in the uncoloured tint of another everyday
amongst the spit polished waxed apples
tightly packed in burlap bags
they walked like minded
in their own burly wrap
oblivious to the irony
to their similarity
of the markets round red fruit
unaware of the tragedy
the horror of events yet to come
it will rain metal shrapnel
as human minds grasp
with the purpose of their existence
as in their ignorance
they understand their worth as human bombs
with a belief the heavens will open the gates
with a fanfare and a promised blessing
for their divine act of unquestioned belief
the clay shaped bricks
the black iron metal stairs
the drum sound of engines
then the lull
the pulse of the storm
the rain of death
yet this moment captured
with man and child in hand
the world travels
nothing in the universe
even a hint
even a glimpse
not a clue
that would lead
life in its contradiction
like the proverbial apple
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
like visitors from outer space
they came with tears, and lined the sidewalk
long in face, and arms embracing
some (I have no inkling) who
they were or why they felt compelled to come
dozens came with casseroles
a few with flowers, wads of tissues
tender words of helpless mutterings
many acts of generous offerings
don't get me wrong, I watched the suffering
expressed in words or acts of kindness
I watched it all, and felt the love
did not dismiss the warm compassion
returned it all, with pure compliance
a thankful heart, a swollen throat
I hugged these strangers at the door
to comfort them, who shed their tears
upon my shoulder, offered them
a place to share their sympathies
a place to spend their mercy, pure
but, this was my child who loved and lost
impossible........I can't express it
protected from the very start, by
loving hands, her dad's and mine,
we watched her grow, and let her go
she grew from the vine ....into a rose
but life composed a tragedy, with goals
beyond our reach...beyond belief
beyond our wildest dreams
and left her with a loss beyond control
like visitors from outer space, we watch
as others come, and others go
they blow into their tissue wads
and empty the boxes one by one
and cry with us, and then they all go home...
do we cry........? Oh no, not yet...
instead we smile a grateful smile
and thank them kindly for the while
and for the ways they share their love
but we can't cry into our own clenched wad
of tissue from the tissue box
she needs us to be strong, somehow
and so that is the way it is, we vow...to hold back all the tears for now
for, this was my child who loved and lost
impossible........I can't express it
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
I often sit for long periods of time
hoping the perfect beginning will come to me.
To write a poem that starts with a pristine Capital
leaving readers with great expectations.
But after much torment, with not a fleck of gold in sight,
it's comes to my attention
that much like life, How it Began
isn't half as important as How it Finishes,
(And neither as important
as How it Is in the Present)
That's how it was, in any case,
when the landlord dropped the news
that sunny Idahoan morn;
It was a time for a change, they all said in unison:
my sister, my brother, my mother ---
And like the sweetest melancholy, I couldn't help but agree,
For I knew no matter where I went
I'd always have poetry ...
(but now it seems she has alluded me)
Through 2,500 miles and 9 states;
through a million and a half brand new things
... and yet
Inspiration refuses to sing.
As I sit here in suspense
for that metaphorical gravy train,
wondering when the words
will start flowing again.
Will it be like it was before,
when it comes to me?
Ears perked to the extreme
with expectations of a symphony?
When it comes to me ...
Will they laugh? Will they cry?
Will my words come across
like softest lullaby?
Because sometimes our muse just up and leaves,
we wonder why.
But no my most cherished friends,
we mustn't cry,
for it's been a great adventure,
has it not?
Remember the words of Dr. Seuss:
Don't be sad that it's over,
Smile that it happened.
Though words were once putty in my hands
I now take in the beauty that encompasses me,
content to just let it sit,
without the need to express it ...
But don't be fooled, Dearest Reader,
for I have the highest hope
that stars will dance,
leaves will fly,
birds will sing,
WHEN it comes to me.
But will you believe me when I say
I've watched the stars fall and flicker
between the leaves
a hand's breadth from my fingertips?
(go on and take a sip
the magic's free)
That I've breathed in the air,
as if it were honeysuckle blooming in the sky
just for me.
Oh and how I wish you could see
beyond the words of this page,
for it's beyond a tragedy
that all I have to give is this poem.
You know I'd offer you my eyes
for you to see the things I'm seeing.
(put your hand on my chest,
can you feel it beating?)
