Best Widows Poems
She waits, and Oh so patiently!
every day she looks, ("Oh, might I gloat?")
for sight of that one trawler, 'The Forever,'
cresting waves, he, wildly cursing,
all the while he's still afloat,
and every day she moans, "Oh, may he never..."
Nails bitten to the quick,
worrying her apron string
or some small piece of fabric;
she's constantly in hope the weather's kind,
carelessly cleaning candlesticks, she fiddles
with her wedding ring to occupy her mind.
The ocean seethed, and then it settled,
roared once more, its fury unrestrain'd.
The sea and Mary sharing mixed emotions,
would he wave, or would he wander?
chain'd in brute defiance, shamed if all his catch
were empty hull and broken promises.
A prideful man was he, and never satisfied
'til he had stretched his nets to overflowing.
As much tied to Neptune's rhythms as her rhyme,
and sometimes even more so,
he'd struggle 'gainst all odds before he'd quit,
but it was time;
time to raise the sails, admit he's bested,
and plot a course for Mary, fair and frail,
but cruel weather proved his blind undoing,
his compass broke, he couldn't see for hail,
his boat a mass of many splinter'd pieces,
he tried to make it home, to no avail.
Mary saw the wreck upended on the shoreline,
and saw the name 'Forever' on its side,
"wait," she cried, "I will not live without you,
forever in your arms I must abide!"
She cast herself from off the highest landing
and was borne off with the ebbing of the tide.
Endlessly the widows weep
For their adored lovers lost
To their final, eternal sleep;
This is wars cost.
The reasoning for their loss they can’t dispel,
For in reality there’s no protected to keep;
Of this irrefutable knowledge they can’t quell,
Forever floating in their emotional sea they steep.
The loss of these souls is abundant,
Annually growing dismally deep,
To the point the numbers are redundant;
Endlessly more and more widows will weep.
While Super Bowl man fans are dipping
their chips in hot cheese and beer-sipping,
some wives go get thrills
where they’re dipping their bills
in the tight briefs of hot young men stripping.
'ALL YOURS (May 27)' Poetry Contest of Brian Strand
The Vicar’s sermon
Frank and forthright
Raised the question
Of the widows mite
Quite unnecessary
In my humble view
Because in our parish
There are only two
And I know for a fact
That they both do
Crying out in anguish.
Flesh, and blood, and voice!
A cleansed soul left to dry!
Such searing pain, such poise.
Gnashing waves rise,
to salty eyes.
No mercy!
No release shall fall!
How shall she live,
this wicked life?
What will become,
of these hollowed walls?
She cannot breathe!
She cannot fight!
All hope has faded,
gone from her sight.
You! All the many you!
Know you this pain?
Her lifes mate!
How shall she bare,
empty weight?
This lifeless spirit!
She bleeds dry, in daily strides.
Oh, a survivor she is, to be sure.
Rising naturaly as the tides.
Tho this unseasoned shell...
will prevail.
It is not a happy day!
Ner a voice is heard!
Love! Love!
Oh Love!
This union, this best!
All seeking, in times test.
Upon her face, balances some hope.
Who now, shall give testament to this life?
When all is woe unto this widowed wife.
She walked alone, no one was there
No spring she had within each step
She walked as if she did not care
And while she walked she also wept
She wept not for lack of romance
She wept not for being in pain
It was for the men lost in France
And for the ones buried in Spain
She wanted love, to do the dance
Many a young maid, unfulfilled
A war widow without the chance
Broken within, her wishes chilled
Now old and bent, too many years
Carrying the weight of those tears
© Oct 19 2010 Charles Henderson
2 nd in John's "sonnet" contest
The swing of this royal and ancient game
gets in your blood and under your skin,
but invites in men’s hearts a peaceful aim
till you shank and your head starts to spin.
I am hooked, addicted to the flag green,
and no golf widow will my fix deny -
no finer joy with pants on has there been
but take my wife before my clubs or die!
There is no greater handicap in life
than a teed-off nonplaying wife.
She who snidely thinks
to call us the "missing links".
I love you both but I declare
to my widow who mourns me I swear
I drive the fairway or the highway!
Now all you golf junkies repeat after me
I shall not hit and miss, swear or kick,
lest soon that birdie become a bogey
and your putter become a broken stick.
A cruel game for sadists and man-boys
where a preferred lie is sometimes true,
and new graphite, titanium and steel toys
vex the woman but what am I to do?
There is no greater handicap in life
than a teed-off nonplaying wife.
She who snidely thinks
to call us the "missing links".
I love you both but I declare
to my widow who mourns me I swear
I drive the fairway or the highway!
I love its sexy curves, doglegs and roll
in fatal attraction of grounds and course,
I play my best on the long nineteenth hole
but in my house that’s grounds for divorce.
I am hooked, addicted to the flag green,
and no golf widow will my fix deny -
no finer joy with pants on has there been
but take my wife before my clubs or die!
There is no greater handicap in life
than a teed-off nonplaying wife.
She who snidely thinks
to call us the "missing links".
I love you both but I declare
to my widow who mourns me I swear
I drive the fairway or the highway!
Written: September 2004
love is to a heart
as black widow is to mate
they can be killers
My husband is a shooter,
Which isn't always fun,
As every weekend
He's out somewhere with his gun.
So quality time together
Can sometimes be quite sparse,
"But I have to have a hobby."
He tells me with a laugh.
