Best Elegiac Lyric Poems
Verse 1
His coat is torn his
shoes are thin
The cold cuts deep beneath his
skin
Little boy coughs small
hands that shake
Winter's breath is much to hard
To hard to take.
Verse 2
Sidewalk echoes silent
prayers
People pass but no one
cares
Cardboard kingdom borrowed
time
Every step is a mount-
Mountain climbed.
Chorus
And the city turns
away
Like they never ever knew his
name
Still he holds his boy so
close
Chorus 1st Ending
Runs through streets to bring him
home. (1x repeat back to beginning of chorus)
Chorus 2nd Ending
Whispers / "Son, we're going
home."
Verse 3
Once had a home once had a
plan
Once held hope in calloused
hands
But fate’s a thief it moves much too
fast
Dreams dissolve like breath on
Stained kissed glass.
Chorus
Bridge
And he sings a lullaby
so low
Soft as the falling falling
Angel snow
A father’s love is his sheltering
Wings of warmth
Even when the nights are
Broken broken and torn.
Verse 4
"Daddy I’m tired my chest feels
tight"
His voice is weak his skin much too
white
Stars above blur in his
sight
The world fades into endless
Endless cold night.
Partial Chorus
And the city turns
away
Like they never ever knew his
name
Still he lifts his boy so
close
Runs through streets…..to bring him
home.
Final Verse
He stumbles down an empty
street
The world is ice beneath his
feet
He kneels beside the frozen
City of stone
Whispers "Son… we’re finally
Finally home."
Chorus
Chorus 2nd Ending
Whispers / "Son
we're finally
home."
Outro
The snow drifts soft the
Sunday morning gray
No one stops and no one
Left to pray
Two souls lost in winter’s
hold
Together now, for-
ever and ever
In a City Frozen cold
Deathbed Poetry – Jesus of Nazareth – 10-9-25. “It is finished!” An elegiac has three parts – grief, praise and comfort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deathbed Poetry - Jesus of Nazareth “It is Finished!”
Only splinters cradle your bloodied face
Shouted curses drown your last words of blessing
Helpless tears, washed in the blood and water of your side,
Mix with the filth of tangled betrayals
Your seamless dignity faces the cruelty of dice
Gamblers with eternity
Raise gall to lips that spoke their creation
The sunless day grieves
Blind to the perfect prophecy’s fulfillment
All creation bows – wracked with grief
As angels hover over your sinless hands
Heaven trembles – earth erupts – temples shudder.
“It is Finished!” Yet, Love always survives.
When you spread out your pierced hands
Between Eternity and earth
Superstitions and spells flee in vertigo
The last vile breath of time possessed darkness
Screams in writhing whimpers at your gaze
Stumbling into an unresolved infinity
You transcend our rags of shame to raiments
On torrents of your new grace
Holy delight laughs as midnight claims its last echo
In your hands irony transcends to victory
Our tears to triumph in your new Genesis
Where mysteries of a garden materialize.
“It is finished!” And Love always survives.
Eden’s heart-wrenching elegies of regret
Resolve in a timeless time signature
Chrisms of frankincense erase deep scars
With the anointed balm of forgiveness,
Abandoned ashes gather into endless effervescence
When tempests expire over still waters
And lilies bloom in weeded pastures
Our new lungs sing out aromatic splendor
In refrains of Eden heard again
Joy takes root in the beatitudes of the manger’s Rose
Grace overpowers putrid bondage
As glory's pierced hands
Mend the shredded threads of our brokenness.
“It is finished!” Yes! Love always survives.
My voice is weak, my hand falters
as I attempt to speak of my Father.
Each night sleep takes me,
then truth awakes me –
my Dad is gone, now dead.
My heart hears this from my head.
Wrapped in numbness, walking in nothingness,
I search for his presence.
The chain’s now broken, its brightest link gone.
My Dad was security and so mentally strong.