Like the petals of a rose
she holds me close:
the place where the bright rubicund clay
makes way for my Armstrongian footprints
---just one small step
then comes the leap---
My arms spread wide
hoping for discovery,
but preparing for catastrophe ...
And believe me when I say
I couldn't dream of sleep,
for when it comes to me
the minstrels will weep,
the prisoners'll be set free ...
as emotions become ablaze
in new and surprising ways.
For there's a lily pad pond,
just outside my backdoor ....
that's begging for a tale to be penned.
There's a place called Mount Alto
sitting just like a storybook
outside the backdoor, my friends,
whilst I sit here
listening to the cicadas sing
in Valley Soprano,
reminding me that everything
is but a poem-in-waiting:
The rolling green hills
bearing witness of mountain familiarity;
the black butterflies
the berry blossoms of May.
Everything is so new here ...
far beyond anything I could ever say.
And I hope I can do it justice,
to paint a picture in your head,
with every ounce of the things I've said ...
you won't be able to tell the difference
when it comes to me)
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
You can't make someone love you all you can do
is be someone who can be loved.The rest is up to them.
No matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
It takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.
You can do something in an instant
will give you heartache for life.
It's not what you have in your life but
who you have in your life that counts.
You can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes.
After that, you'd better know something.
It's not what happens to people that's important
it's what they do about it.
Always leave loved ones with loving words.
Either you control your attitude or it controls you.
Heroes are the people who do what has to be done when
it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.
Money is a lousy way of keeping score.
Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to
doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
Regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion
fades and there had better be something else to take its place.
Never tell a child their dreams are unlikely or outlandish.
Few things are more humiliating,
and what a tragedy it would be if they believed you.
You must be able to forgive.
No matter how good a friend is, they are going to hurt you
every once in a while - you must forgive them for that.
No matter how bad your heart is broken
the world doesn't stop for your grief.
Our background and circumstances may have influenced
who we are but we are responsible for who we become.
Just because two people argue, it doesn't mean
they don't love each other and just because
they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.
Two people can look at the exact same thing
and see something totally different.
No matter how thin you slice it,
there are always two sides.
You can keep going long after you think you can't.
Even when you think you have no more to give,
when a friend cries out to you,
you will find the strength to help.
It is hard to determine where to draw the line
between being nice and not hurting
people's feelings and standing up
for what you believe.
Credentials on the wall do not
make you a decent human being.
Writing, as well as talking, can ease emotional pains.
The paradigm we live in is not all that is offered to us.
(This is my own personal rewrite or version if you will of a common
post on the internet with many contributors and credited to Anonymous)
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
When my time is done and I am finally laid to rest
I don’t want to be recalled as one who lived life depressed
So as I wrote my will, I chose to leave an instruction
That laughing gas be inhaled by all those at the function
No mournful eulogies will a pastor have to invent
For my funeral will be held under a circus tent
When dozens of clowns emerge from the tiny Volkswagen
Reams of my silly limericks Bozo will be dragin’
And as they’re read aloud, family and friends who knew me best
Will say, “She had a sense of humor, this we can attest.”
Mimes will mimic me trying to write the world’s best novel
As my corpse hangs from the trapeze, surely they will marvel
Laughter will ensue as they shoot me from the cannon
Flying high in my demise across the great Grand Canyon
All the children will smile and there’ll be no tears allowed
So no one will ever remember me as a “dark cloud”
There are people who seem to take life way too seriously
When I meet my Maker, don’t view this as a tragedy
Dad called me his “happy girl,” so let me go out that way
I want to leave them laughing as I reach my judgment day
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
I sit here alone...wondering...how much longer this...and in hearing
the question a silent icy fear blankets my body...the answer would
come wearing both masks...tragedy...comedy...this is my life. with
freedom comes death...it hangs over me like a Mexican piñata filled
with chocolate covered blades...so each day firmly slipped into
neutral I exist...barely a choice to live...so I ask myself...how
did I get here...the answer comes thundering from up above...
a dead poet speaks...son that is the path you chose at your fork
in the road... you don't argue the truth...you just throw cold water on
your face...no...you step into a frigid shower...cleanse your thoughts
...stand in defeat happy to feel something even if it is just the pain of
your nerve endings screaming...soaking wet and naked is the only life
you presently afford yourself...there is no one to hear your tears...
what little sound they make rolling down your cheeks...they are not
self pitying but rather wanting...of a loss so deep...what in your own
self appreciation defined you...you want back your art...it...that so
often led you back to the promised land...still you are not that hot
headed fool you once were...you will not stand on the mountain only
to shatter the tablets with their ten commandments...a cooler head
prevails...so you think...like a soap opera...these are the days of my
life...I am strong and vibrant...yes I am and I will walk as slowly as I
must towards my light and yes I will come out the other side a better
man for this.
