
The moon's mellow glow shines upon spectral scenes that are now exposed!
Phantoms that by day lie peacefully in their graves now freely roam,
Reliving mortal dramas when the earthly stage was their home!
I've never witnessed such things but I've heard from reliable sources,
That nigh midnight a spectral hearse travels about drawn by ebon horses!
Six ghostly pallbearers march behind the hearse chanting a mournful dirge,
As they escort the macabre procession and at a gloomy crpyt converge!
A specter desperado is seen dodging 'mongst the moss-covered stones,
Chased by a sheriff, his moldy funereal shroud flapping about his bones!
"Crazy Bob" Womack who discovered gold up around Cripple Creek,
Sits on his stone guzzling booze and gazing wistfully t'ward Pikes Peak!
Pat Brady, Roy Rogers' old sidekick, races about in his jeep, "Nellybelle!"
Rebel soldiers scramble from their graves and loose a fearsome Rebel Yell!
A gorgeous young wraith clad in white wafts to and fro seeking her lover,
Adding to this eerie scene, perched in ancient oaks, owls hoot and hover!
Ghostly apparitions peer from windows of the haunted chapel on the grounds.
Grinning skeletons rise from musty tombs rattling about making their rounds!
Helen Hunt Jackson, author of "Romana" resides here in her special nook.
She leans against her stone observing all, perhaps researching another book!
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2012
The warlock said to the witch,
Man, ain't it grand living large like Oz,
being bigly Emerald City rich
The witch crowed back,
I get paid good for giving speeches
that have no policy incantation glitch
The warlock laughed hard and long,
then chortled with maniacal glee:
I like the way you got a huge fee
for selling that "Deal Me In" dirge song
The witch returned the faint praise
with a piercing scowl and a sinister smile
You got those lemmings running thru a maze,
chasing your tale that it's all rigged anyhow
The warlock started getting miffed,
and his hair began to burn with an orange glow
He mockingly said, Endora, all the polls show
that you're a walking political gift
The witch angrily retorted: What spell did you use
to make yourself become 50 feet tall
Oh yeah, that's right. Should Humpty Dumpty lose,
it won't be much of a fall off that stupid wall
The warlock let out a sigh, and said:
You know we have to spit venom
at each other on the campaign stump
That's just how it is, and has to be
The witch let out a sigh too, and said:
Since our youthful days of wearing denim,
it's something we can't tell the voting chumps
That we're really friends, you and me
Then they both hugged each other,
and said goodbye to one another privately
The witch winked at the warlock, and cackled this:
No matter who wins,
I'm offering well wishes to you
So don't forget to send me a mean tweet
The warlock nodded back at the witch, and bellowed this:
Once the results are in,
I'll reply with well wishes too
But of course, don't you forget to delete
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2016
My pen finds pause
my body is broken,
a weighted horror
cleaves my breast
The strings of hope sliced
as I put dreams to the sword,
but hands now whisper to stars
across a fabric brushed heaven
Tomorrow is a lie of mysteries
today is in the now of knowing,
Like burning comets the pain
thrashes into my hearts core
A journeys end now nears
the roads all find dead ends,
revived from a morass of mourning
eyes are filled with oceans
A dirge plays and dances
in a procession free of flesh,
as shadows carry me home
infinitesimal tears find silence
I am weary of time
I've smashed the clocks
crushed every watch
tick tocks, now stopped
With the enemy defeated
I forge ahead untimed,
wild and finally free
uncaged from fear and doubt
In truth tomorrow has been
gone in thousands of minutes,
the sandman flies in golden dust
that's now sparkling my eyes
In sleep I shall find eternities gate
holding it open yet never entering,
until your hand slips into mine
time my love will stand in my mind
Until we meet again ...
Copyright © Jayne Eggins | Year Posted 2015
I can’t speak for every writer
of prose and poetry,
but from my own experience
this is what pertains to me.
As there are seasons in the natural,
some lovely, some not so inviting;
the same thing occurs when it comes to my pen.
There are seasons of my writing.
I’ve been through some winter like seasons
longing for inspiring urge,
but my pen felt cold and lifeless
almost like a funeral dirge.
These times of seeming deadness
when it appeared there was no inspiration,
although some of them lasted for years,
were really stages of hibernation.
Then at last there came a thawing,
a melting of my frosted pen;
sap that lay so still and dormant,
miraculously flowing again.
Suddenly, my quill, alive with bloom
and flowing like a fountain.
Free verse, limerick and haiku
come skipping over the mountain.
Poetry it starts to bloom
of various hue and shade,
stirring refrains and ballads
that sweetly serenade.
The forms that now are breaking forth
to me, they might be new,
a villanelle, a tyburn or perhaps a clerihew.
Then spring gives way to summer
with weather oh so warm;
palm trees and sweltering breeze
an easy feeling in my form.
Those hot August nights can quickly pass
with refreshing iced tea in my poet’s glass.
Then on into the next season
for fall, it now is time.
The colors are slowly fading.
Still there’s reason in my rhyme.
Hot apple cider, the pumpkin patches
And gloriously fun hay rides,
the air is stiff and cooler
yet inspiration continues to abide.
Finally, it’s ‘round to winter again,
and in spite of the holiday hustle;
it seems my pen has fallen asleep
and will not move a muscle.
I may feel unproductive
and like I’m really sluffing,
but it’s at this time God reminds me
that without Him I am nothing.
So, I’ll read and wait and pray
until God sees fit, and then,
when the timing is just right
He will send me spring again!
Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017
(The Corpse Plant)
in the shadows
in the shadows
Like bagpipes they play, somber tunes of fear,
as doves do weep, as flamingoes bow down.
A ghost plant dirge, doth tremble dusty clouds.
