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- Haiku X 62 - Deep Wounded -

    Deep wounds that leave scars
    One moment much more must flow
    Shadows from the soul

    Her tears in silence
    The strong arms that held her up
    In the thoughts and deeds

    Please do not grieve more
    And afterwards remember
    Pearls of morning’s dew

    05.08.2015 A-L Andresen :)
    Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2015

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Silent Goodbye

I forgot myself today
as melancholic melodies 
overwhelm each beat
of my wandering heart.

The sanctimonious sun deceives
as a bitter breeze breathes
against sullen silent surfaces.

Recycled emotions penetrate
with a repetition of deep sighs.
My spiritless soul strays, but is
happy to be lost in lyrical lament.

As the Nightingale chants its
continuous regretful resonance,
the tip of my tongue aches
to whisper your amorous name, but 
holds back knowing you can't hear.

Without your enchanted vision,
neglected eyes perish. 
Without your perfumed presence,
senses remain scentless.
Without your tender touch,
fragile petals won't blossom. 

As a cascade of sandcastle emotions
infiltrate stubborn sierra barriers.
Violent tears erupt,
demolishing hardened walls.
What used to be bitter breaths and 
spiteful sighs are now regretful cries.

Your silent goodbye still haunts
as the lips grieve for one last kiss.
I forgot myself today,
but have not forgotten your love.

The Silent One
Simple Musing
29 November 2017 

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017

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A Tear-ful Conversation With My Daughter

It starts with only one - one like me a melancholy migrant from the immortal part of her to the locus of her physical being -- the center of her emotional wisdom I gain heartfelt strength as I gather my forces rising up en masse riding cresting waves of woe to breach the ramparts - the welling rims of her loving eyes it starts with only one - one perfectly ripened drop of sorrow this beautifully packaged pain and a lustrous cascade of soulful pearls ensues wept gems pouring forth from a pure heart.. I am the tears your mother cries. Susan Ashley May 5, 2018 ~ Poem Of The Week ~ Week beginning Sunday, May 13, 2018 ~ Seventh Place ~ Contest: Early May Premiere (2018) Sponsor: Brian Strand Poet's note; For my beautiful daughter, Jocelyn, you inspire me with your light, joy, spirited determination and intellect. Though your academic pursuits take you many, many miles away from me and I grieve your absence, when you return home I shall celebrate with tears of joy! For today, however, I'll let my grieving tears speak for themselves... I love you and I miss you, my Jocee <3

Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018

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Do Not Grieve Your Muse

              (For My Younger Self)

You have forgotten your muse.
You neglected her, in the hustle and bustle
of city life, in trying to carve a niche,
driving yourself too hard -
thinking it could make you rich.

She grieves.
Don’t you see her? She grieves.
How she longs to reunite with you
but you are far too busy, with everything new.
Too unmindful, too steeped in the practical
your change was so radical;
Too pragmatic, everything has become automatic.  
You have lost touch with your muse, 
no matter how she pleads you have become obtuse.
When will you reach into the softer, 
more introspective part of yourself?  
Please do not say, never.

Remember how you would write through the night
and people around you would wonder why…
Those moments were priceless, 
the times you communed with words so ageless
as you poured onto paper all your emotions -
In the night, you would write of happiness and pain,
of a young love, and of your simple dreams.

Go back to those simple dreams.
Do not allow yourself to be lost 
in the conundrum that is Life.
Step back, take stock, be still.
Find time for meditation, there is no condemnation
for those who acknowledge the need for salvation.
And as you find that inner peace, 
write once more.
Write, and write some more.  
Set free all those words that have long been kept
within your heart…the happy words, the sad words,
words both simple and intricate
that a reader will enjoy as he masticates
the meaning, the lesson, the joy and young wisdom.

Let your words dance…let your words s o a r !

31 October 2015
Poem of the Day 01 November 2015
Awarded 1st Place  -  What Would You Say Contest

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2015

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No limit to how long we grieve

when you let go of my hand
you let go of my heart

as I stumbled and crumbled
life seemed to have paused
silent screams
raged inside

but I was just numb

heart beating in slow motion
life became strange


i thought it would make sense 
when the pain subsided
but there is no limit
to how long we grieve

and they say
don't let them in
those crazy thoughts
but they echoed and echoed
until i lost my mind
and its worse
when alone 
haunted by
profound whispers


all I wanted
was an angel
to find me
to not give up on me

but nothing

and now
ive lost all faith
in humanity


still im alone
but now drifitng
to a place
i don't want to be

yearning for oxygen


no one can catch me

when you let go of my hand
you let go of my heart

Simple Musings
Silent One
15 September 2017

Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017

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On the Wings of a Butterfly- Collab with my sister Cecilia Crasto

POTD 10th May 2018

A dedication to our departed Mum, Anne Forbes.
 And to all the dearly departed Mums who celebrate Mother’s day on the second Sunday in May.  We will meet again.

