Best Melancholic Poems
In the middle of winter
within misty moors,
lies a melancholic meadow.
Up above grey skies foretell
perturbed crows to seek shelter.
Down below,
an isolated tree - naked and fatigued;
Listens in silence.
Her soul is wounded,
but you do not see her blood.
Defiant against dysfunctional adversity,
her roots are stronger than an anchor.
Diversifying in deep directions,
kissing the mouth of the Earth.
Her torso may seem tall and mighty,
but her appearance deceives.
Sins of mankind have exposed her sap,
as bark beetles crumble the surface.
Forceful winds and bullet rain blasts
against her weary teary face.
Her tame frame trembles,
as naked broken branches are
blown away by brutal gusts.
It is just another battle for life,
as birds leave her behind - suffocating.
Raindrops stream down her body,
creating puddles of sadness,
soaking deep into her roots.
In the middle of winter
within misty moors,
lies a melancholic meadow;
where a tree yearns for Spring.
To bloom prosperously
and to bathe in sunshine -
so departed birds return.
Silent One
20 February 2018
Surrounded by strange blank faces,
pianist plays a medley of melancholic melodies,
magnifying our sorrows, as we close our eyes.
Just one more, before I leave,
yet I wonder, should we stay or should we go,
for the heart has no desire for trodden paths.
Those who claim to care, remain careless,
ignorant to the sacrifices - suffocating the dream.
We wonder if they will ever understand,
so we remain miserable and misunderstood,
wasting away in the smell of regret
manipulated by melancholic melodies,
each note a reminder how time has lost its charm.
Always seen as the sinner,
my shadow has become a fugitive.
I wonder how far I can run,
but we're chained by judgement,
in the expectation of traditional responsibilities.
Which fool claimed life is simple?
With so many complications, we ponder what is the point.
Yet we smile, pretend we are content,
crying without tears, jealous of happiness,
wondering why it eludes us.
It's too late to edit my story.
Unafraid of drowning or burning,
I've become numb - immune to infliction.
I struggle to recognise my reflection,
so I search for a silent serenade,
away from an orchestra of rambunctiousness,
awaiting the freedom of death
to finally be free from melancholic melodies.
Simple Musing
Silent One
15 February 2020
Light vanished upon his leaving
with the final grip of dusk--
the fragrance of trees wisping softly
and I feel left out ...he is gone
into the restless clang
of winds booming; a melodv
which makes noises louder
than my roars-- and within the luster
of stars...not a tincture eases this heart,
my despair hollering dear father's name
In umbra of midnight, he doesn't answer.
Nayda Ivette Negron’s Melancholy Contest
9/26/2016
--------
* My Dad passed on alone in his
death bed; we were all requested to go home
for a while after spending hours in the ICU
of a military hospital.
A disease intrinsic and quiet
infesting a soul which submissively accepts
presenting self inflicting suffering
to the body which covers it.
The record keeper of happiness
loses his work from gross idleness.
The fuel of laughter
even with words and lines so sophisticated
making the inanimate change state
cannot drag a drop of smile
from this soul so wary and pressed.
Company is replaced with tears
and all feelings, compressed into one.
Cracking an egg shell from its edges
is simpler than distinguishing its moods.
What a soul!
Why were you created when nature was sad?
Why were you formed when the gods were asleep?
Why were you blessed when the daughters of cheerfulness were drunk?
The cloth of loneliness
and the perfume of silence,
you need to unwear no matter how hard.
This will put on the light of proper existence
for you to bathe in the spring
of Life's beautiful varieties!
A melancholic trance,
For the sick lovers' dance,
As they laugh at the pain and the madness array,
Alive through the fire and the ice deep inside them,
A waltz like no other, sombre tone spits like colour,
Giddy from the bliss, their anguish is amiss as they
Parade in the moonlight and wind,
The night comes to nigh,
As the lovers say goodbye,
'Til the red moon rises once more
memories unfurling
on the shores of time
calligraphy strokes
tracing wild whimsies
of my yearning heart
curling frayed remnants
between the fingers of
forgetfulness forlorn
both glass slippers
vanished in the night
love notes scattering
to feral autumn winds
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on August 29, 2020 for contest SOUL SLIPPER sponsored by KAI MICHAEL NEUMANN - RANKED 6TH
If you have to ruin me,
don't do it under kitchen lights
or in parked cars
or over phone calls filled with silence.