Our daughters getting married
To a super guy called Tom,
Has he any faults?
I've discovered just the one.
He also is a shooter,
His hobby is the same,
He can't wait to get out
And with his gun take aim.
So this week we decided
To be a shooters WAG
And go along with them,
Maybe hold their bag.
So Lu and I rose early,
Up at the crack of dawn,
To go and watch them shoot
On this early Sunday morn.
It was then that we discovered,
She's marrying her Dad!
Just a fairer version,
Oh dear could this be bad?
They speak the same language,
Of floppy stuff and rabbits,
They have the same mannerisms,
The very same habits.
They pull out their guns
From gun sleeves in time.
Pick up their bags together
And up the hill they climb.
They put on identical glasses,
Taken from identical tins,
From behind they could be,
The dark and fair haired twins.
They stand and measure clays,
Arms up in the air,
Give each other
The very same stare.
Their heads move in unison
As they watch the others shoot,
They both rest their guns
Upon their right boot.
They congratulate each other
On a job well done,
Share a bit of banter,
Have a lot of fun.
Discuss with other shooters
The angle of the clay,
"What is your score card
Looking like today?"
So my darling daughter
Your weekends could be a bore.
When he gets back home again
He'll sit and analyse the score.
We'll have to get a hobby
That is just for us two,
'Cause Dad and Tom jointly
Will stick together like glue!
A tree in widow's weeds contrasts the frosty dawn after so wild and wet a storm.
A soldier dies, his widow cries,
His child, mother and father sighs,
And the vile racists spread their lies,
Today it's not only the soldier who died,
But decency, integrity, humility and pride.
People have gathered together to mourn,
But a small minority pushes forward forlorn,
Trying to capitalize use this as a platform for their lies
However we must remember that a soldier has died
And in her grief the widow cried.
As the child grows up his choice is clear,
He must resist the hatred and confront his fear,
For if he believes the racists lies,
An innocent person will die
And another widow will be the one to cry.
The cycle will continue for time evermore,
With death being the one keeping score,
An eye for an eye until we're all eventually blind,
Unless the child leaves revenge behind,
Maybe then can the widow attain peace of mind.
WIDOWS AND ORPHANS OF WAR
In all the wars the world has known
There's come the grief of a broken home
A home where love had once been shown
But now a family is all alone
The father and husband gave his life
And left behind his children and wife
To face a life without the one
That brought them joy – happiness – fun
Where did he go ne'er to return?
To fight a war, that we might earn
The freedom to live out of harm's way
In this marvelous land called the USA
But what of the family he left behind
The children, the wife – where will they find
The comfort and love he once gave
While he lies buried in an unmarked grave
It's up to us to fill the role
To carry on for this departed soul
And be sure that we will always care for
The widows and orphans caused by war
Curtis Moorman
21 March 1995
She waits, and Oh so patiently!
every day she looks, ("Oh, might I gloat?")
for sight of that one trawler, 'The Forever,'
cresting waves, he, wildly cursing,
all the while he's still afloat,
and every day she moans, "Oh, may he never..."
Nails bitten to the quick,
worrying her apron string
or some small piece of fabric;
she's constantly in hope the weather's kind,
carelessly cleaning candlesticks, she fiddles
with her wedding ring to occupy her mind.
The ocean seethed, and then it settled,
roared once more, its fury unrestrain'd.
The sea and Mary sharing mixed emotions,
would he wave, or would he wander?
chain'd in brute defiance, shamed if all his catch
were empty hull and broken promises.
A prideful man was he, and never satisfied
'til he had stretched his nets to overflowing.
As much tied to Neptune's rhythms as her rhyme,
and sometimes even more so,
he'd struggle 'gainst all odds before he'd quit,
but it was time;
time to raise the sails, admit he's bested,
and plot a course for Mary, fair and frail,
but cruel weather proved his blind undoing,
his compass broke, he couldn't see for hail,
his boat a mass of many splinter'd pieces,
he tried to make it home, to no avail.
Mary saw the wreck upended on the shoreline,
and saw the name 'Forever' on its side,
"wait," she cried, "I will not live without you,
forever in your arms I must abide!"
She cast herself from off the highest landing
and was borne off with the ebbing of the tide.
widows speak their jargon
we don’t all speak the same language
they don’t understand me
i don’t understand them
i’m mystified to find
they’re foreign to me
we have in the end
surprisingly little in common
i hate platitudes
i can’t seem to talk to anyone
without getting frustrated
things I guess
are complicated
subtle differences heightened
come to a head
no one it seems
listens with their heart
AP: Honorable Mention 2022
The banker didn’t see me,
but I saw.
The bag behind the bush contained
everything.
Clothes. Food. Memories.
Everything that was left of an indigent life.
Forced to part with all their worldly possessions
for a moment,
perhaps to pee, perhaps to eat, perhaps to beg for widow’s mites,
someone had hidden the bag under the bush
like a broken wren,
delicate, consecrated with the hope it might fly again,
if it survives all the things that crawl in the dust.
The banker must have thought it convenient,
the way that life was stuffed in a 40 gallon bag
ready to be pitched.
How easily he threw it away.
A chore he enjoyed
for once.
He had no sudden awakening
to save him from his egregious sin.
No angel tried to mediate his cruel delerium.
The wind just played with his tie
as he returned to work, obtuse.
Contest sponsor John Hamilton, Eight Word Challenge 9
9/6/2019