The day came when she had to leave
      And we were left behind to grieve
If we could wish her back for a day
      A million things we would need to say

As exquisite as painted silk these wings I soar past clouds ~ with a Soul that sings
Every precious moment by her side Fighting back tears we hold inside Knowing she would go away The Wish ~ was only for a day.
In a whirl of color flying fast Hastening to a future of Ever last
A Wish granted ~ a butterfly in our midst An astral sensation like we’ve been kissed The Sun shines brighter on this glorious day The whispering breeze that seems to say
Pearlescent petals in the air Shimmering sun beams everywhere
I’m always here ~ I watch you all And comfort you if you falter or fall So dry your tears ~ no need to grieve My tangible form ~ you must believe
I never left ~ I love you still To Eternity’s end ~ I always will On a whispering wind that gently sighs I fly like a butterfly ~ there are no goodbyes
POTD 10th May 2018 Video Clip: "On The Wings Of A Butterfly" by Jimmy Scott.

Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2018

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If I never

If I never lift up my voice,
How will I know
How sweetly I can sing,
Or how well I harmonize
With the music of the universe?

If I never open up my heart,
How will I hear
The echo of its beating in time
With another,
Or the exquisite pain of love,
Or the infinite joy of forgiveness?

If I never open up my eyes,
How will I see
The beauty in a falling drop of rain,
Or the wonder in the vastness of the skies,
Or what the mirror tells me
In its stark honest reality?

If I never spread my wings,
How will I know
How high I can soar,
Or how far I can fly,
Or what it's like to race the moon,
Or dip my fingers in a cloud or touch a star?

I do not want bitter tears
Shed o'er my grave
For songs unsung, or deeds undone,
Or fruit untasted, or love untested.
When the time has come for me to leave,
There'll be no reason, then, to grieve.

Copyright © Jim Slaughter | Year Posted 2018

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Remarks of a Prig

I'm hearing rumors that are easy to believe
but none of them give me reason to grieve
You've been telling people their poetry sucks
Words from your mouth flow in a fetid flux

What arrogance is revealed in your slander
You don't rile me enough to raise my dander
The absolute truth is that I just don't give a fig
Your remarks show you to be an arrogant prig

How dare you disparage so many other poets
People call you 'rude' in case you don't know it
I've laughed at your slurs and each bitter assault
If the truth hurts your feelings, it's all your fault

You've mocked and criticized lots of poetry
making you a monster with green-eyed jealousy
I've heard from many, and in their point of view
'they' say you're a nasty male version of a shrew

There's been quite an extensive survey taken
and the unanimous results should jolt and awaken
you to see that on you this request they bestow...
The message: "Open your big mouth and eat crow

Oh, but that is something you would never do
so there'll be no lamenting nor feelings of blue
No tears of sorrow on the smiing cheeks of many
of those you've insulted, and there's been plenty

Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2018

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When I see the moon, I think of you. When the flowers bloom I think of you but with the rain my teardrops fall. If only I could have given my all. I would have been the happiest dreamer that ever dreamed a dream. The sun would shine if only you could have been mine. I would have danced all the time and sang a song of love to you that to no one else I could ever do. Instead a hymn to God I sing of thanks and praise that He my dead heart did raise and for a little while I was aglow with love I thought I’d never know. But alas, sometimes I give in and grieve, my feelings on my sleeve. Heartaches and blood seeping through my skin so thin. And I pray forgiveness for this sin of nursing the pain I should hold within. But because I loved you so I knew I had to let you go. I will always be blessed by the day you came my way and loved me too like no one else could ever do. So, my dear. Do not fear. I will always be here thinking of you and seeing your face that from my mind I can’t erase. I just pray to God to please be kind and next time ‘round we’ll be born on the same blessed ground. By: Carole O’Terry Duet; Copyright: 6/11/2018; “All Rights Reserved”

