Best Tragic Poems
Dark And Tragic, When Fate Sets Its Black Hand To Decide
Icy cold had invaded, her heart became a hard frozen tomb
Never again would she allow love to penetrate its new armored shells
That night she had seen one of death's many tragic and ugly faces
Its ancient mask, the one that crushes love's fever and kindness in a mere blink
Now she flows through a vacated life, on wings of sorrow's eternal flight
Awaiting a doom that her crushed soul welcomes in its dark and sunken state.
His death had been tragic, yet made for some of the most interesting news
All the clever twists and turns of an old Hollywood mystery movie script
So ghastly, his head found in the graveyard, atop her lover's white tombstone
His bullet riddled body found miles away in a cheap and tawdry motel room
Perhaps now he knows, how it feels to find Fate's eternal and deadly hand
In his well deserved doom, devil that had sent her into her dark and sunken state.
Robert J. Lindley, 6-30-2018
Prose, ( Tragedy In One Of Life's Screams)
Not For SilentOne's contest
Note : I rarely ever do Prose. Started with the plan to write for SilentOne's new contest but my muse took me ever onward and this became too long to enter.. Giving thanks for the inspiration but it does not meet the eight verse contest requirement.
So I post it now as it is and wonder why my muse so stubbornly refused to stop writing... She vexes me to no end sometimes.....
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.
A. Green
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.
The Sad And Tragic Death Of Emily Hope
That night flew roaring Wind- a mighty gale
over hill and dale through windows left up
Had I then known its fruits, I'd have turned pale
for its destruction was a bitter cup!
Yet I, pen in busy hand onward wrote
verses quite dear, to my romantic love
Thus in writing fever, I took no note
of great black wrath descending from above!
Alas! How could I, her sad Fate have known
how dark winds, her dearest life with Fate sealed
Foul and wicked Wind's evil had thus blown
tragic death, no prayer could have repealed!
Her home blown into badly broken heaps
her fragile body under massive weight
My soul cried out, in greatest depths sad weeps
for evil often works with Hand Of Fate!
Then destroyed, my once so happy belief
in love's magic and promised paradise
From this darkened world, I found no relief
just enough bread and water to suffice!
Once thinking of death by gun or short rope
in love-lost grief life, nothing came around
Then I recalled, hope, her last name was Hope
in that word, my recovery was found!
Robert J. Lindley, 1-18-2017
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 240
Total # Words: 186
Note- A sad one , because life with its joys , often brings in tragic and sad events..
We that survive such must learn to live with it and always have hope in future happiness and love of family...
UNDEFINED (a true story)
The morning after the total housefire, 52 years ago, when
the journalist asked the elderly man,
“How do you feel after this tragic, sudden death of your wife?”
I’d expected to hear a few sad words
in response to the intrusive question,
But his unforgettable answer changed my life,
As he stated, “I looked up ‘grief’ in the dictionary
and none of the definitions listed fit what I was feeling.”
In the on-screen, hanging silence
Created by his unexpected response,
The interview ended there, holding on to
a side shot of the old man backing away
— with his new weight from the loss
of home and wife…
As he shrugged his shoulders
While letting go a great sigh, and
To define in that last shown moment,
In universal body language,
The Un-knowing
That may wallow within us
Around our resignation to grow past difficult times,
To venture out again to
Places where things may lay as yet undefined
and, therefore, beyond control…
Where tears may for awhile be our sole recourse
To stand for the words of our sorrows
That we share kneeling in prayer for some
Divine guidance to face the further exigencies of life.
——————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 6/ 2024
I think I'll open a tragedy club
where people can come to weep
I'll tell the saddest stories around
admission will be cheap
I'll call the venue Tragic Relief
where heartache is the norm
and "open mike night" amateurs
can mournfully perform
To be a standup tragedian
has been a lifelong dream
No longer caring to cry alone
I might even form a team
We'll bill ourselves as "Wailing & Tears"
and tour throughout the land
We'll have them bawling in the aisles
til they can hardly stand
They'll cry a mighty river
at our films from year to year
We'll throw in fresh cut onions
just to wring out every tear
Appearing at my club some time
to do a special show
the hottest new tragedians
will tell their tales of woe
No matter if your background is
from denim or fine silk
we'll gather round and cry all over
puddles of spilled milk
So take a break and come on down
and turn your joy to grief
Just keep your eyes peeled for the sign
that says Tragic Relief
"Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come." By Rabindranath Tagore
death
sublime
eternal
life's journey ends
i n e v i t a b l e
river meets the ocean
the wheel of life keeps moving
ignoring sad separations
blazing auburn fall leaves sprawl on ground
reminding life's tragic impermanence
Life is a dream, death a permanent pause
end of hopes, and wishes, blissful joys
bright light dimmed, memories remain
tender reminiscences
of being together
caring for loved ones
dreams never die
death fails to
erase
dream
February 16, 2022
For E-Form Etheree Contest
Theme: Death
Syllables checked by HMS.com
Sponsor: Constance La France
SECOND PLACE
Brian Strand Formal Poetry Contest
FIRST PLACE
You start out green and new, as a brand new shoot, nurtured by a ‘Loving Mother Tree,’ and surrounded by lush, growing sibling leaves all
In relative, naive Harmony.