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
The burial ground, groomed to greet
the gatherers of their love apocalypse
with garlands grown and sown
from the rose fire of Athena's throne,
on this day they come to mourn
the Poet who perished for the passion of his Beloved Poetess,
the battlefields knew well the iron of their blood,
the salt of their sweat, and the pounce of their love,
raised in the tradition of trauma
trained by the tempest of temptation
disciplined in the competition of desires
refined in the violent rituals of victory
they rose in love
with everything their hearts could sing, with all that war would bring,
and in the epicenter of erotic chaos
he slashed himself with the alter sword
so that she may be free to rule this realm,
Valkyries stand vigil with primroses on speartips
gaurding him, a purple glow in their vigilant eyes,
softly humming for the lightning of his soul
as those in attendance find their solemn places,
many are present,
Death is in the northeast corner cloaked in smooth black patience
knowing in sad satisfaction that every heart, beats to bleed no more,
Devotion, dressed in a mood of disbelief
with elbows out and fists on his hips
just stares sternly at everyone, one, by one,
Poetry and Love are wearing the reds of romance and sacrifice
while whispering living tears to eachother,
Humble remains seated, meek and agape
clasping Humility's dull hand
commiserating about too much and not enough as Pride stands near,
leaning coolly against a battered pillar of Roman endurance
looking at them as if to say, hey dumb dumbs,
don't disgrace their glory with your glum and glib sully,
Envy, in burnoose sackcloth wasted not the somber moment
to decry the Poet's purpose with claptrap commotion and no compassion,
in unison, all hush his pusillanimous pout with a scalding Ssshhhhhh!!!!!!!!!
Poetry, asking the Beloved Widow if she may speak
is granted permission after a breathless pause of heart heated exhaustion,
producing a daggar made from the breastbone of Eve
unflinchingly Poetry cuts both cheeks below her eyes
and the blood promenades to her ancient lips
where the warm pages of a white rose receive the ruby smear of this tragedy,
bringing the pleading flower to her own mouth
she releases a verse upon the universe...
When the nights knew no love
and her heart had only the shadow of warmth
he became the hero's breath upon her breast
the weapon she could trust
and the victor of her kiss,
when his strength served only survival
and desolation weighed the wings of his heart low
she gave his soul the sweet heat of a woman's touch,
teaching him that justice is alive in their love...
In the unbearable anguish of existing without him
she stomps to the blue marble casket,
tearing it open with love rage,
to slap and kiss her Beloved Poet once more,
suddenly, heart imploding panic bristles silently,
the air thins dangerously,
Pride plows through the throng to the side of she,
astonished, shock joy shaping his face,
the Poet's body be not there,
only the symbol of their love resides therein,
a golden pair of quills connecting in the center of a heart
their sign, their promise to eachother,
she turns to Love imploringly, for the truth,
and he removes the jewel from the coffin
returning it to it's rightful place
the safety of her bossom, telling her tenderly,
he yet lives for you, his love for you dies not -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015
i heard a...what do they say...a spine chilling scream
...is that the saying?
a spine chilling scream
'he's dead, my G_d he's dead'
the phrase echoed
inside the whole of me
like tennis balls bouncing between two parallel walls
i ran up
aware i would be at the edge
where the road ends and the gates of heaven stand
saw a young man
looked through the aperture of his existence
looked and singed his eyelashes
looked and could not see beyond now
you know those beautiful fluffy white clouds
the kind that feel like large teddy bears that want to hug you
she had landed her very own- she cherished him
knew who he was
felt lucky they shared a mutual love
i can't imagine the despair
flowed through her when she saw him like that
his doughy complexion screamed volumes
breaking the thunderous silence
he was a pale grey, blank, empty
a sight impossible to process
at odds with how one survives
the experience of this tragedy
she was lost in a dreamless mare
[most of the time
its outcome depends on the flip of a coin
if you don't know that you don't understand
his coin landed on its side
...all the kings men and all the kings horses...]