Copyright © Carole Duet | Year Posted 2018

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Life Is Like A Leaf

We'll watch in awe and witness talking leaves
In multicolored hues their story told
With heavy heart their passing we will grieve
Their memory, like weather soon grows cold

So quickly through the glass our trickling sand
Twas yesterday spring flowers were in bloom
Today the autumn colors are at hand
Tomorrow deserts rise to windswept dunes

Yet with the winds of time the leaves will blow
Like sands and days, they'll fall and disappear
Their time on earth like ours from green to gold
Except for them, whose destiny was clear

The story of our life is like a leaf
Bring beauty to this world, however brief

     September 16 2016

Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016

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If e're we could move that mountain from between thee and me,
where would be lament or reason to grieve?
How remove the hollow from the tree, or shore from the sea?
What left would there be?
What if ere the beam lost it's moon.
Or lovely Autumn raiment lost it's tree? What then would it be?
Can one sow the seed without the land?
Would this be what Powers planned?

The grief, the longing, oh, the heartfelt gaze,
The strife the loneliness, but a soulful phase.
A mountain surmountable, a hollow fulfilled,
A sea able to be, a beam again spilled.

A stage again for raiment,... a fertile valley for seed.
Our love could not be boundless without the bonds of these.

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010

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Tenderly ...
As if robin's eggs ...
I consider the brittle fragments of her heart,
Cupped in my tarnished Tin Man hands ...
Not taking for granted the entrustment of their care,
I lay them out like priceless puzzle pieces
Upon a surface of loving intent.
She is but finery, fragile,
And I her fool.

Considerately ...
As if leaves on water ...
I recall the women and passions squandered,
Encounters and affairs and intimacies ...
As spicy, splendid and varied as an artist's palette -
Some, immutable as acrylics, others fading like watercolors in the sun,
Swept away by life's intrepid courses and floods.
Love is but portion, fragile,
And I its fool.

Delicately ...
As if disarming a bomb ...
A Muslim man cleans the lifeless body of his little boy,
Killed by a roadside explosive device while riding his bicycle ...
A mine left behind by an enemy brigade, retreating his town as part of a truce,
His Hindu brother's brigade - the brother he loves ... and despises.
Washing his son with his tears, he thinks of naught but vengeance.
Peace is but sufferance, fragile,
And I its fool.

Exquisitely ...
As if fine goose down ...
I scrutinize the keynotes of my existence,
Turning them gently over with the voltaic breath of my thoughts ...
To the effectuation that none afford me the broadsword of achievement,
That the faults far outnumber the fortunes ... successes, far short the falls.
Still, I've known the passions and shadows as deeply as any,
Formidable joys, exquisite agonies, and sublime oblivions.
Life is but passage, fragile,
And I its fool.

Poignantly ...
As if fine lacy crystals ...
We gild the memories of lost loves and those passed,
Consummate hurts and piercing heartaches ...
Each and every one a precious memento of the depth of affections realized,
Scars and wounds, the invaluable proofs of how profound our devotions, thus. 
Oh, how intensely we love! How dearly we grieve!
And how acute our need for BOTH!
Pain is but love, fragile,
And we its fools ...

Its sad, happy fools.

** FIRST PLACE in the "Fragile" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor. **

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017

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A Former Great Nations Squandered Wealth I

Swept up into piles; everywhere 
Abouts; in collected heaps all 
It is almost as if the drab 
Streets were strewn with the 
Precious wealth of King Solomon's 
How it seems so far back, when, at 
Springs nagging behest, those
Cautious tips, encouraged by 
Warming beguilement of new winds, 
Gingerly unwound                         
To reveal those never-before-seen 
But their sap, like my zest, has 
Run dry;
Shuffling disconsolately to and fro 
As those of us, that, in our 
Unnoticed maudulin, have grown 
Steadily more old:-  
As if Hardrada's slain warriors,
Covered by their cracked shields, 
Lifeless and fallen they lie.                              

A flock of racquous Starlings,
Scuttering downwards, noisily
On the stripped branchs of a 
Diminished and abject tree;
Although a sizeable band, growing
Daily, hardly a paused murmuration 
Dropped from flight...
Now I know another Autumn is 
Nearly done.
I note the resounding emptiness of 
The wide avenue compares favorably 
With the compressed and leaden sky;
The sudden intervention of an 
Appealing thought, and it occurrs
To me,
That, if I were as swift as 
Fleet-footed Leonidas then maybe
I too, this desperate day,
Could outstrip the retreating
Shadows of this disconsolate Sun?

