Best Weepy Poems
I take my hat off for the flag
I stand up straight; let others sag
I get all weepy for Old Glory
thinking of my family's story
They came from Russia with naught but hope
with just their wits to help them cope
No language skills or education either
Money or living quarters, they had neither
But they scraped and scrimped, and just kept going
Gramps peddled junk, grams did the sewing
And with the help of God, it all worked out
Hard work and faith -- their kids did sprout
My father an attorney, my uncle a physician
All due to gram and gramps' prescient intuition
To emigrate alone, part of no community
to an unknown land of opportunity
Categories:
weepy, america, cry, grandfather, grandmother,
Form:
Couplet
There is much to be said about the value of friends
Those who lift us up when we try to make amends
A crutch to help us stand when we stumble and fall
Hit us with the power of truth, thrown like a fast ball
They offer welcoming shoulders to receive our tears,
Teach us the importance of choosing to change gears
To stand with us against the barbs of disgruntled foes
Refrain from judging when we've caused other's woes
Those who are patient listeners, offering us their ears
They dry our weepy eyes, smile at us and say, "Cheers."
We love their tender mercies in forgiving us our faults
Honoring them humbles us, and their character it exalts.
Categories:
weepy, friend,
Form:
Rhyme
(On the state of American Poetry- A Non-Poem Poem )
I'm Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
They voted. I won.
' came down to me and the kid whose dog craps on everyone's lawns.
His poem was about a missing red crayon; mine: the stop-sign someone stole from the corner of Elm and Main (I think I know who did it too).
Is it coincident both poems are about loss?
Probably not. Poetry is at it's best when expressing loss.
He'll probably win the position back next year with a weepy poem about not having been chosen Poet Laureate Of Main Street.
That's fine with me, as long as he keeps that damn dog in his own yard.
Categories:
weepy, humor, irony, poetry, satire,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Reflections of you are colored in blue
like the sky on the day we first met.
The sky was so clear; your eyes were so dear.
Such a day I could never forget.
Reflections of you are colored in blue
like the bluebells nearby where we lay.
Their scent in the air; your soft golden hair.
How I longed in that moment to stay!
Reflections of you are colored in blue
like the lake where we often would laze.
Together and free; your arms around me.
Now I yearn for those sweet summer days.
Reflections of you are colored in blue
like the twilight that too soon would blend
with shadows of night as stars lost their light
and the love of my life had to end.
For the Weepy Quatrain Contest of Laura Loo
(I hope multiple quatrains are ok!)
Categories:
weepy, blue, longing,
Form:
Quatrain
I saw fingers severed
with comically large scissors
and heads near severed
with an even larger pair,
or crimped stubbornly halfway.
I contemplated with some hurt
what I might have thought
to be my earliest loss,
and thrust myself headlong
into my first descent.
The darkest car I’d ever not seen
carried me effortlessly to my future
across snow and water at once,
in love with a girl I’d never met,
I think she loved me too.
Darkness enveloped me
in my vast empty room,
and I’d swear I killed a man
and dropped his lifeless reproach
in a dusty, uncertain old cupboard.
I wrestled the nasty black swan
and found my hero of the moment,
smaller and stranger
then I’d ever thought him to be,
and I swore to God it was him.
I dropped by the bank,
a hero of earlier moments
mirthfully gave me the gears,
as we argued the toss
he couldn’t help but have a giggle.
A giant came bearing down on me,
then went weepy and forlorn,
wailed about the love not known,
the city lights and the city streets
quietly frowned with dismay.
I stared down enemies unknown,
I was afraid and they were sure,
but I found a greater wrath,
I don’t think I killed any of them,
but I guess I probably should have.
And to this day, still not seen,
I don’t even know if it matters.
31st October 2018
Categories:
weepy, allegory, analogy,
Form:
Free verse
~Seven Dwarfs~ (limerick sequence)*
There once was a dwarf named Doc,
Who saw patients around the clock.
He hadn’t gone to medical school,
Yet his patients he could easily fool,
For his meds were always chalk.
There once was a dwarf named Sleepy,
Whose wife was extremely weepy.
She wanted to travel
But couldn’t unravel
His hair from the bed canopy.