His mind quick, his wit sharp,
he always inspired my young heart.
Pleasing my Father was to lasso the sun.
In him my pride was first begun.
I picture his hands, legs and arms –
my protector from harm;
wisdom was his voice,
comforting his every choice,
willpower his motto, sureness his step.
He was a man of incredible depth.
Knowing I am my Father’s daughter
is a thought to be tenderly kept.
His final, “I love you” words,
the most emotion I’ve heard yet.
I will miss you, Daddy.
Now and forever, naught will I forget.
I’ll see you each sunrise,
mourn you each sunset.
Images crash around me,
I’d have it no other way
Than your memory with
me each and every day.
"Loved you then. Love you still.
Always have, and always will."
_ from a song by Nana Mouskouri
__________________
I spoke to mother last night in a dream,
it felt so real and my heart was bursting;
I can still hear her laugh like twinkling bells,
mother was in bed as she was so sick;
and I was in an armchair beside her,
we talked, talked until she could talk no more.
And when she passed I heard the angel harps,
as her soul floated up- a lovely dove;
mother had always only had good words,
she left with not a single enemy;
people stood in line at her funeral,
to say goodbye to their friend, my mother.
I take comfort in that she taught me well,
she was my anchor and I was her wings;
together we soared so high in this world,
she gifted me her love of the flowers;
and to live life in tranquil harmony,
but- not a day goes by that I regret . . .
setting her free.
__________________________
February 26, 2021
Poetry/Elegiac Lyric/My Broken Heart
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1332-503-26
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, Heart Harp Harmony
sponsor, Chantelle Anne Cook, Judged 03/06/2021
Second Place
In the world of all comforts,
In the world of absolute care and affection,
In the world of motherhood.
Ten months I was basking, in my mother's womb.
Happiness running down my spine – I thanked God,
His blessing in disguise, rather he in disguise – My mother,
Who is she? How she will be? - I don't know,
Am I her replica? Am I her miniature?
I struggled day after day to open my eyes.
To look at her dazzling beauty and to admire her.
Her hands were made to carry me,
Her arms were made to hug me,
Her shoulders were made to bear me,
My mother, the only person on this whole earth to love me more than I do myself.
I longed to see her face,
Why this ten months vigil? Why not now? My heart bumped!
Days rolled and months passed.
I kicked my way.
A pat on my back,
I cried, it was tears of happiness.
Where is my mother?
Place me on her hands, let me sense her breath,
Let that be the first air I breathe.
With great joy oozing out I slowly opened my eyes.
To see her eyes which is longing to see my eyes.
Mom! With great excitement I gazed.
But it was the blue sky that welcomed me to this new world.
Where is my mother? Where is she? Is she not carrying me?
I searched for her.
Then where am I placed? I looked around.
The cradle squeaked.
Sudden fracas and turbulence hit my ears.
In a fraction of a second I was surrounded by people.
Nobody like me and nobody liked me.
I moved from one hand to another.
But I never smelt my mother.
My mom was missing.
Did she leave me?
I was in a fix.
Yes, she left me.
What made her to hate me even before I was born?
She left me alone in this callous world.
Abandoned me,
Branded me an orphan,
Made me languish in pain,
Agonize in vain,
My day turned dark and despondent,
My life turned bleak and impotent,
But still my heart longed to see my mother.
I can never in my life hate her.
Because I was in her.
My ire was directed only at God,
He wrote my fate,
He took my mom, what more can I ask,
Nothing can replace her in my life.
I said “My God my first and last wish,
Give every child the power to see even before they were born,
Children like me, who are so unfortunate
Can see their mother's face at least from their womb.