Alas...I am aging with every
Approaching Winter, pattern 
Baldness spreading across my 
Thinning crown;
A body can feel a cold dampness in 
This sort of air...
Then - an involuntary shiver! 
Perhaps unwelcomed memories of
Many a wasted year...
Thinks I with a rueful frown;
In the minds eye a glimpse 
Of the ferocious Wolf slipping 
Quietly through the half-open gate -
Here he once roamed in all his
Perfect savagery!
And, standing admidst the vestiges
Of a former great nations 
Squandered wealth, to which 
many sentimental hearts still 
To wonder what the patient Saxon
Should make at the sight of such 
Frenzied lameness...
The ruination of this his once 
Untamed and wild estate?

That ancient Saxon full knew.             
He knew of cruel hardship, of all  
Essential things that so engaged 
His pressing needs, his Thanes 
Daily bread;
Though of heady aspirations...he   
Had but few.                                    
He knew of the devastaing blight 
Of sweltering drought,
He knew of the tipped rivers 
Flooding swell;                         
But the old Saxon? ...he just 
Re-doubled his efforts - and took it 
Manfully on the chin!                            
For when the hardy Saxon undertook
To do a job it would usually happen 
That he did it well.                                      

And what of his countless, long since
Ignored, secluded and wooded dells, 
His dusky, hollowed glades?
Deep inside: trapped sunlight still 
Floating liken a glassed surface 
Upon a pond;
Once, therein, that Saxons 
All-consuming hours taken up by the 
Resounding crunch of the ever eager 
And were it truly ever was this
Humongous supposed repository
For Englands "Green Man"? Ditto 
For the fabled Unicorn recorded 
By the minstral balladeer's 
Luteing song;
Ancient Greeks did say that only
The gentle and pensive maiden
Had the power to coax such a 
Timid beast: one of many wild
Wraiths, emblazoned on many a regal 
Shield, that do unashamedly beguile 
Throughout our legendary history!                                      

Our mundane present now a sad 
Parody of melancholic destitution; 
As if a Summer laid to rest...and, 
Thus, finally, we reluctantly 
The dismal plink, plink, plinks
Of trickling water dripping into
The roadside drain;
If that stoic Saxon had any woes 
He would have no time to lend to
Idle moments wasted dawdling 
Among dead leaves.
Where now Wodan, his many other
Gods? His charioteering tales and 
Warring stories not even 
Half-forgotten memories that only
Befuddled minds of lunatics might 
How resplendant the rusting gasworks
Appears, as, behind her looming tanks, 
Sol's disintegrating orb wearily 
Who would deny, at such instants, 
Much dimming beauty can be found... 
Even inside a crowded towns huddled

The low streetlamps, mounted like 
Matt pearls, beginning, cautiously, 
To reignite;
Predictably this awakens some 
Roosting birds...some of which,
Dutifully, begin to sing.
A muddled obliqueness, inherent
On varying angles, converging
On the temporary juxtapositions 
Invented by the electric bulbs 
Deceitful light;
And although I have never felt much 
Of a compulsion towards sentimental 
Or to seek solace in the comforting 
Familiarity of a mothers 
Romantic recollections, to which we 
All sometimes cling, 
I grope like a blind if 
Reaching out into the foaming 
Darkness intent on finding 
Something essentially quintessential 
That I instinctively sense is so 
Oddly missing.

To be continued...

Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017

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Myna Bird Solace

There they were, in the center of
our asphalt cul-de-sac street
circled around their dead companion,
four common myna birds, holding
their own semblance of a funeral.
I slowly backed out of my driveway
and passed by them in quiet reverie.
They didn't attempt to fly away or
even move as I passed by them.
Tears flooded my eyes as I realized
how much they were deeply grieving.
Their friend was truly loved and grieved
as we'd grieve the loss of a loved one.
Later on when I returned home the 
dead bird was gone, and so were they.