her 'beautiful huge fluffy white cloud'
had succumbed to the storm
heart in throat
she touched him
he was a frigid cold
for a moment she saw her own smokey breath
moving as if she was walking
through the thick grains of unbearable pain
she attempted to make sense of the senseless
despair had grabbed her by the throat
shook her around like so much thread and fabric
she thought he might of seen life as futile
society as a guise, as a failed paradigm
thought he had reached the last motel on the road to nowhere
and just...checked out
it's unlike any other pain
when it peaks
few if any survive it
the afflicted instinctively self medicate
but street drugs are mean
she could easily empathize
she too was him
honestly she was tired of living in her sadness
a life marinated in tears basted in blood
the experience of having seen her partner
lose his life to drugs and alcohol
affected her profoundly
experiencing his death
was like getting hit over the head with a sledgehammer
she'd never wash it off
it clung to her like a pariah
you can't wake up from reality
and you can't sleep through it
the tragedy had possessed her sensibilities
it was a malignant truth she could not ratify
singular in its nature
she'd been blindfolded and spun
a ballerina on a high wire across the span of time
spiralling down an infinite vortex
one plus one is seven
the ceiling isn't a celestial painting
how many fingers
a forty ounce of vodka
opioids a hundred times stronger than heroin
men in uniforms
less than two hours ago
he could think- speak
he had his very own persona
it could have been her
it could have be anyone
but it wasn't
it was- Him
what did occur to her
Copyright © Carol B. | Year Posted 2017
I do have purpose
that stays near
a constant reminder
of my inner child
As my conscienceness
shines through to create
a new perspective
I break out of my cocoon
Only to discover that
I find places where
the sanctity of my being
does not flow as it should
My intuition is what
guides me though
there is no longer the
desire for the constant
upheaval of tragedy to strike
On my journey I have
discovered that there
are many hidden truths
So as my spirit ascends
I am inspired by my bravery...
If I am frightened
by the visibility that
standing proud does to me
then I shall stand even taller
No longer will I fear
the degradation that
once was my shadow
there is no home here
for the shame any longer
And I will no longer be
swayed by the fragments of defeat
When I become sorely tempted by
And I think I can't
make it on my own
I will remember that
I am walking this
road of life for me...
Copyright © Christine Wessels | Year Posted 2007
If I cry
It must be the memory
Of a skirt unlifted by a gust
To still a boy's misery
And wipe my eyes dry
For the way time sears
Us like flowers
And reaped my mother
Before I was ready to let her go.
If I cry
I cry for days she sheltered me
From a child's web of fallacy
And put her spittle on my knee
Where bruised flesh
Was a boy's view of tragedy.
I would press my face
Against her dress
And feared no goliath
If I cry
I cry for evenings on the porch
When she gathered us
Our feet white with blowing dust
And hunger like a miner
We had so little to eat some days
But she with prayers picked fruits
Of heaven's mercy
And we thankful ate together
And heard her ancient anecdotes
Of ancestors' exploits that floats
Still upon a manhood sky.
If I cry
I cry that mothers' days are meaningless
When the sight of flowers
Are frail veils upon a grave
And the customized Christmas cards
Will not sparkle her eyes
Just before the kiss upon my cheek
Honoring me for faithfulness
And knowing her love measures more
More than a day
More than the years that sums earth's decay.
If I cry
I cry for the love of my mother
For the woman and life giver
For God to bring
Order to this unruly thing
That spoons our purpose to a cup
Before the dusk with each sup
Of time, diminishing us
I cry for faith to hold my trust
Against the agony of loss
Death is a demonic disgust
That makes me long
To substitute all tears for angels song.
If I cry
Preserved my hope with brine of eye
To live again
Without death or pain
And run with my mother
Through the clapping ovation of summer rain.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2009
Final days of truth approach
I'm haunted by a tragedy of living,
remembering what an ignorant fool
I was, indulging only in glowing pleasures
of a world that was full of lies.
Millions of seconds gone,
time misspent in a vast, empty space of life.
What must I do to atone?
I bow my head and on my humble knees
I cross a rainbow bridge,
search for a sweet blessing of love
and find a sweet serenity.