There once was a dwarf named Happy,
Who ate only fudge and taffy.
His tummy got big.
He looked like a pig.
So he switched to chocolate frappé.
There once was a dwarf named Bashful,
Who’s wallet was always cash full.
Too timid to spend
For fear he’d offend
The peons whose homes were trash full.
There once was a dwarf named Dopey,
Who’s mind was mightily mopey.
His speech was so slow
His belle didn’t know
That he wanted to elopey.
There once was a dwarf named Grumpy,
Who became a little rumpy.
He ran ten miles a day,
But much to his dismay,
His butt just became real lumpy.
There once was a dwarf named Sneezy,
Whose allergies made him wheezey.
He wanted to play the romantic lead,
But instead did the voice of a dying steed,
In a film by Martin Scorsese.
*the real ending to "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs"
Categories:
weepy, funny
Form:
Limerick
If love does not live so that love may live,
Wrecked on rugged rock like a pirate ship;
Tiresias speaks to hearts—no love to give,
Darkness and void with no inspired lips;
If love is quashed short of its golden prime,
Like dinosaurs smashed by a meteorite;
Crushed from its age of blossoming on time,
Like breath strangled from life not to unite!
Then O’ love, send me Pegasus to ride,
Spread your wings—lift us to Zeus in the sky;
Touching constellations with them abide,
Creating cherished crescendos for weepy eye:
Lightning life beaming love from golden clouds
Descending passion upon earth erasing shrouds!
Categories:
weepy, happiness, health, imagination, inspirational,
Form:
Sonnet
Wallflowers with their faces raised,
and others too, with heads bowed low;
the weak, the stronger, eyes all glazed...
those flowers there all in a row.
Wallflowers placed against the wall,
stems bent and twisted, on display.
In a long row, they line the hall,
like wilted plants, no role to play.
Wallflowers there lined up as eight;
tomorrow perhaps there are less.
So soon replaced by whims of fate...
more added flowers in distress.
They stab the heart of those who pass;
eyes look into our depth of soul.
Blank eyes that glare like faded glass...
sad hearts that know there is no goal.
Wallflowers there against the wall;
from wheelchairs come the quiet cries.
I hear their silent, pleading call...
My anger I cannot disguise.
Sandra M. Haight
~8th Place~
Premiere Contest: Weepy Quatrain
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 05/21/2016
================================
I wrote about this moment, which is
intensely frozen in my mind, because of a visit to a local
nursing home. (photo from Goggle images.)
Categories:
weepy, anger, emotions, lonely, old,
Form:
Quatrain
Late night summons madmen,
madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours clothe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, just circumstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metals magnified
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned building, hollow-eyed
and squinting in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamps spot
the cats a'creeping worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
Categories:
weepy, on writing and words,
Form:
Verse
Fun With Puns*
A shepherd and his sheep once took
A shortcut across a frozen brook
The owner charged a very high price
For pulling the wool over his ice
I didn't know if I were a wigwam or tepee
So I was really depressed and sort of weepy
Then a psychiatrist with very good sense
Explained I was just a couple of tents
Benny was rescued from a terrible place
And lived out his life in a silver vase
Thus he was a guy who finally learned
That a Benny saved is a Benny urned
A man bought an expensive new car
And stopped for some drinks at a local bar
Soon after he picked up some of his friends
Who quickly learned how a Mercedes Benz
Snow White felt weak and unsteady
When her photographs weren’t ready
She chewed on some gum and felt less glum
Certain someday soon her prints would come
Palm fronds are very relaxative
Swallow them; they’re a very good laxative
They won’t hurt you; they’re not venomous
So, with fronds like those, who needs enemas
It would be nice to have four more puns
Because a total of ten would be fun
Maybe one of them upon humor depended
Or it's very possible that no pun in ten did
*Of course, I would have given credit to the authors of these puns, but they are unknown.
Categories:
weepy, fun, humor, word play,
Form:
Rhyme
A Garden Dreamy
I often dream a sweet little daydream,
of a garden dreamy . . .
A lush woodland place with a flowing stream,
up above are drifting clouds like ice cream;
a realm of floating bees and butterflies,
a paradise of birds songs and plumage;
where green tree leaf frogs sing me lullabies,
taking me back to my childhood age;
and I am a little weepy . . .