© Connie Marcum Wong

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017

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Companion for Life

I arrive when life's first breath pays its toll
And stay after death till' visits are cold
I'm the deep well you draw from always full
You find me in dark and light never old
I've felt every pain that you've ever known
And spilled out of your eyes from laughter's smile 
I've followed each footstep as you have grown
Traced down your face from a love's denial
I am here until your death when we part
Will appear in eyes of your deepest fears
I'm buried well in the soul of your heart
I'm the emotion creating your tears
We met at your birth, at death I will leave
I'll be the tears that fall with those who grieve


Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2018

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Doctor, it's been 7 months 
The MEDs aren't kicking in

My dreams are getting stronger, 
The blood remains to run code red
It's getting harder and harder to get out of bed 
Dark images keep taking place inside my head 
The voices - The voices, are not all right!

I no longer lay laughing 
The screaming never stops
In irons,  my mind rattles 
Theses thoughts are all I got
In slow motion, my mind plans the perfect plot

Finally, I realize the sanity of this is perfect
Counting every single second on the clock 
At first, I could not breathe 
I felt, I was left alone, 
Broken down --- Incomplete  
In your eyes, the schizophrenia spoke loud
In my eyes, everything is dark and gray

Doctor, now listen closely, open your eyes
While the walls slowly close in on you
I have my hands around your neck
Finally, I feel my arms, the needles are gone

Finally, I realize the sanity of this is perfect
The tightening of the chest is clearing
Today I possess a little more than yesterday 
Knowing exactly what needs to be done.

Was it all for nothing, the bloody wrist?
The faucet constantly dripping every night
The voices I call my friends

Deep, deep down,  
I'm still a child, painting  bedroom walls
Setting fires after my mother's death 
A crazy peril in its most threatening state

Doc, here you are again,
No longer will I allow you to waste my time
With your fetish lies, trying to make me better 
The problem is not me, it was always you!
Painting pink butterflies and white skies

Finally, I realize the sanity of this is perfect
Don't you understand  she's dead!
Pills aren't going to bring her back 
Padded rooms aren't going to help me,
Help myself --- grieve  the proper  way!
Straitjackets aren't going to restrain me, 
--- from wanting to hurt badly!
Psychologically, I'm perfectly sane 
Expressing my emotions a different way.

Doctor, you're not saying nothing 
You're not moving, 
You're just sitting there pretending to care.
Doc, I hope you aren't mad?
The voices explained it had to end this way
How else could I make you listen?

Finally, the impulse is gone 
Finally, I'm going to be alright 

       by: Pd

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015

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He Was My Sun

He was my sun, my one and only son,
attired as a cowboy for the day. 
And so I handed him a little gun
of fastened random sticks, for him to shoot and play.

Attired as a cowboy for the day
he searched for foes (with bows and arrows made
of fastened random sticks for them) to shoot, and play        
the part of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade.

He searched for foes (with bows and arrows made)
well written in his story books before he left for school.
The parts of ‘Injuns’ in a mock charade
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.

Well writ in history books before he left from school,
the tales (retold of victories that we’d won)
were tainted with a crimson war paint, oh so cruel.
The flow of paint was not to staunch when once begun.

From tales retold of victories that we’d won,
he learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the flow of pain, ’twas not to staunch when once begun
and bane to both sides (as he’d later come to know).

He learned to fight for God and country glory, though
the wounds of war were kept unseen (while nigh) 
and bane to both sides (as we’d later come to know);
but still he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye.

The wounds of war were kept unseen. While nigh,
the hours boomed, the clock struck 12 at last, his time to leave.
But, still, he stuffed a duffel bag with several things of youth, then said goodbye
to those who’d stay and even those who wouldn’t grieve.

The hours boomed, the clock struck 12 - alas, his time to leave.
They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died
to those who’d stayed. And even those who wouldn’t grieve
with tears were stiff and masked like wooden boxes meant to hide.

They sent back body bags they’d stuffed with severed things of those who’d died;
his boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud.
With tears, the stiff were masked in wooden boxes meant to hide
our children from the spilling of their blood.

His boots hung loose, one camouflaged in mud;
they said they’d needed him to help defend
our children from the spilling of their blood.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?

They said they’d needed him to help defend,
and so they handed him a little gun.
But can they ever see or really comprehend?
He was my sun, my one and only son.

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012

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God is Love

Love is an authority.
It dictates choice and consequence
and joins together all the wayward lamenters
who grieve at their loss of purity.

Love is an actuality.
It breathes new life into masochists
who wished to die a thousand times over
and prey upon the weak and fragile.