You mature and grow into The Most Beautiful Version of Yourself, peaking a little too early, given the length of your life cycle.
After you’ve served Your Purpose (you were never told what it was), your kindly mother turns on you;
Once she nurtured you, watered you, and warmed you by sunlight.
You were whole and thriving and complete.
Now, She cuts off these vital nutrients.
All of a sudden, you’re given no light, no food, no water.
And no answers about WHY.
Your sibling leaves are going through a similar situation,
So they are of very little use to you.
Frankly, they’re every bit as confused as you.
You slowly starve and dry up until you’re officially “desiccated.”
Then, the Mother Tree drops you.
The winds of change blow you onto a completely random path, forcing you to intermingle with leaves you don’t even know,
Making one last splash as “fall foliage,”
Which you don’t even enjoy because you look so differently than you did in your prime , you barely recognize yourself anymore.
The next thing you know, you’re 5 miles down the road, in a Stranger’s yard (not even a nice one),
Being raked into giant piles and stuffed into suffocating black garbage bags,
Kicked to the curb to ferment a little while, and then
Carted off by some rather grubby-looking men to be burned and cremated.
By that point, you welcome it.
Well I'll be a monkeys uncle
If that old King Kong
And the lizard Godzilla
Did not one day fall in love
It was the wildest looking of all affairs
One of the strangest scenes
With all of that burly bristley hair
Mixed with all that slimy green
They both met on the corner
In The Big Apple downtown
Amid all the screaming heebie jeebies
Of people running around
Between the two of course you knew
It would be love at first sight
And what love story isn't tragic
Without a few squished passersby...
I was adopted as a young child
Throughout my life I’ve been reviled
All my emotions ran so wild
My tragic sad childhood
I was breathless when mum called
but at her words I was appalled
and they left me sad and galled
My tragic sad childhood
Forsaken by my mother
who chose one over the other -
she preferred to keep my brother!
My tragic sad childhood
Separation broke my heart
I was given a fresh start
Destiny kept us far apart
My tragic sad childhood
FICTION POEM FOR CONTEST
Rhyme and Refrain Contest
Sponsored By Broken Wings
5/1/18
"If a deal looks too good to be true, it probably is." - Michael Douglas
I have a tragic tale to tell.
This story’s true, so listen well
so you won’t let the devil’s spawn
lure you with an evil con.
A lovely woman close to me
is on a path of misery
because her husband got deceived
by “short trades” very ill-conceived.
Online he met a female shark
who saw him as an easy mark.
A lot of money he amassed.
Millions even – it came fast.
I told the woman not to let
her spouse do things he would regret.
How could his wealth be so immense
in such short time? It made no sense.
Some things are too good to be true.
That was the most obvious clue.
There was so much that seemed amiss.
I told her, “Get him out of this.”
He got his parents to invest,
and then he did his very best
to find a friend with cash on hand -
a huge one-hundred sixty grand!
Oh my, and then the woman’s spouse
borrowed cash against their house.
Two hundred grand! He dipped into
their life insurance and pensions too.
Her spouse did things behind her back.
Why was he blind and so off track?
The old male friend who trusted him
lost so much money. Things are grim.
Their lot in life had not been bad.
But discontent her husband had
because he wanted more and more.
But look what life now has in store.
Their life is now a living hell.
I hope their house they still can sell.
This woman did not have to go along
and sign the second mortgage. That was wrong.
Undoubtedly her spouse is filled with shame.
His lovely wife now too shares some blame
for trusting in him when instead
she could have stopped the madness as it spread.
I’d told this lady, “Stop your husband, please.”