I hear a strange whisper,
A mumbling prayer of love.
It's strange that such an invocation
should ease my penitent pain.
For if old flowers their petals shed,
then there is hope for me
since I'll shed all my transgressions,
acquire new virtuous leaves
and pray to the Almighty
that He'll forgive my sins.
Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2017
Description of The Funeral of Atala (Funérailles d'Atala or Atala au tombeau), 1808, Louvre
I sauntered through the Louvre, observing art.
One painting struck me for its quality
of sadness; I could see a young man’s heart
was clearly broken by a tragedy.
The man is Indian; he’s in a cave
with an old man who holds the shoulders of
a woman they’ll be putting in her grave.
The Indian is mourning for his love.
He’s sitting, clinging to her draped knees, and
though for me this image was unclear,
a crucifix is clutched inside her hand.
Outside upon a hill, a cross is near.
The artist was recalling the sad scene
of Atala, a woman who was mired
in mental conflict. She was torn between
religious vows and the one man she loved.
Although the heroine wears virgin white,
some sensuality is shown with grace.
The day is waning, and the sun’s last light
caresses her fair bosom and her face.
The focus is this woman, but my eyes
go to the half-nude Indian whose skin
is brown, in contrast to the girl who lies
dead by her own hand for fear she would sin!
The novel that explored Atala’s woe
inspired more than one painter in the time
romanticism had begun to grow,
but Girodet’s work of art for me is prime!
Written May 9, 2017 for the Celebration of Art Contest of Kim Rodrigues
Note: I can't find a French syllable counter, but English puts the artist's name Girodet at three syllables.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017
with passion’s brilliant mediocrity
we sparked a flame with tragedy
it was our common fantasy
what a candid lie we chose to sing
while watching worlds were turning
we rubbed two thorns with yearning
we set emerald cities burning
what a candid lie we chose to sing
adoration reeked of haughty claim
adulation played a sordid game
affections viral... would not tame
what a candid lie we chose to sing
what a candid lie we sing
in the graying dawn of age
as with our trembling hands
we turn a bitter page
you gaily pierced the side of me
a garden weeps inside of me
anguish eats the soul of me
since you have forsaken me
what a candid lie I chose to sing
worlds keep on turning
affections keep on yearning
young men keep on learning
candid lies they gladly choose to sing
your last kiss came on my last dime
a greyhound bus rolled down the line
empty seats filled up with time
Copyright © lim'rik flats | Year Posted 2016
She lovingly smiles at him each evening
dressed in palest silk, a gossamer gown,
brushed with hints of silverdust shadows.
Her shapely fullness casts a womanly glow
across his surface in ripples of light.
Enthralled by her shimmering beauty,
he waves to her from Baltic blue depths
of his longing and unspoken passion.
Her reflection swims in his crests and troughs
as he cradles the embodiment of her perfection.
Crested fingers rise to fondle her magnificence
but vast distance keeps them too far apart.
Her heart guides the ebbing and flowing
of his tides in their nightly dance, spent romancing.
Fluidly, he waltzes her in rhythm to the shore,
serenaded by a chorus of flickering stars
singing a tune written eons before
Gershwin could dream of Rhapsody in Blue.
Little more could either of them do as
their song wafted in a dolorous lover's lament
known by humans but perceived by few
as a divergent love between two of Earth's forces
whose liaison would be a tragedy for me and you
Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2017
The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn,
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia,
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury,
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade,
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...
When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
Life has not ended, only changed
and so our lives are rearranged
for one so special now has gone
their spirit, to the Lord, was drawn.
And we are lost and so afraid
their memories will never fade
these cherished blessings paid the cost
and we are left behind so lost.
Someday soon you'll see them smile
with faces that always beguile
tiny Angels in deep blue sky
the precious treasues live on to fly.
Tender moments haunt the day
when quickly they were stolen away
from safety with no reason why
so many blessed souls had to die.
Now they abide in God's great love
in heavenly mansions high above
their presence felt forever new
smiling upon a family blue.
This tragedy is not in vain
their essence shall ever remain
recall the pleasant times all shared
as a Nation wept and cared.
So Life has not ended, only changed
and tears flow feeling constant pain
and understanding is so illusive
while we mourn withno conclusion.