When you let love in at first, it may seem out of place,
like a foreign object lodged in your chest, a parasite
feeding on the brains of its host, thriving in darkness,
blood-letting leeches drain this swollen heart...

But love does not enforce kindness; only offers a gentle reminder
for anyone who's forgotten how great it feels
to give for the sake of giving
and not be afraid of his own shadow.

Copyright © Yoni Dvorkis | Year Posted 2009

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A Passing Shadow

Behind our house, below the deck
with its pleasing benches and sylvan view,
the back yard we have descends steeply
to a little stream called Chimacum Creek.

It is September, so the Creek’s waters
are shallow, so shallow that
little music from its ripple and flow
rises to meet our eager, listening ears above.

Any day now, the waters will surrender
their serenity and in noisy salute
yield to thrashing thunder,
as salmon spawn and meet their demise.

Sheltering us there from summer’s heat
and winter’s chilled and rainy drench,
a little family of barred owls often call and beg,
their nocturne nearly undisturbed by our home's intrusion.

Outside, my wife stands in solitary contemplation,
for this is her temple, and she its worthy guest.
Yet the minutes and hours pass so slowly now,
as grief stands weary watch with her.

We had grown so accustomed to our dear child’s
heartened ways, as ever eager to greet us
at morning’s hesitant, uncertain dawning glow
as at evening’s surrender to curl upon our bed to sleep.

Jet black hair and soft green eyes—her special dance
each moment to delight us so, we had never ever
thought today would bring us only fading echoes of
all we held so dear in this sweet and tender form.

No matter that she had a tail and two more legs than us,
she lived and loved and spoke with such eloquence
and grace, the best of us were shamed.
Angels withheld not their envy and begged for her return.

So grieve with us a moment, for fled is now
that little feline snowflake in our hand.
My rhyme is vanished; my muse is stilled.
Shadow was her name.

Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2017

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The Children Eating Grass

Often wondering is it a steak upon Our Plates that is important...
Perhaps a Hot-dog instead and more Money for a healing deportment.
To feed a Child that is suffering or very ill and extremely sick.
We ask often comfortably what often makes the wealthy tick?
As We read on The Internet that there are Children out there just wanting Bread.
The Children eating grass is in an Article that was just as this is read...
My Heart torn open,wrenched,concerned and burning with anguish inside.
My Own Home stemless, poor, and uncomfortably We reside...
Wishing We could just reach threw a T.V. Set to give a helping hand...
Just to pass Our Dinner to a child in a taunted hemmed Land. 
My passion so large, words so strong, and My Pocket very small.
Never standing in the right position in Life to answer as Children call.
There are Children in Our World that are just eating grass.
Under seemly so by My feelings of disrepair as I pass My Own grasp...
This stench of Many Self willed that preform as Our stanza has not surpassed.  
To reach for You now is more then an unbearable weep to comprehend.
A World filling up with Starvation and Our Children in it left to descend.
To reach for You now is an unbearable decision not yet made.
The Children Eating Grass just wore Me thin and They paid.
Sometime wishing I could just rob and empty an entire vault.
That Decision would cost Me greatly so I resort to prayer that will never fault. 
To Be trusted with just This Message where I sit and grieve.
When Encounters of Love yet to occur and never to beckon Evil that is deceived.

By Charlene L.Wilcox      09-29-2014

Copyright © Charlene Wilcox | Year Posted 2014

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At Heaven's Gate - Part 3

Part 3:          AT HEAVEN’S GATES

To set Her free from destiny was far from my design,
but, though unplanned, I touched Her hand to give Her peace of mind.
She told me then, and then again, that providence Divine
had cast a curse, and even worse: despised by all mankind,
She walked alone, unseen, unknown, Her soul incarnadine.

To break this spell of living hell, of loneliness enshrined,
and end Her days within the haze, a sole redeeming deed
would give reprieve and maybe leave our destinies entwined -
Her final quest be put to rest if only I agreed,
but no surcease nor perfect peace nor hope if I declined.

The shadows, shawled in silence, crawled, the night Her fate was sealed
as vespers tolled across the wold beneath the muted fog.
The heavens cracked and sorrow slacked as chimes of children pealed
while in the hills (where midnight chills) there wailed a daemon dog -
with no delay I lead the way, the path to Potter’s Field.