His lust for wealth is a disease.
His children’s futures he has hurt.
The scams online are piss and dirt.
This lovely lady’s now so stressed
because her spouse is so hard-pressed
to know exactly what to do.
Since all is lost, what will ensue?
The loss of a child goes beyond tragic,
a parent's worst nightmare and greatest pain.
For no pleading prayers, not even magic,
can ever bring your baby back again.
And all attempts at closure, seem in vain,
as hot tears of grief burn like acid rain.
Technology freezes time on a drive
where cameras save smiles, you can enjoy.
And for a while at least, they feel alive,
watching them play with their favorite toy
all dressed up as a princess or cowboy...
forever moments, meant to share their joy.
Condolences offered to share sadness,
though heartfelt, fail to calm your hurting heart.
And trying to deal with all the madness,
you flip through clips, pressing pause and restart.
But never knowing when the tears will start,
your emotions oft tear your heart apart.
Only one love can match a parent's love,
and that is the love of our Lord above.
(Urban Sonnet)
06/21/2020
Mother,
I meant to finish college and
go get my Master’s degree,
to become and engineer
and built great things in our cities.
I meant to show you my new house
with a suite above the garage,
so you could leave that damn ghetto
and have a safe placed to lodge.
I meant to tell you of my Marie,
how she’s all wrapped around my heart,
let her tell you how excited
she is for the family we’ll start.
I meant to show you your grandkids,
two boys and a little girl,
so you could spoil them rotten,
show them off to all the world.
I meant to thank you in a speech
when I got that big award,
then be ushered off the big stage
before the audience got bored.
I meant to help you with the bills
when your health began to fail,
to rant and rave at the doctors
if you continued to ail.
I meant to make the Holidays
a joyous time for family,
to invite them all down here
and throw a truly righteous feast.
I meant to do so many things,
to love, strive, achieve and give,
but mostly mom, to be honest,
I think I most wanted to live.
But in an inner-city clinic
they stuck a vacuum in my head,
barely made it half-way out,
you meant for me to be dead.
"Life is tragic so listen with thirst for the music of happiness."
Quote _by Poet
Life is a journey full of moments - of struggle,
for a poet the gathering of emotions;
the penning of poems that one day will crumble,
of words that crash together like waves in oceans.
And my journey has been the road of a writer,
I have written of the scars on my soul and heart;
I have penned of nature and the birds that flutter,
and I suppose I will till the day I depart.
And when the day comes that is to be my last one,
I would pen- even if just in my fading mind;
a tale, the story of how it had all begun,
I would leave all my delight and sorrow entwined.
My last poem- the last would be heartbreak and bliss,
hold a song full of birds singing a cappella;
I would walk a Zen garden into an abyss,
and stroll in the falling rain with no umbrella.
Life is a journey full of moments - of struggle,
and my journey has been the road of a writer;
and when the day comes that is to be my last one,
my last poem- the last would be heartbreak and bliss.
_____________________
November 28, 2020
Poetry/Rhyme/Life is Tragic
Copyright Protected, ID 11-1308-195-28
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, The Last 1
sponsor, Anthony Biaanco, Judged 02/03/2021
Fifth Place
“It” embraces “togetherness”
Like blemished mascara on a retired call girl
“It” would speak in aggressive audible banter,
As if crystallized bullhorns were
Strapped
Onto unwelcome seating arrangements
No boundaries.
No consideration.
No apologies.
Yet, their measurement of pride
Coagulates into withered centimeters
While seducing unscented tulips
With impoverished protractors
And tattered encyclopedias
An unsatisfied square root with no common denominators,
Lacking
No (re)solutions.
Does “it” see colors when they build a façade of deteriorating vowels?
Or is their blood alcohol level tested
By walking on borrowed heels
And pickup lines made of disappearing ink,
Purchased in bulk
Could they realign high hopes while riding on constipated high horses?
Hoping to veer towards whimsical sunsets,
With silver medal’s soul mate,
Drinking from another cracked bowl of pretentious vapors
Feeble attempts to take the hand of any “available” heartbeat,
Hoping they can slow dance to their newly, hand-written
“Woe is me” Polka ballad
Another baby put in the corner
Another bounced reality check
Another hunt for rebounded bliss within conceptual kiss
No hope -> Know hope
No love -> Know love
No better -> Know better
An educated tragedy is their only flirtatious lyric.
©Drake J. Eszes