BY
MADHUPRIYA SHANMUGAM
On a sultry, sizzling July day
I swear it happened just this way
In a tidal pool, a lifeless seahorse lay
He’d not galloped to meet his fate
But was caught in a wave’s cruel wake
High tide retreated, closed the gate
Oh, to have seen him in his prime
Not corralled by diminishing brine
But free to romp near the shoreline
Confined, he withered, but sparked some thought
Of the delight he might have brought
If, for an aquarium, he’d been bought
Tenderly, I cupped his sad remains
And placed him into the sea again
Where others of his kind were still in reign
Yet, before I could utter my last goodbye
A sudden movement caught my eye
In shock, my elation began to amplify
Kissed by cool sea, this sleeping equine
Proved the strength of his endangered bloodline
By swimming away from the sandy coastline
A once-in-a-lifetime moment for me
I cheered aloud as he trotted out to sea
So ponder this and I’m sure you'll agree
This magical rebirth is a lesson to share
When you think life is beyond a prayer
Just give it some help; hope is still there
*April 17, 2018
Dedicated to Kyle, My Darling Son
A kaleidoscope’s blossoms are not as awesome
as my child at every turn; watching his silences –
I burn, watching his movements – I yearn.
I learn love's wonderment watching him discern.
Toddler-boy loves me content with innocence and joy.
I shout for time to slow its capture of my boy.
Give me endless days and countless ways
to watch my miracle grow. Sunshine, moon glow,
build him a perfect rainbow so that he may know
the wonder of the love I try so hard to show.
Loyal, gentle pets
give love deep set
and when they die
I full pay grief's debt.
Friends are the prose
inspiring my rhymes.
Each would be missed
by this heart of mine.
When parents and siblings
expel their final breath,
I will mourn them
until my own day of death.
If my husband
should before me die,
my soul would cry
float adrift and dry.
But should my babe at any age
pass first in death’s grasp,
defeat would set a fatal stage
for my heart's final crash.
I lost you out there.
You never came on home.
I called for you and I called to you,
but you never came on home.
I lost you out there,
in the bushes and the brush.
I called for you and I yelled for you,
but you never did come home.
Don't say you couldn't hear me.
I won't listen if you do.
I lost you, and I left you,
and you never came on home.
I lost you out there,
but it's what you seemed to want.
I yelled for you for nights and days,
but you never once yelled back.
I walked and walked between the trees,
squinting toward the sun.
I called for you and I screamed for you,
but no, you never did come home.
As yellow leaves wither in the autumn breeze,
only apathetic thoughts remain
in this nonchalant existence of
my diseased body and over the hill mind!
It reminds me a time of agility,
A time of struggle and celebrations,
An age when dreams of a better future bloomed,
And leaping up those stairs to pluck the petals of success.
The illusion of youth, believing I would remain the same forever,
My beauty, once admired by the mirror,
My body, that lied about its boundless strength,
And the willpower that upheld my beliefs!
Now, my poor mind, dreadfully distressed,
on the fritz of my worn body parts.
Here I am, at the dusk of my life,
panting and staring at the steep stairs
called ‘rest of my time’!
I wonder, are there any tears left
to cry over the memories of my vigorous days?
Or, has time swallowed even the sorrow, leaving only silence?
They have command on me
my posture has been so
since birth and even now
a grown up, no change
The back has followed
the legs are going there
why can’t a guinea fowl
produce penguins, swans?
Why is choice in nature
so elusive, so limited?
Why can’t I become really
what I admire in nature?
I want to be free to be happy
but I’m condemned to be
a bent bow without arrows!
Hullo, folks!
Do you hear me?
You didn’t hear me when I was dying.
At least hear me now, when I’m dead and buried.
I am, as you know, Jinesh,
Buried here—in this churchyard at Poonthura,
Buried on Sunday—
Like Solomon Grundy!
I did hear you when you were crying—
During the recent floods,
Rushed to your help,
Saved more than a hundred of you.
You all praised me, called me a hero,
Lined the street I lived in
With posters, flex boards, banners and whatnot.
Now you all know that I, as a pillion rider,
Was hit by a passing truck,
Which further ran over my helping hands,
Crushing them—
Thus, adding grievous injury to injury!