Trust iin God's immortal Plan
He loves every child, woman and man
throw kisses to reach the Throne
as loving hearts abide in their new home.
*Written by: Linda-Marie B.R.
*For the victims of Sandy Hook - sent -22-13
Copyright © Linda-Marie SweetHeart | Year Posted 2013
My favorite cousin named Marge
is almost as big as a barge.
So one would assume,
not knowing the groom,
the guy would most likely be large.
But he was a small man named Tim
“As thin as a broom” describes him.
While Marge would guffaw,
Tim would watch her with awe
and just smile for he was so prim!
When the preacher addressed him and said,
“You may now kiss the bride,” Tim turned red,
for their lips could not meet.
With high heels on her feet,
Marge stood towering over his head.
She leaned down while Tim stood on his toes,
but for being in such a strange pose,
Marge then came toppling down
crushing Tim neath her gown
while the whole church erupted in “Ohhhhh’s.”
All was well, and thereafter, we ate;
then we planned next to dance until late.
But none could foresee
the small tragedy
that had us all leaving by eight!
Marge had tossed off her heels for a glide
on the dance floor, but when they both tried
to dance, Tim got snagged
by that dang gown and dragged
as his bride was beginning to slide. . .
Now shoeless, poor Marge could not stop.
Toward a table with candles on top,
they slid, and the groom
then set fire to the room
by landing with a belly flop.
Poor Tim by the candles got lit,
and we were all having a fit,
for the fire got spread fast
till the Best Man at last
got us all wet extinguishing it!
Inspired by the title of the movie: My Big Fat Greek Wedding
& : Joann Grisetti's "My Cousin's Wedding" Poetry contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
Grief is not something we “get through”…
you “get through” a bad day
Grief is not something we “get over”,
“you ”get over” a cold”
Grief is not something we “move on from”
you “move on from” a bad relationship”
But Grief is… a companion we “move forward with”,
learning from and growing, with each agonizing step.
Grief is… a heart-wrenching process, not bound by time,
But sets us on a “lifelong journey” of finding truth and meaning…
Grief is not a crutch we hold onto for pity
It is not a lack in character
It is not a weakness that needs to be strengthened
Or a problem that needs fixing
It is not an enemy to be slain
Or like a wild animal, to be caged
Grief is… “A METAMORPHOSIS OF HUMAN LIFE”
YES! that needs “time”… “A LIFETIME”
Grief is… an acknowledgement of true love shared
and true love lost
Grief is… a love we hold so deep within our souls
That our tears fall to caress the pain…
“God given tears”, full of purpose and meaning
For each one carries with it a piece of our heart
grief hugs us and holds us close
to a great love we can no longer touch…
grief is… our friend for without it
our lives would have been a lie.
Grief is…purely and simply a journey of love
It is a friend, to those of us who mourn
A friend who sees what we need and allows us to be us
Grief is a release of unimaginable pain…
a release of a great indescribable loss…
Grief is… the bridge that crosses repentant oceans,
spans desolate canyons, and fear filled mountain tops.
that we may cross over this tragedy to a renewed heart
by means of the love we shared and continue to share
through the love of our Almighty God
A pain we can use, to broaden our hearts
and the hearts of all those around us
it is… a road we must travel to gain wisdom.
A level of wisdom you will never achieve by playing strong.
For only when we sink to the bottomless pit of grief
Will we be awakened by the light of truth.
Do not judge it… for it contains Gods secrets
Secrets you can only hear by listening
through the blare of the pain.
It is a sacred contract to be in awe of and inspired by
To learn from and grow from
To gain compassion and understanding from
It is a journey that holds a sacred contract
That will be signed by each and every one of us
Who has the strength… and the courage…
to love with all your heart and all your soul.
It is not a journey I would wish on anyone
But now that I am here I will walk it with honor
And purpose, with my head held high and my feet in stride
For at the end of this road there you’ll be,
waiting to take me home.
Copyright © Bernard Colasurdo | Year Posted 2013
Two thousand years, a tragedy is past
Yet it's history still leaves us aghast.