The bells, they ring, intensely sing, slow-deep.
in the shadows
in the shadows
Like wax, their silhouettes a frozen mask.
A countenance, thus drained of chlorophyll.
The vampiric cold parasite craves night -
A leech, among the beech, with lovers scars.
in the shadows
in the shadows
A cold and clammy touch, doth turn a corpse
an inky black. A translucent pale ghost -
don’t touch, nor handle plant, nor creep too near
its eerie soil, nor step, upon its grave.
in the shadows
in the shadows
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2017
STORM OF TREES
ripping up roofs
like a doll house, bedroom contents exposed
miles of splintered lumber, stacked against odds
like tears, raining upon the sodden ground
cleanup with a purple dinosaur song
a note’s read
smells like perfume
an old man embraces his broken wife
the smell of Christmas pine, foreign to this
season of death
yet one palm
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2017
Pamphlets of Prophets
And in the barren face of sanity
Hope between the bleeding
Full forces littered the bodies
Pamphlets of prophets
In useless streets
Streets paved with dead
The caricatures of hate
Hate in the Holy walls and domes of
And in the coloured face of madness
I found the ever smile
Of borrowed light
Light in the Holy walls and domes of
Death in weeping children sung its dirge
In the sacrificial arms of
What love is there between the ruins of bone and shattered blood
Siren screaming its danger to flesh
This Auschwitz strip
Is a lament unheeded
Of starved and parchment skeletons
Turning in their graves
Piteous demise of theirs
Full forces littered the bodies
Pamphlets of prophets
In useless streets
Copyright © colin mitchell williams | Year Posted 2009
Like generations that have fallen before
you fell on distant shores
from the guns of war,
My earthly soul pauses every day,
and I come this way
to honor always the gallant in repose,
Clutched in my hand are black roses,
black roses for the youth,
the eternal youth.
On this spring morn your young widow walks
beneath the maple trees dressed in emerald crowns,
her long chestnut brown hair partly covers her
delicate downcast face,
she breathes deeply, then prays,
Suddenly, thunder, as if a dirge from the North,
God's paean to you,
Sorrow pierces my American bearing,
I'll never cease answering the call to mourn,
as the cemetery workmen mow the grass,
the black roses leave my hand
and cascade down to the hallowed dewy ground,
My bereavement without an end,
without an end.
Copyright © Regina Elliott | Year Posted 2018
Never once have I been enclosed in exhaustion
Until now - like a black woolen blanket, drenched.
I've looked and crawled and even found unceasingly
Before screaming from the riverbank: "This Is What It's For."
But now I can hardly whisper,
Sensing, maybe, a changing tide that sends the fish away
Or remembering past moons that moved them to more fertile feasts.
Yes - both it must be.
For now the water's meandering isn't hopeful wanderlust;
It only serves to annoy me.
And is it me or has its flow slowed?
Although now more than ever I note its swiftness
In comparison with the glassy new-born lake
Or the black curmudgeonly seas.
The gulls still call but no longer in triumph.
It seems it's morphed into a dirge
Though their wings still hang a crisp angel white in the sky.
Gliding, though again more slowly,
Before snatching a fish with ease;
Now it's mockery in their squawking.
Trudging through muddy waters,
I feel more akin to washed up wood
And the log floating on
Than to the swift fishermen
Across the river.
I sit and listen to their songs
Carried by the soft wind,
Encompassing the gull and my own fragile breath
(A song of a son lost at sea and I can't find where to put my hands).
I taste their hope in the sand and the sun
And it oozes from my eyes.
Copyright © Matt Fergoda | Year Posted 2014
The haunting strains of "Ashokan Farewell" keep racing thro' my brain.
'Tis a fitting requiem for those who bore the agonizing pain,
Of bidding a sad farewell at many a humble cabin door,
As young men were called to serve in the American Civil War.
Its poignant theme wafts as a gentle zephyr o'er the countless graves,
Of gallant men who faced Death's Scythe in unfaltering waves.
Men who wore either blue or gray and unselfishly gave their all,
Lie sleeping 'neath hallowed soil awaiting Gabriel's triumphant call.
Each time I hear those mournful chords played on the violin,
Tho' 'tis decades later, I feel melancholy for grieving next-of-kin,
And for their heroes left upon the field of strife, lonely, bereft, forlorn;
"Ashokan Farewell" is a sad lament for those who were left behind to mourn.
Every time I hear that tune, I'm reminded and left to wonder,
Why brothers tore this nation, this beacon of hope, asunder.
Thanks to one man's vision and unshakeable resolve,
A united and stronger nation would once again evolve.
Antietam, Bull Run, Manassas, Spotsylvania, Gettysburg,
Fort Sumpter, Shiloh and the formidable bluffs of Vicksburg;
O'er these now peaceful battlegrounds, once ravaged by shot and shell,
At eventide can be faintly heard, the solemn dirge of "Ashokan Farewell."
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in the November 2010 Poetry Soup International Poetry Contest
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010
A little ways north of Mill Creek
the beach runs round
to a single wide arcing swath
Where the tide stems landward in shattered segments
fast against the open mouth
of sea and sand and barnacle
There is also a cliff near the free stone rising
above the under-base of a million waves
throttling a darkened face
Somewhere out of sight
from landlocked eyes
salt water still churns
And churns for a million years
oblivious to the damage
inflicted on the crumbling mass
It's as if the big bass drum
of agonies from time immemorial
strums a one note dirge
And thereby summons the shelving mist
to curtail the pitiful death
from the tired eyes of a dumbfounded poet
Who loiters in the wet hiss
like a reporter in search of tragedy
and finding none, returns to home
Copyright © Ward Trotter | Year Posted 2017