Best Griefs Poems
Navigating vast oceans of life, negotiating its lows and highs,
Some blissful of pure joy, some burdened in griefs and sighs,
Riding aspirations eternal, rowing vigor of happiness I ride,
Undulating on tides of love, with your smile gracing my side.
On the crest of a wave, surging with gale, O, fondly we sail,
Reveling life’s sweetest moments, dreams amorous unveil,
Sketching themes periwinkle, tinting blush of rosy twilight,
Whispering secrets passionate, pleading to romantic night.
As stars above twinkle, in harmony with melodies of skies,
Hearts sensuous bloom desires, inflaming enamored eyes,
Spurring moods of romance, Venus and the Moon revive,
Flirting with colorful nebulae, where passions stellar thrive.
Anticipation builds, propelling us with exuberance of seas,
As lands in yonder delight, where zephyrs of hope breeze,
Foretelling of an ebullient morning, inscribing motifs of glee,
Glistening skyline golden, where promises auspicious spree.
Approaching our destination, we foresee realms of morrow,
Devoid of hurricanes of yore, devoid of miseries of sorrow,
Having parted stormy coastline battered in travails of throes,
Exiting cheerless shadows, vying winsome, sunlit meadows.
Hearts made of wax, sent through the mail
Should help relax, instead I wail,
They will soon melt in time's hot hands,
Loneliness is felt midst life's strands;
Hearts made of glass shatter and fail
When griefs harass, they don't prevail,
What use are these hearts so feeble,
Poor pleas of perishing people?
Hearts made of stone are cold and fake,
Even Love will own - "Hard to break",
Will they be healed? How can I trust?
Feelings concealed, what if they bust?
Hearts made of flesh and blood, I seek,
They won't crush my sentiments meek,
Understanding hearts of love - Now,
fear departs, before them I bow.
----------17.12.16----------
Here is the poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
My Response (for the challenge of Mystic Rose)
You love me quite profoundly. That I know
From this sweet poetry I now have read.
So many things are running through my head,
Like how I might with equal measure show
My love for thee as splendidly, but oh!
I stumble with my meager words instead.
My quill runs dry; all eloquence has fled.
I call upon my muse that verse might flow.
My love for thee is beautiful and strong.
With trepidation I confess to thee
Although I never want to do thee wrong,
Can I love as well and as steadfastly?
Please bear with me; one day my words a song
Will be to echo words thou wrote for me!
Written Feb. 20, 2016
I believe that poetry is and of is was were have has been of as one pretenses a
poetic practical pompous, pro (p) ransomedramatical postenses
pretending to prose promise a
predictive premise primatory practicum politicallty
polishing practcoriam process of primary
preliminary postures pragmatic promulgates
telling the ta ta tumultuous tillo tales of tawdry
banal blog lists calling me to quali-quantify the reso-resolutes
resounding in resilient quo quotients that bear a
breach bridgeborn badge billed
barometer bearing broad billboard
catatonic catashrospies creating caustic crill
coffinistic coiffures canonizing
socio unsettling leo linguistic lies in a somewhat
lovevoid livid liquiditoria regal
ransom based regalia resonating
rawbone residual retinal real time
tombosoties transitioning with
toying transient trio tide tooth
crass cavity craino creep mandibulo master mildew
mold molecular mamsy-pamsy sillopsuedo master of
ever me present I , me , mine, maestro
sitting back and looking at the world as a place to be
not to be, hope to be, wish to be, be to be, in the
proper primer of humino yesnomenclatureculture of that which is u
me us our belief sem radical of our prim-ordeal sociodiscontentselfevident
irrelevant mean fullness, to countercure our quick/quack quotient
umbrella upbringing to say do write feel text tank athink
all that is emo exit everpresent to keep the fecal faces free of
founding father status inquo man although time is time in place.
Mindfulness is a mute place ill unattended by sociocrap everlasting.
Treasure travel inviting innate needs netherly nodding to the primo positive
practitudes of acoustic ancillary annotated awareness, allowing all annuities
ancient archaic to willfully wind wind waveringly wish away intrinsic id-ideas.
It it is what u want it it to be, say, scroll, live, plural, self to self. Use it, lose it,
share it, beware it, con-cure it, it. Know it it's criminal capitol is wary for before
u know it it, life it before it its u, and will its it and
ego ale all eek out the precious profit of its itdom idiocracy illusionary in its
illogical inness so mad made as not to gravely gravitate ungracious griefs
upon your its it.
scary huh. Karma it, Big Daddy.