Her weathered face was lined with Grace, Her eyes shone emerald green.
With me as guide She stepped inside to grieve and mourn Her loss,
and thereupon, though pale and wan, the night took on a sheen.
With weary eyes as Her disguise, She placed a wooden cross
upon a mound (unhallowed ground) and whispered ‘Sibylline...’.

A falling star flared in the far and burst, a bolide flame -
beneath the light, the Final Rite no longer hid undone.
And kneeling there in silent prayer, we seemed to share the shame
but could atone if left alone, forevermore as one.
Before we both could breathe an oath, I asked Her once Her name.

Through lips, pale red, She simply said ‘Some called me Abigail’,
and neath a birch where white doves perch, I took Her for my bride,
beheld Her smile a little while, but all to no avail...
Her cloak and cape, and shrivelled shape lie empty at my side...
for now She waits at Heaven’s Gates, not far beyond the Pale.

Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013

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The Other Woman

While your hands caress my body, is it her face that you see?
Is your thunder of release now brought on by HER memory?

Am I just a luscious body that contains HER living soul?
Just an instrument of passion where your craving are made whole?

Life has played a dirty trick, though, for our story’s gone and changed
Sentiments which were so true then, all have now become deranged

I am left to grieve and wonder how she came to steal your heart
Was my love not good enough, then? Did she fill some hidden part?

Did a fantasy not flourish, was some longing left unknown?
Tell my heart what made you love her, why your heart for me is stone?

Here you lie in pleasure’s arms, yet every thought is there instead
Naked, grieved, I’m left to wonder what it feels like to be dead

Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

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It is in the grey of icy evenings
When those dimly-lit wishes seem to fade,
A bitter nip, a woe this season brings
The chafing of hope's ardor, delayed.
Yet , for all I grieve during the passage
Of summer’s festive and vigorous trails
Who could not ponder upon this new stage;
As the quiet of misty Fall unveils
Reflective pauses where breaths gently ease
The dark and long wait of unanswered squall;
Endowing thoughts with a hymnal reprise
And, guiding stillness with poise that enthrals.

It must be the cold flakes in dusk-like stent
That restores hope with godly contentment.

Sara Kendrick’s A Penny For Your Thoughts Contest
“Hope is faith holding out its hand
 in the dark.” ~George Iles
by nette onclaud

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2015

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Broken Wings

I am a poet and writer of words,
You know me through my sad poems;
But there is more to me more to this girl,
I found writing at a very young age.

    It is my life,
    This poetry,
    My safe harbour,
        Sorrow in words.

I work in a nursing home for old folks,
This job is emotional it breaks my heart;
I do not want to love but I do love,
And when death comes I am broken again.

    They are sweet,
    Well some are cross,
    There are stories,
        In wrinkled hands.

I met death in childhood and we are friends,
Sorrow has walked hand in hand each sad step;
Death has taken everyone, even baby,
Husband, sister, mother, father, grandma.

    In stone are names,
    And I grieve them,
    I write this pain,
        In sad poetry.

But there is happiness in friends for life,
We shop and dine, laugh and oh gosh we talk;  
I find tranquility in sweet meditation,
The unconditional love of a sweet cat.

    In soft music,
    The birds in flight,
    In the silence,
        And I write, write.

April 9, 2015

Verse (unrhymed)

For the contest, Bio Of A Poet, sponsor, Tammy Reams

First Place

Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2015

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No Longer Mourn for Me When I Am Dead

If Death should call, let me go free;
it is only Heaven beckons me.
If I should step beyond the veil
of sight and sound and voice, all is well;
I shall be glad to place my head
beneath the sod with other dead.
My spirit will not linger there
but float on myriad colored air
and dip its wings over twinkling stars
and ride the moon's bright, silver car.
At last my yearning soul will know,
forever ceased its worldly woe.
If Death comes, do not robe in black
as if you want my spirit back;
I would not want your soul to grieve
nor stand here desolate, bereaved.
I shall be glad at last to go;
rejoice with me who wished it so.
It is not a morbid, ghastly thought
but one in Grace and Glory wrought.
For just beyond life's ebbing sea,
beyond earth's pain and agony,
I dimly see the other shore
where I shall live forevermore.
Death shall but serve to chauffeur me
from galaxy to Galaxy.
His fingers do not clutch and tear
the soul from one who does not fear;
that soul is borne up in his arms
in ecstasy, without alarms.
Death will not be my dreaded fate:
He is Heaven's opening gate.

Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson

Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014