On a night, dreadfully dark
A volcano erupted, leaving it's historical mark
Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD
The first recorded in all of history
The entire city of Pompeii
Defiled and buried that fateful day
On written account of a man named Pliny
can we view this volcano's ignominy
A city in which artist and poets did reside
Everything was not lost, the day all died
In centuries after, excavation has commenced
The city of Pompeii, antiquities recovered since
The House of the Tragic Poet, one of many unearthed
I will tell you about, from it's peristyle to hearth
Elaborate mosaic floors, frescoes on the wall
An inscription in Latin, from a dog guarding the hall.
The atrium filled with with Mythic Greek nudes
From the peristyle Achilles to be sacrificed exudes
Art along the east wall are of Achilles and Briseis
and the tragedy of Helen and Paris, all cherished
About the entire house, a living poem depicted
Along with words, owner, an artist addicted.
Two thousand years ago, this home was owned
Loved and nourished by a Popeiian unknown.
The House of the Tragic Poet
If you saw, you would know it.
Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2010
A hole in the head shooting pain trembles
nightshades coldly down the spine
a soul lost in the land of the living
carried away in darkness
flying inside dark clouds holding just a dream
Distant thunder roars lightening splitting cracks
sure as the crow flies crawling opens Hell's gates
dark jewels of the night
charred remains churning in a cauldron
boiling goodness tears of thoughts
Piercing screams spawning nightmares
holding a promise once made
walking in a valley amongst the dead
shadows now smile hearing animals scream
as the moon plays silver dancing light
Dreams snatched away from reality
the crow calls echoes in silence
victims of this world howling over and back
tragedy cries in their pain and suffering
eyes seeking light
whispers through the branches
a heather bleat creature of the night calls
Haunted by humans chained to the earth
awaiting shadows and sunsets
a cursed banshee wails supernatural screams
from everywhere and nowhere
Mind numbing winds passing through
a white silhouette shredded shroud
around a heart entombed
in agonies' twilight shades clouds darken
storms brewed stirring specters chase the wind
Cold rains become lost tears
the willow weeps in eternal sorrows
a lament for the dead
as the silver crescent moon smiles goodbye
Blends in clear as day after sunrise
forgotten in a valley of unrest
death bell's toll out from the past
onyx feathered crows call painful cries
Forever seeking heaven's gate now sealed
that promised choice was lost ages ago
only burning Hell fires
or cold earthworms await
Written by: Liam McDaid & Kelly Deschler
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015
'Tis now known why the Willow weeps,
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid,
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another,
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice,
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear,
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb,
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines,
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs,
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day,
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen,
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near,
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within,
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears,
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used,
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist,
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath.
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
On the eastern shore, she knocked on our door
Then drifted away to the west
She then turned north, and steadily forth
With rage upon her crest
As she gathered force, On a steady course
To a land below the sea
Too Unaware, or unprepared
For such a tragedy
Toppling of homes, the shredding of domes
of a wind that relentlessly blows
All the terrain, was flooded with rain
When the lake did overflow
And then she passed, and none to fast
This city beneath the sea
Leaving this flood, which carries our blood
Through a land of misery.
Copyright © Joe Inca | Year Posted 2005
Birth begins the tragedy in us. Life's
First sound is a blank scream
Against sorrow's hidden portends of strifes
All we know are mirages and dream.
Mother took the news staring at the sky
She must have cried inside
For I have no evidence else. There's no why
For it ... how my rage defied
Her callous front ... he was her first boy
The only hero she spoke well
Of, his name was the formula for joy
In our house: anecdotes tell
Of his escapades ... youth defying fate
He had a cat's tenacity for life
And from evil wills found a golden gate
Of scholarship and exotic wife.
I remember when the years pulled him back
All he came with was a bag
Of books, and a couple suits in novel sack
His eyes time warped, a lag
Of missing years and loneliness enfolding him
But he was handsome still
And my soul cartwheeled at joy's fresh brim
Those moments that he filled
When eyes first contact spelled pride to claim
This aristocrat like a medal
I could wear. So young he was, her true flame
The son of love's sweet recital!
And many days sitting in his shadow, I heard
Him dream big things like stars
Far away, warm things like a fluttering bird
Things made bright to cover scars
In the sore of memory. His mind was his cliff
A risky place in the high winds
And closer to the edge for the Grail he'd drift
O how the giddy world spins!
He died in Kingston: William came and went
And my mother looked at the sky
But until she died, about his memory was silent
And I forever wonder why.