While November pleads with the heart, a sense of pure praise stills the light, comforting the rising rhythms of trembling beats, the cadence of autumn seeping into winter… by poet
In the doorway of November, still and quiet
Listening for the first flakes – silent
Soft and feathery snow, motionless on the night
While the bursts of stars peak and wink,
Beneath an enchantment, so startlingly white…
In the entrance to November, healing
Each heart wrenching burden,
Urging the freedom, blazing with eloquence,
Pouring out hope on the purpose of a winter’s
Knowing, bursting with frosty whispers,
Melancholic and remembering…
At the start of sweet November, softly
Breathing out the poetry, the psalms the praise
Arising in the fiery moments before words
Know the promises, the promptings, the pieces
Of a heart, a soul, a spirit…
Arising on the starlit moments, wishing
On stars, glistening in the skies, heavens alive
Like the alabaster sighs, rising, rising…
In the heady grace of a November day,
Blazing like the pangs of grief,
Stifling the wings of a poet’s need – starving
For the way to say what needs to be said…
Pouring out feelings, blessings, regrets
Meanings that remember where we were,
What we said…
Before November started to bring her rest,
Before she cried, before she begged
From the music of a teardrop, startling
The easy flakes, blowing in
Winds of light, wings of faith, on slivers
Light, wispy as crumpled patches of snow,
Falling, blowing, blessing away the drifting
Griefs, the seething, burning
Echoes of moments before November spun
Out of control and startled the heart,
The feelings, the belief….
That fated moment when November sees
Light falling, blessing, erasing
The gray and soundless echoes
So we can see… the still, cool grace
In November’s presence,
November’s p r a i s e … praising the Creator
Of all those November days!
there is a fire in the sky
it burns, though pale and waning
my somber heart
and griefs depart
midst heaven's weep, now raining
~ oh moon, you pull no tide ...
as deep as what's inside ~
there is a flicker in the dark
that trembles, bright, to fashion
one dreamt escape
that curving nape
back roads that wind to passion
~ oh moon, you paint no skin ...
more flamed than that I'm in ~
there is a glow in even's arc
that whispers through the heather
and sings to death
with twilight breath
those hopes for morning's weather
~ oh moon, there are no dreams ...
not drenched amid your beams ~
there is a gold within the ink
her moonlight eyes, soft-blazing
that pulls me deep
down to their keep
those depths I've drowned, a-gazing
~ oh moon, there is no fur ...
as soft as you ... on her ~
( how you BOTH make me stir ).
Come rain, come; let the swallows fly
Let womb of swollen seeds travail
Let the prison wall of dust now die
Come rain, come in water, sleet, and hail
Come rain, come and brim the dusty eye
Let the heart its sorrows melt today
Sublimate our griefs into a sigh
Distill clouds into a brighter day
Tears show us the rainbow of the soul
To think that dust the lights spectrum break
And life's struggle is the prism of our gold
Come rain, tell the nightingale now awake
Tell the grass to cushion still our feet
And let green things feel their jubilee
God in us will make our hope complete
Come rain, pour his Spirit upon me.
We have taken all anxiety
into our dreams
cruel, unfathomable acts
lodge into our fascia, as pain
Part of a raging beast,
oozing out of control
helpless cells, imbued with a wisdom
overcome by cancerous greed.
We chase frothy bubbles
lose concerns in selfish
pursuits-far be it from us to be
the conduit that delivers peace
Our earth
seen from a moon flight
has a fragile beauty well known to us
Its oceans are blue miracles,
clear water, pure air, be-mucked by enterprise
and murder, murder everywhere.
Cities spread un- checked, razing field and forest
Death hangs over us- the years too brief
Two and fro we leap from history to history
Blood and mayhem and un-numbered griefs.
The world, so full of trouble, as Utopia sleeps
2/09
130 words
Any Free Verse Poem In 200 Words or Less
Contest Judged: 2/15/2017 9:24:00 AM
Sponsored by: Lu Loo
8th Place
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861 - To Her Lover
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
=================================
Her Lover's Response - How Do I Love Thee Contest
My dear, I love thee too in many ways.
You fill my heart and soul each day and night.
Alone I am when thou art far from sight.
Without thy love, my days fall short of grace.
My heart is full of love for thee through days
Of comfort and of strife, for thou do light
My every path that leads to good and right.
For thee my heart and soul hold life-long praise.
Our love we keep with passion deep and use
The fire to feed our love's non-ending faith.
Thou strength I do embrace to never lose
The closeness that I feel with every breath.
No matter how our days are spent I choose
To love thee always, even after death.