Then a little girl stands in a sunbeam!
A sweet girl who left me one winter day,
and her name is Suzanne . . .
She takes me by the hand and giggles gay,
among painted daisies and snowdrops we play;
I was so shy and she was always wild,
we weave in and out of the tall yarrow;
a bouquet of posies, from a lovely child,
then, Suzanne is fading to a shadow;
I dream whenever I can . . .
I daydream this dream that will always stay!
____________________
January 18, 2017
Poetry/Verse/A Lovely Little Daydream
Copyright Protected, ID 17-8867-022-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Screwed XV
sponsor, Rob Carmack
Categories:
weepy, dream, garden, sister,
Form:
Verse
they lay cold and hungry on war torn streets
lost in the conflict, no one hugs away fears
frightened, confused, by the noise and the heat
found by children's rescue, crying ... no tears
in a state of shock, in ruins we found them
trembling, lying in dirt, not knowing we care
bathed and fed them, clinging fast to my hem
glad to have someone, who for them is there.
found homes for most of them in countries afar
the love and silence is overwhelming
a small smile is reward to the folks who care
giving them hope and love unending.
penned 22 May 2016
Children of Conflict final date of contest N/A Weepy Quatrain 6/20/2016
Judged 5/22/2016 7:09:00 PM given N/A
Categories:
weepy, children, war,
Form:
Quatrain
Mind paints canvas of life as amateur
Some hues taken from palette of events
Some contributed by human nature
oozing from emotive urge at moments.
Heart gallery frames happy happenings
Those turn weepy are mercilessly torn
Ugly chapters showing spastic paintings
Some to erase and some get forgotten.
Brush browses on multiple episodes,
Patches of pigments collide in collage
kaleidoscope of memory decodes
Some pictures go hazy, some to enlarge.
Throughout life did ‘Mind’ the painter paint well?
Canvas of life with overlapped hues can't tell.
Categories:
weepy, art, beauty, life,
Form:
Sonnet
Sleepy,
Weepy,
Sweetie,
Cutie,
Babe drools.
It crawls,
On floor,
On four.
Burbles,
Gabbles,
Wets bed,
Cute bud!
Guileless,
Artless,
Chuckles,
Giggles,
Grows up.
Sits up.
Child walks.
Child runs.
Climbs up.
Falls down.
Naughty,
Haughty,
Spoiled brat!
Moppet!
Mom’s joy!
Dad’s toy!
God’s gift
World’s light!
________________
August.2.2022
~ Placed Tenth~
Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Categories:
weepy, child, cute love, father,
Form:
Footle
Nightscapes
...inspired by 'Rhapsody On A Windy Night'
by T.S. Eliot
Late night summons
madmen, madams, bold streetwalkers,
picking pennies from the gutters
as the merchants close their shutters
and the homeless crouch in doorways
in their rags, against the cold.
Black or white, no compromise,
no colours bathe the empty streets,
as Bobbies tread their lonely beats,
the watchmen rub their crusted eyes
and settle into vigilance,
no accident, no happenstance.
Midnight passes.
Leila in her bursting bodice
lingers, guesses who I am
and flaunts her body, all the same
to her, a customer who'll pay
for twenty minutes' satisfaction.
Dressed in taffeta and lace,
she'll never even see my face,
night's sweet anonymity,
the very definition of her name.
Later, as the moonbeams shift,
and cloudlines disappear and drift,
come images in stark relief
of twisted metal, broken things
that catch the eye, suspend belief.
Abandoned buildings, hollow-eyed
and winking in a death mask grip,
skeletal, once filled with pride,
now empty, and for ever tongue-tied,
cadavered, and condemned to drip.
Still later, the street-lamp spots
the cats a'creeping, worldly-wise,
and rats along the quayside waiting,
ready for the avalanche
of waste into the yawning dumpsters.
I have seen the children sneaking out
before the dawn comes crawling,
dirty little ragamuffins forced
into leftover clothes,
weepy-eyed and snotty-nosed,
playing with a rotting carcass
or a broken bicycle.
Categories:
weepy, on writing and words
Form:
Verse