I lay there on the roadside,
Crying aloud for help,
Which fell on your deaf years:
You were all busy, all in a nervous hurry—
Off to Timbuktu!
I wept and cried for help, by turns.
But I was left there to die unwept and unsung,
Though I had been honoured.
Now you all may say: RIP
But, you see, I remain restless!
***
Chases me down a paint-stained alley.
My feet are swollen—maybe someday they’ll rot
Exhausted from the brush stroke agony
I seize when the light forces itself upon me
When will I decide to turn myself into dust
Deranged is what I seem to be
They locked me in a rage-filled scene
Hearing petrified, hate-charged screams.
Peering through the curtains as I wake from restless sleep
Staring at a starry night
It sings me a melodic, stunning melody
Maybe the air that flows through my lungs
Perhaps the heart that pumps my blood
Is not what I truly need
Maybe a pistol will give me ultimate peace
Perhaps a bullet will allow me to foresee
As I lay near my brother
I don't sob, I don't plead
The life I lived wasn't for me
“The sadness will last forever”
It won't be cured by remedies
So I must cut short my legacy
The rope that strangled me with miseries
My death is not a tragedy
These little children seen around
Have something in them mysterious
That thing adult cannot understand
‘Cause they are too child-like to impress
These little children play and conflict
They cry, get angry and mourn in unison
Yet a thousand times they love and play
Even when conflict has been too much
These little ones so licitly seen around
Ideal values of community they hold
But adults ignore them as childish things
Yet their power of community is broken
When a child talks adult is just amused
When adults speak child just wonders
Although rubbish things they could be
that destroy power of human community
You would never know me,
But a theme you were of my dream,
Filled by love to the brim,
Unfulfilled that withered like cream.
You would never know me,
Nor my rose petals in your book
I chanced to have a look,
Loveless that dried up, a lost brook.
You would never know me,
Who once came, buds as to blossom,
Unwelcome who had come,
Who could not but keep utter mum.
You would never know me,
Who came to build castles in fort,
Who just hassles did court
A racehorse who had fallen short.
You would never know me
That famine-like when you had felt,
On prayer who had knelt,
And rain clouds had loosened their belt.
You would never know me,
Nor ever remember, for whom
You had in heart no room,
Who was swept aside with a broom.
You would never know me,
Who once shed for you copious tears,
But returned reverse gears,
To go far from you like lost years.
__________________________________
Reminiscing |17.02.2024|love
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His language was colloquial~
the tongue of the field hand,
the woman hanging laundry in the wind,
the child chasing butterflies in the tall summer grass.
He heard their music,
the unpolished truth
in the rhythm of their days,
and created poems of roads less traveled, of snow and shadow.
He spoke softly like the wind
blowing through New England’s sugar maples,
the rustling of leaves that told of sap and seasons,
of roots gripping the stubborn earth.
He wrote of that patch of old snow stubborn, denying spring,
a metaphor worn smooth
yet still holding the chill
of a deeper understanding.
He knew this place,
the bite of wind,
the quiet conversation of the earth,
spoken in monotone.
His blank verse wasn't blank at all,
but an empty canvas stretched taut,
ready for the brushstrokes
of a farmer's hand, a lover's lament, a child's bewilderment.
His poetic technique
not just of form but of feeling~
the heart beating its own iambic pulse
in quiet New England afternoons.
He wrote with humble gratuity
not seeking grand pronouncements,
but the whisper of a leaf,
the argument a woodpile makes with winter.
Life, Frost seemed to say,
was not a theorem to be proven,
but a landscape in which to live,
each image he created a doorway, left slightly ajar.
Note:Robert Frost's last words are reported to have been, "I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." This quote, often paraphrased, reflects the themes of choice and individuality that permeate his poetry. However, it's worth noting that these words are attributed to his legacy rather than being an exact recounting of his final utterance, as he passed away on January 29, 1963. (duckai.com)