Take me somewhere the sky is endless.
Somewhere the stars
have been dying for years
without anyone noticing.
Let me look up at something ancient,
something that understands
how beautiful things can disappear.
And if this is the ending,
if I have to lose whatever version
of me still believes in forever,
then let it happen there.
Because I think
I'd rather break apart
Beneath constellations
Than inside another room that forgets
Tracing back…
that is what I am doing now,
just tracing back
along this woodland path,
in an attempt to grasp remnants
of a time
when I felt so alive, yet dying.
Thoughts and memories,
they fall like these leaves,
a melange of confusion, beauty and frailty
Swept away by the wind, scattered
or swept into a pile, unified.
Either way, they can be stomped on,
brittle leaves crushed into a satisfying crunch.
All around me,
there’s a profusion of vermilion, gold and copper
but those reds have always been my favorite—
so alive, yet can also mean bleeding.
I see a pumpkin carved out,
a creepy smile adorning its face
A chuckle escapes from my lips,
remembering that time
when laughter lived in harmony
with love.
Now, I am not sure anymore…
Because how can something
that had so much hope, so verdant,
change?
I am a fool, for the answers
are so obvious—
I only need to look at these leaves.
So much like our lives, these seasons…
Not very long,
I will be staring up at argentine skies.
The thought of it gives me chills—
I pray for spring.
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Drawn to his whistling we’d skip along that path,
Locked onto the shed’s old wireless; tinny and taught with his tune,
Dust waiting for our arrival by the door, yet
Now you wouldn’t even know it was there.
The path, long ago an entry point of dreams, no longer leads, but
Follows memories gathering dust with neglect now
Overgrown with the passage of time.
As children we would follow that path
Holding our pop’s crooked hand, a sticky bun in the other
Trying to count the countless bricks, to the end
To the start of grandpa’s ole wooden shed, the door ajar,
Allowing memories; old and new, to come and go as they please.
For amongst the wooden toys and tools and junk that clung to shelves,
Amidst the scent of thinners and birch shavings and oldness
There lived here once in our childhood – these happier simpler times.
Now I stand near the end of adulthood, peering in the window
My reflection recoiling at its image, flinching at the emptiness, the
Dusty hollowness that hangs there, - though
I imagine the laughter, and see our useful little hands
Hammering in time with the wireless, our
Hair and clothes powdered with the dust
Gathered on the filaments of tales past and present.
Those memories now lay in the dust, like
Echoes clinging to a voice, all
The shelves so full of everything, yet they are nothing now
- Gathering dust
Like his stories; buried amongst the particles, that
I now tread upon softly, not wanting the moment to dissolve
Into melancholic motes, as I close my eyes in search of a child,
Hidden in the dusty recesses of my mind.
John Lawless’s poetry contest – ‘Gathering Dust’
28 Feb. 15
Poe’s Hourglass: A Melancholic Decree
Once upon a midnight dreary,
As sands slip through life’s hourglass, eerie,
I pondered upon my penitent past,
And the regrets that will forever last.
Time, that wicked thief, has stolen away,
Leaving behind fragments of my yesterday.
Each grain, a specter, fell with a sigh,
A haunting reminder of moments gone by.
Regrets, like phantoms, torment my soul,
Their presence an anguish I cannot control.
Paths untrodden, chances missed,
Eternally trapped in a remorseful abyss.
The hourglass, a harbinger of mortality,
Hath measured my existence with cruel finality.
As grains descend, my heart doth weep,
Lost in the void of time, where plutonian specters meet.
In vain, I grasped at the sands so fleet,
But they slipped through my fingers with deceit.
A pallid burden I could not divest,
Heavy upon my chest, a weight doth rest.
O’ time! That cruel, relentless foe,
With each passing moment, thy presence dost grow.
No respite, no solace, can I find,
Like a thief in the night, gone is my time.
And now, in the dark recesses of my desolate mind,
I find sorrow in the verses I bind.
For in these words, I resurrect demons of the past,
And find memories mournful, that will forever last.
In the style of Poe, I lament the unyielding sands of time,
A symbol of life’s ever fleeting, haunting rhyme.
Regrets! Regrets, forever thy shall be,
In the hourglass of life, a melancholic decree.
