Best Prematurely Poems
Cruelly taken by a heartless act,
gone without a chance to say goodbye.
Innocent souls roam the heavens,
safe from the harsh realities of life.
A mother's eyes overflow with tears,
wondering if God comforts her child tonight.
A father clings onto a photo,
reminiscing the last time he embraced his child tight.
They gaze at twinkling stars in hope,
wondering if it's their child's eyes sparkling bright.
On a silent night they can still hear
their child's laughter, echoing in the horizons.
They ponder if twenty children still meet
in heaven's playground, jumping on clouds.
Hoping angels sing sweet lullabies,
just like a mother's serenade.
All the fragrant flowers in heaven,
yet there is no scent like a mothers'.
Softness of angel feathers could
never replace her touch.
Gates of heaven so magnificent,
but there is no strength like a fathers'.
Warmth of angels could
never replace his embrace.
When an innocent child prematurely leaves this world,
a parent's heart is forever fragile drowning in sorrow,
for there is no pain like the loss of a child.
Silent One
19 December 2017
Once upon a time many years ago
There was a sweet and lovely red, red Irish rose
That was plucked prematurely from the garden vine
A budding beauty taken in her prime
She was laid to rest upon the death of a lovers dream
Upon a chest of ebony where lie his would-be Queen
Lowered deep into the depths of the church yard cemetery
Her scarlet petals wilting in the summer breeze
Then the earth begin to fall like autumn leaves
Upon her petals and the chest of ebony
From above her tomb where stood the grieving groom
Weeping, weeping like a willow tree
Then the sky begin to disappear amid that mournful cry
As tears from above fell from that lovers eyes
And came to rest like dew drops on that Irish rose
As she disappeared beneath the earth
There in his grief below
In time he laid a stone of ivory upon her grave
Etched deeply with the promise he had made
To love his Irish Rose forever and a day
The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he knelt and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day
The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone
That still stands alone upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible blue, blue rose has grown
The weary ploughman shuffles
along the deserted bridle path,
his day-long work completed,
furrows wound around his piece of land,
just arable enough to provide his daily bread.
His dreary shack is cold and bare,
just a few essentials. Oh, once it thrived,
but that, alas, was quite a long past.
Slow movements help him light his fire,
and hang inside the hearth a pot full
of vegetables harvested from small plots
that once was a sort of garden of his wife.
Waiting for his meagre repast, he sits.
upon a decrepit sofa, thinking of the furrows
and what he could sow there provided
he manages to find the seeds and tubers
for the next Thanksgiving Day.
Furrows, furrows everywhere, so very like
the furrows of his weary days gone by.
The day when he was barely ten years old,
came home to find his drunkard of a father
dead at last from cirrhosis of the liver.
Left school and began to till the land
under the caring eyes of his once-battered mother.
The day he met plain Jane, shy and speechless,
they walked along the banks of a lonely stream,
never uttering a word, never holding hands
until the day they finally got married.
Then, the worst furrow of all, the day his child
Was born prematurely stillborn. That day
he could not mourn. Only his wife cried.
Until some years later she too followed her child.
And still, he would not mourn, bottled-up grief.
Yet he had one firm conviction.
The paths of life lead slowly to the last furrow,
there to find, at last, eternal peace.
Waning love is a cold diamond thing
The hurt pressure
from the thought of losing you
is such a hard burden
Squeezing the hope out of me
Heavy-hearted acceptance ain’t easy,
especially when the weeping pang of separation
comes prematurely rushing through
Day by day,
I get premonition pulse signals of distress
Diamond bit by bit,
I receive this coal crushing feeling
And the hurt pressure
changes the beauty of what once did exist
Your vow of discontentment is tearing us apart
Day by day
Making our bond weaker
every 24/7 ...
I do feel a new heartbreak
Your ice cold eyes tell me the love flame
is no longer lit
As your heart becomes more
Diamond bit by bit
Pointed act of your future departure
pierces my mind deeply
As this soon-to-be severed heart pleads empty
Affectionate feelings voiced are on the decline,
your dispassionate vow sound
has a hollow golden ring
Echoes of neglected conciliatory healing
drowns my restless pain
in watery sheets of serrated discomfort
That jagged sharp sound,
thrust hard through my mate severed soul,
has a diamond sting
An asunder carat cutting my heart in half
Broken altar promise darkly coal uttered,
portends of your leaving
Those sacred two words,
once spoken with past caring intensity,
are now double troubling ...
And “I do” know why that is,
because you no longer desire me
Keeping your two-folded arm distance
is a cold diamond thing
As love on the wane wears the bosom hard bling-bling
Day by day,
my evening pillow dreams
get so very misty sigh moist softer
Diamond bit by bit,
my mourn awakenings
get teary pure carbon crystalline
Outside the rain-splattered window
winds whipped
tearing still-moist leaves
from their moorings
hurled to the ground
dying, like our love
prematurely
without a proper goodbye
Dazed as the phone wire strangled my neck
End of my youth faded with you
Noise of my tears echoes neighbouring walls
Innocent dreams dimmed in stardust so prematurely
And still every day I ask the sky why you are a star
Lost in the solar system without a glittering goodbye.
I saw a light from across the field
On a night the sky shed tears of rain.
I had hoped the dark would help to shield
My heart from sorrow it need not feign.
To the burden of truth I must yield
And with truth the burden I might explain.
The light shone on, then it was put out –
It’s glow prematurely extinguished.
Gloom filled the void and then cast about,
It engaged me and I was anguished.
Morning found my spirit easy to flout,
And all that morning I so languished.
Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely - red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.
She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be Queen;
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.
Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping, like a willow tree.
Then the sky begin to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that Irish rose,
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below
~~~~~
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.
~~~~~
The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he kneeled and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.
~~~~
The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone
That still stands alone upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.
We forced her into menopause well ahead of her time.
Mother Nature’s prematurely changing and we’ll regret our crime.
We cut off her tresses that once bushed across her land,
polluted her oceans and soiled her golden sand.
Moody and unpredictable her volcanic eruptions flows,
fed a daily diet of plastics, pesticides and GMO’s.
We sweated out her edges and turned her temples gray,
while her hot flashes melt the glaciers that dissolve more each day.
Her skin is dry and arid as she blazes across her earth,
destroying crops and animal life, unyielding, no longer giving birth.
We ravaged her Amazon where green algae and flora once flourished,
only two days shipping while populations starve and many undernourished.
Waken with a splitting headache as earthquakes and tornados roar,
we have become her burden with our excessive cries for more.
Gas emissions have choked her and left her in a daze.
The damage is done, too late before we change our ways.
She is like a bridge as our weight has caused her back to bend
with greed, corruption and the unconscionable conscience of men.
How will humanity survive when Mother Nature has no more to give,
what will become of our children, where will they have to live?
This is a time of urgency, but we have been fore warned.
Her end is rapidly approaching, for “hell has no fury like a woman scorned”.
At a very young age
He knew what he wanted to be
Like his father before him
A ‘Keeper of the Sea’
He married his childhood sweetheart
They loved unconditionally
Dreams and hopes for the future
Of raising a family
They lived in the lighthouse cottage
A loving home comfortable and cosy
They didn’t have or want for much
A happy life lived modestly
Both felt at one with the lighthouse
Admired the splendor and strength of the sea
The magnificence of the night sky
Awed by the stars and moon's artistry
Sadly, the universe had different plans
She left this world prematurely
A devastated broken man
Now alone in his lighthouse by the sea
The years rolled by slowly
An old man now was he
Still in his beloved lighthouse
As ‘Keeper of the Sea’
Each night since she passed he talked to her
He felt her presence and love in the Lantern Room
It soothed his lonely soul and his sorrow
Being closer to heaven, the stars and the moon
I have become like him; nocturnal.
Prematurely anaesthetised by exhaustion
then jerked awake into the darkness.
How long since I have slept 'til dawn?
A stifled yawn veiling scurrying thoughts.
Tennis match of emotions; back and forth;
volleying, lobbing this way and that.
The game, set and match of insomnia.
Then rallying forth as dawn brings clarity.
Despairing disparity sleeping finally.
The silence of the night amplifies my heartbeat.
Each breath echoes in the unsettled gloom.
As the dawn casts its ghostly light around the room
sleepless wakefulness wanes with the retiring moon,
and the owl rests, fatigued by his 'whooing'.
Unlike me he can sleep by day, the night is his time,
not mine; I am the intruder in the darkness;
a restless insomniac with an overactive brain.
Sleep well majestic wise one. No doubt,
when night falls, I will share your company again.
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
There is an old cemetery in my city full of legends,
and stories, one I find creepy is people being buried alive;
back in the day there were many buried prematurely,
according to tales, once there was an earthquake and caskets;
were discovered with scratch marks on the inside of the lids.
There were even stories of people waking up during embalming,
I guess the determination of death back then was questionable.
The fear was so real for the wealthy and paranoid,
they purchased "safety caskets" so just in case they could signal;
from the inside to the outside world by ringing a bell,
or raising a flag to say, I'm alive here six feet down, please hurry!
So the legend says.
________________________
April 5, 2017
Narrative/"Buried Alive" Creepy Legend
Copyright Protected, ID 890129
Written for the contest, Urban Legends
Sponsor, Nayda Yvette Negron
Career assessment test
In college assessment office
Multiple choice test.
Choose your best answer.
Would you rather
Be to be a detective?
Video Game Designer?
Author?
Her write in answer:
Princess
Please.
Supervisor prematurely.
Rolls eyes
Silly her. She haughtily thinks.
Name of student
Meghan Markle
Now who Is laughing?
This is two parter. The first dealing with the abuse of the mother. The second part is about her child, growing up in care
The Girl, Part 1
A foetus from a mother’s womb
Prematurely born too soon
Due to punches, slaps and kicks
Delivered fast with fury, quick
By a man, in drunken rage
Who thumped a stomach, broke ribcage
Of mother who could not defend
Against the rage which knew no end.
Unbridled ire he launched against
A woman who had had the sense,
And also child beat out from her
By angry, savage, saboteur
N.L.G
The Girl. Part 2
She never stood a chance, the girl
A chance she never stood
At seven months, born premature
Kicked out of womb with foot;
By father laced in alcohol
Belligerent and vile,
Who spared no rod nor pulled his punch
On women he defiled
She never stood a chance, the girl
A chance she never stood
In Children’s homes and foster care
she lived through her childhood
Attachments never formed for her
No bonds or pledges made
By people charged to care for her
Just sorrow and dismay
She never stood a chance, the girl
A chance she never stood
No opportunities for her
They thought she’d do no good
Passed from pillar then to post,
And then passed back again
She never stood a chance the girl
For her no sweet refrains
She never stood a chance, the girl
A chance she never stood
Poverty for her assured
It ran through lines in blood
No song with lifting melodies
Would underscore her life
Just beats reigned down from angry fists
And chorus sung with strife
She never stood a chance the, girl
A chance she never stood
Disordered personality
Consultants diagnosed
Anxiety, depression
Heightened lows and lofty highs
Mental health became her norm
Well, should we wonder why?
N.L.G