Sandra M. Haight
~2nd Place~
Contest: How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count The Ways
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Judged: 02/22/2016
Slither
me slips me beasty heart
beneath a piece of guise,
and pens some page of wisdoms
to place before they's eyes,
and with they's gaze diverted,
me dons me cloak of thief's,
and slithers in and steals they's love,
and leaves thems only griefs.
me slimeys up the way theys moves
about they's drudgy lifes,
and causes thems to kicks like bugs,
all caught in stuffs and strifes.
me sees this murky-mucky,
and glees it close to breast;
me knows me must continue thus,
or becomes like alls the rest.
but me sorrowfuls am becoming,
as guise weighs heart likes lead;
it darkens up me seeings in,
and fouls insides me head.
now me greeny eyes does leakings
with only leastest nudge,
and from me slitty portals
comes oozing weeps of sludge.
"How Do I Love Thee"
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"How Do I Need Thee" - Sequel
How do I need thee? Let me count the ways.
I need thee beneath the safe harbor tides.
Your ebb flow reaches my peak as I cry.
Continuum leaves need soil within,
The breadth of life needs to live, not rescind.
I need thee in silence as quiet hides.
I need thee in death, I wither in life.
I need thee without seen regret, infringed.
Allowing rising east skies, sun sets west.
I need thee to bathe, vessels deep inside,
Within opposition, entwined, bequest.
Perceived with love, continued while descried.
Songs in tune, sweet man, us dancing abreast,
I need thee til' death, together astride.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Date Written: February 11, 2016
For the contest, Second Chance, Sponsor, Broken Wings
Of all the sorrows that so govern her generous heart,
Her love is the most unfair thing breaks her apart;
In her life everything is already signed and sealed –
And she evermore solemnly griefs her soul appealed
To cheat, to relinquish, or to commit suicide and die
The death that shall liberate her of her perpetual cry.
Has providence deserted her, so unkindly in all facets of life
That she so feels old, unhappy and like a desperate housewife?
For alone she weeps, breathless with melancholy; her pouring tears
Desolate with bitterness, anger and incessant grief of discovered fears.
Her heart is weak, her soul is weaker –her life is a scornful jest;
No endless joy, or liberty of love (a nice little girl by love depressed.)
‘Tis hard to dissever when love & pity have been merged in dim,
When all that she wants is to love and to be fairly loved by him.
Just Visiting
While my visiting days are over,
I am left with another gift,
Fantasizing as a butterfly
Landing softly on a cruise ship.
I don’t drive down the Texas highways,
Where once bluebonnets thrilled,
Though in my mind I still see them,
Spreading on a hill.
A visit to my daughter is two-fold foiled,
For planes just cost too much money,
And she has steps from which I recoil,
But she flies to me, that honey.
Look I toward visits to a grocery store,
Fresh faces, bright colors and such,
I visit the world in my head these days,
In a chair, with a cane, and no not even a crutch.
****
Other Visits
Not to be morbid, but I visit old family friends,
Those gone to me now, always present in my heart,
In a quiet moment on the deck under rustling trees,
I can visit a face, two or three, make a party.
We can remember the silly things we did,
To soften the griefs or stress we all bore,
And when we were sharing parenthood,
Hoping the children would land safely on adulthood's shore.
We shop now and then on a day trip,
Stop in at some little bistro on the way,
A visit posthumously to my old friends,
Can pass a piece of the day.
I come consistent, end-of-day
To lay my troubles down and pray
Beside those worries that I weigh
On hushing sands that trim the bay
Thru sun or rain, in bright or gray
For wondered hours gone astray
Reposed in twilight's soft bouquet
Thus seeking life's sweet interplay
To shift and shape this grand ballet
While drowning in the day's decay
Amidst the bloom of nature's fray
I set loose cares and drown dismay
No brooding with "poor-me's" cliche'
Seclusion birthed of Hemingway
This shore, my peaceful protege'
A timeless friend to doubts, allay
And leave the griefs of yesterday ...
Let strains, like seas, just ease away
Soft, come the evening, come what may
Though softer, still, the moon's display
As slow, it creeps, to peep the cay
Oh here my soul shall ALWAYS stray
Where silence, peace and grace repay ...
Swept shore-ward ... love's last castaway.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Grace And Solitude" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Judge & Sponsor.
Behind those hidden marked wrists
Are lies, skepticism and fears
Behind those calloused, clenched fists
Is a cauldron of uncontrollable tears.
Behind those evident scars
Is a constant cycle of sorrows
An imaginary fiend that mars
A twinge that only herself knows.
Behind those unappealing blotches
Are griefs, worries and insecurities
Inflictive pain worth a million degrees
Coupled with regrets and negativities.
Behind those ugly knife marks
Is an unfathomable, aesthetic heart
Who got fed up with judgment and remarks
But was actually dauntless from the start.
Behind the so-called 'stupid cuts'
Is depression that she tried to overcome
Abaft her courage and remarkable guts
Is a doltish move for some.
Behind those wrists is the sickening dogma
On people's choices regarding suicide
Cowardice- that is society's stigma
But the truth is, they're already dead inside.