I loved him, you know, he was the first best thing
A poor child had to claim or show
The world ... with him I was no more common. A king
He made me in his gold of glow
Something that I looked forward to meet in me. I,
Like mother, been silence since
But sometimes my heart just heave and would cry
For time this love cannot rinse
And I that moment cannot comprehend, that death
Gave no notice to his lauded day
And like common dust on a wild wind's balmy breath
My brother was swiftly swept away.
Copyright © L'nass Shango | Year Posted 2009
French trader Tavernier in a greed-inspired way
Glared at an idol of a temple in Mandalay
Prying a gem from its eye socket, a curse prevailed
Tavernier died bankrupt soon after making the sale
Louis XIV bought the stone, 1668
A gift to his mistress, Louis had it cut heart-shape
For dabbling in Black Magic, this madam was burned
A century passed with the curse’s power unlearned
The diamond was then bestowed on Marie Antoinette
For wearing it with boastful pride, Marie lost her head
She lost respect from the commoners of her nation
This gem has since been linked to the French Revolution
Cut far smaller, the gem resurfaced, 1830
When a London banker bought the rock of infamy
Henry Thomas Hope survived; the curse appeared to break
For 70 years the Hope Diamond’s wrath lay in state
A Hope heir’s marriage collapsed; his wife evoked the curse
As she foretold, subsequent owners’ fates would be worse
French broker Jacques Colot went mad, suicide his road
Sultan “Abdul the Damned,” insane after being deposed
Then to an American the Hope Diamond was sold
Washington Post owner Maclean watched horrors unfold
Other household members died, but it was Maclean’s son
Ten years old, struck by a car, his Dad’s mind came undone
Ultra-light ray tests caused the mystery diamond to glow
With safety in mind, Hope’s eerie stone found a new home
It remained locked on display in the Smithsonian
Could it be to blame for all that’s wrong in Washington?
Tragedy also tied to raiders of King Tut’s tomb
Perhaps lessons can be gleaned from those who met their doom
Robbing temples, burial sites, outcomes always bad
Greedy souls’ quests for wealth can leave them totally mad
So don’t expect me to purchase a diamond in the rough
Considering this gem’s history, a sandstone’s quite enough
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009
Striking Deeply a Painful Reminder
Striking deeply a painful reminder comes of you now.
Salt falls inside my open wound bringing untold pain.
My soul has one choice to make amidst all this pain,
Telling me the considered direction I must take now.
Washed through a dirty ocean lining all foamed up,
We are frustrated with ourselves to no end today,
As we stand at the crossroads of our broken lives
Asking sad, difficult questions and feeling all alone.
Begging the wrong side for forgiveness is no fun as
We answer while looking upon two sides of a story;
And a wounding confession of lights promises only
A flash darkness blinding out of a tragic haunted mist.
Warm dawning radiant colors say love to us both now,
As they elicit a soothing and gentle compassion of hope;
Yet real tenderness is nothing but an illusion as deep pain
Lives inside the shadows without any remorse or apology.
Invading poison of a snake bite brings such sweet love,
As your alter ego robs me of all my dignity and grace.
I listen now to the stark tonal sounds of the seagulls,
As they mix their cries over the ocean dark and deep.
Kissing salted waves filled with the care of true angels,
I cast now cruelly—bitter stones in the Garden of Eden,
While touching an apple once bitten never to shy away.
It’s funny how one can see such a tragedy in the daylight.
Sacrifice a dove dancing within the light now turning dark;
Behind the curtains a grotesque, ghastly face appears now
As the double side of your coin is exposed for all to see—
And when flipped, the truth opens its book quite readily.
Dropping down a snake crawls upon its soft underbelly,
And behind the scenes people find this image repulsive,
Since it portrays how a poisonous viper strikes fatally as
His very mask falls away for all to see his diabolical grin.
Forbidden is the soul of who you are and want now to be;
A sweet-talking deceiver I know too well for my own taste;
One who really hides behind a false face but revels in his
Deception as the dark demons mask their fear and cowardice.
Dusk now blends into the night as death comes to life;
I realize now the hellish intent of Lucifer’s own demon
Who stares intently at me with his blackest of eyes—
I see my soul consumed now in the flames of Hellfire!
In my final strength and emotion, I drop to my knees:
Almighty God in Heaven—Save me now . . . Amen!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 25, 2015
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015