And as the sands doth slip, and the ravens soar,
I hear the whispers of, “Nevermore”.
-Edward
Issued paper fibers mirror those of the straw bale,
The waters of the great canal through the morning sail.
In spite Venezia was tied, the chairlift was jostling,
Twisting its way through the small calli in haze whiting.
It's safe to say man has a qualm, despite his skin tone,
The Earth spins around, put your location out of zone.
Informal suburbs have been overrun by strange walls,
The laws of the rulers, custom breeds devotion calls.
It's amazing how people fall for lowering strife,
Then residents achieve bad habits and lose their life.
Identity loss roots our quiet closed eyes, curdle,
Teams were the source of hatred for every step hurdle.
Its clogged and stuffed bowel burst, the young boy died of filth,
They stole his liver, kidneys, and heart, killing his health.
Idle boy's heart beats in a guest's chest; mom's tear-soaked veil,
The boy is dead or lives couched in flesh tombs as was frail.
Its tearful child asks his dad, "where does sorrow stem from?"
The sorrow you get is the kid of joy, if not some.
It's not just the sun's rays that draw forth the elixir,
The Oceans create clouds and those clouds from storms austere.
Isn't the fragrance that lures butterflies, but the same scent,
The flower that would a lover pick for his content?
It's not the light shining on your flesh in the mirror,
The light chases the reverse side's shadow to shiver.
It's when you're glad, know that it cost others happiness,
That you're enthralled recall it's someone else's sadness.
Individualism fails in vain, that's a grouse word,
This may never know how your fault brings oddly well-augured.
It opens endless doors to be tough, profound, and strong,
Though no book or teacher can teach you a complete prong.
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 23 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
1ST Place Contest Winner
Written August 30, 2022
Dot Your I's And Cross Your T's Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Hilo Poet
Verified and checked with HMS.COM, with 13 syllables in each line.
In my melancholic turmoil moments besieged with pain
As I groan along mocking injustice terrain
Languishing in misery brought by deceit of betrayal stain
Sorrowing* midst righteous verdict I hope to gain…
My God offers to me His grace, never vain.
I draw near to Him, placing my life into His mercy’s domain.
In my melancholic turbulent days against guiltiness’ cohort
When I cry for divine aid and support
Excruciating from my downfall’s discomfort
Wailing due to my worldliness and its carnality-haunting escort …
My Saviour pours His mercy for my ultimate resort.
I draw nigh to Him, laying my faith upon His strength’s fort.
In my melancholic troubled times of grievous despair
That I need urgent care
Beseeching for an assured welfare
Ailing with discontentment’s scare…
My Lord presents His promises which His words declare.
I abide in Him, exposing my soul to His victorious stare.
*"Sorrow is better than laughter: for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better." Ecclesiastes 7:3
July 21, 2019
5th place, "Writing Challenge 2, July 2019- Melancholy" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart; judged on 7/23/2019.
I'm sunbird of the sketched skyline,
Soaring across soft sheaths
Of ebony moonflowers,
Inhaling gossamer death, tonight.
Its inner self, deep dark hole of a maze,
Sad stretch of dire and apathetic doom,
Exacerbated when outlasts a phase,
Giving the tunnel end’s lighting no room.
The steel shackles along its iron grip
Without a shame restraint the weary mind,
Stricken under merciless lashing whip -
In solitude, disabled and confined.
To silence this depressing demon’s voice -
To attack from all fronts and from within,
Forfeiting the battle is not a choice,
Only one way to rise above - to win!
May 7, 2023
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Contest: Anatomy of Melancholy
Let the miserable be
They are humble as a tree
Leave them alone, set them free
From the hope we ever see
Let the dejected take a bow
They often just don’t know how
To hear the music in God’s wow
Coloring dreams only hope will allow
Let the gloomy find their doubt
They often fumble to find out
Just how warm, kind and stout
Is the wonder that hope is about
Let the melancholic find their hope
They can’t seem to do anything but mope
So whisper in their ear to simply grope
Through the despair until they can cope
Anatomy of Melancholy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
May 5, 2023
NOTE: This was written with O'Henry's favorite book, The Fool Killer, in mind - I've never read the book, only the premise of the work. I, in no way, am unsympathetic with depression or melancholy symptoms. I truly care and HOPE that people who are feeling melancholy find their way to true joy. I’m just braving the waters of satire for the first time!