Bleakly Poems | Examples

Let’s Confront Our Shadows

Why should we bleakly tread alone?
We know our paths are peril-prone.
Come dear, let's travel together.
Let's dare to face each rough weather.

Should we not shun from arrogance?
Shouldn't we hold our elegance?
Shouldn't games have lines of scrimmage?
Shouldn't we loathe our false image?

Our fates, like sea-depths, are unknown.
Yet, we have our lone moral zone.
Though our voyage seems to be far
Let's, with hope, look to the polestar.

A Voyage To Unknown

Birds twitter, birds croon to each other,
I watch life moving at a lulling slower pace,
Rose bushes leisurely sway, breeze converses
With the rustling leaves, clouds float languidly
In endless azure, 
Sailboats sailing in emerald ocean, 
Picturesque, perpetual, blissful!

Life is an endless stream, 
A voyage to unknown,
Life is made up of impossible dreams...
I gaze at a dreamcatcher, unachieved goals
No longer make me feel bleakly miserable, or discontent,
My life is full with lilac aspirations, not failed achievements! 
Does it matter in
The ultimate scheme of things, we are
All pawns in the chessboard of an
Unknown skilled magician, who smiles at our arrogance, 
Blesses all his children..
Unaware of the profound truth of life ~
And Death!

Opposing - Raven Skies

In a house with all the lights burning; but nobody's home 
In the clear night; stars burning brightly; but no lines drawn or shown 
Constellations; the only connection; that's never physically known 
But that's where salvation lies; Hidden behind those dead eyes; 
In the infinite unions; found; in those raven skies


Defining purpose in fields of darkness; location mind-blown
Bleakly smothered, a foligenous blurring; bestown
Black holes; darkly mystical, in their misdirections unknown
Calling out in plain sight; from the worlds last phone booth
Lost in my damnation; is astounding material truth
Staring at finite delusions; as I'm becoming long in the tooth

Concept For a Creation

imagine all these things
stretch the mind to infinity
imagine this stark beauty

imagine
imagine
imagine 

silence so intense
that the flap of a bird wing
crashes like thunder
and the dropping of a pin
reverbs and deafens

darkness so intense
that black shades to gray 
in comparison
and a struck match
blinds with intensity

emptiness
so bleakly empty
that the concept defeats
and despair rolls in
so that one does not exist

imagine 
imagine
imagine

imagine this stark beauty
imagine all these things
and the scene is set

Life and Everything

I don't need to do
anything much
today.

Ate my breakfast
took my pills
and showered.

The bins go out
Tomorrow.
I don't have 
A cat.

The TV's pre-set to record;
I watch it anyway,
(A president to come
Or will he go?)

A mass of people swelter
In a too hot sun
Or huddle bleakly in the snow.
The riots will kick off after dark.

It goes along every day the same.
The instructions that we got don't match the kit.
The manual we asked for never came and
Nobody can work out how to make it go.

Should She Speak

Her luscious lips tend several functions;
a tender paradise to lay yours on,
A salve to your heart's aches,
A wily weapon for taking her stand,
As well a purveyor of her mind's many wisdoms.

Grateful winds carry forth her words.
Bursting forth ever so caringly,
from pink, perfect lips.
As her sublime sound caresses the air,
Peaceful perfection grips the atmosphere.

Her words, her cries, her songs,
In none lay any wrongs.
A voice ferociously tender, pervading all existence,
Breathing in life with faithful loving persistence.
The common word bleakly educates the brain,
her sounds sing serenely,not unlike the rain.
Nurturing my heart, curing its pain,
Gems born of air, nothing stays the same.

Dukes

DUKES

Sacrifices offered in secrecy,
Secrets shrouded in darkness,
Fortunes of families
rose and fell accordingly
to birth a recycling;
New dukes born in duchies,
Many dukes reborn,
Old dukes extinct.
In being a holder of a dukedom
legends are born,
Turned into relics
as they pursue glory & wealth,
power and justice;
Yet, these ends up in vanity
despite trying to hoard their power
so they can be worshipped as legends
by their subjects and descendants
But cold skeletons they become,
Emotions withered away as shrubs
until they perish, nothing left inside
but dark soulless desire & ambition
that feels their bleakly world
with doom and gloom.

VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 10th May, 2020.

The Closed Sea

The Closed Sea
by Michael R. Burch 
 
These are the narrows of my soul—
dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams.
And these uncharted islands bleakly home
wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams.
 
Please don’t think to find pearls’ pale, unearthly glow
within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs.
For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know
that vessel lists, and night brings no relief.
 
Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost;
then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust.
This sea is not for sailors, but the damned
who lingered long past morning, till they learned
 
why it is named:
Mare Clausum.

Keywords/Tags: Sea, Ocean, Narrows, Islands, Dark, Darkness, Water, Waters, Wave, Waves, Shoals, Reefs, Scream, Screams, Dream, Dreams, Nightmare, Nightmares, Pearl, Pearls, Coral, Corals, Vessel, Ship, Boat, Night, Salt, Rust, Sailors, Tars, Damned

My Hearts Endless Limits

For me, love’s crown has fallen tarnished
and revealed its reign was falsely polished.
Fears bind many to all a broken love cost
and they stay heart fraught in its lost domain.
My heart refuses a stay no longer love enthused.
I will not bleakly habit dwell as marriage tooled.
Any love less than real seems a vow of deceit
that pails hearts in life's sad fades of incomplete.

I will not curtail my personality for matrimony’s 
sake when strong couple bonds no longer exist
or stay where love fantasies no longer thrive.
With my fear, I leave to seek real love’s lease
knowing my heart may bruise in painful repeats.
Some describe such breakups as scandalous
but with my love dreams beating ever vivid,
let all criticize my heart's endless limits.





... CayCay
July 20, 2019

A Sonnet To Sadness

The ancient anguish of a hurting heart
Bequeaths no beauteous scene to me today.
It’s just a jagged chasm gashed apart,
A stream with boulders strewn in disarray.
Like rusted leaves that bleakly canvas fall
Or barren trees that bear the winter snow,
Its listlessness conceals a stonework wall
That bars the beggar from his bungalow.
A long-abandoned barn where pigeons flock
Beside three worn-out crosses marking graves,
It’s lonely as a lighthouse on a rock
Forever battered by the crashing waves.
Their ceaseless song may soothe a sleepless soul,
But how, I sigh, can sad be beautiful?

---

Date Written: January 3, 2019
Contest: Beautiful Sadness, sponsored by John Hamilton

Birth of An Atheist

BIRTH OF AN ATHEIST

In the journey across life’s undulating landscape
the designated track for a long time I didn’t lose,
the pitfalls I could surely avoid and safely escape,
reached the destinations I sought, someone chose.

Didn’t believe what is said with prudent authority, 
our genes control the life’s course and the free will,
for in absolute surrender to the supreme almighty
the bestowed joy of divine fulfillment I could feel.

The exhilaration I found was but bleakly transient
for my life was wrecked in prolonged stormy night.
Prayed for help and rescue to the one omnipresent,
searched and waited in vain, didn’t find guiding light.

When the sinking hopes dragged me into deep agony,
the loss of the loved ones I couldn’t prevent or resist 
my devotion to divine power and the savior failed me,
anguished and vanquished, in me was born an atheist.

November 29, 2018

Countdown

Down to the final gasp
Sweat coating acrid tongue
Counting down precious seconds
Fidgeting with his past

Sweat coating acrid tongue
Future blank in front of him
Fidgeting with past 
Freedom at long last

Future blank in front of him
Staring bleakly into space
Freedom at long last
Time ticking oh-so-fast

Staring bleakly into space
No magic left in life
Time ticking oh-so-fast
Music of an outcast

Bitter tasting are his thoughts
The sand dial dips precariously
Counting down precious seconds
Sticking in his bond-dry throat

The sand-dial dips precariously
Counting down precious seconds
Sticking in his bone-dry throat
Down to the final gasp

           March 25, 2018

  Entry in "Favorite Pantoum" Contest
       Sponsored by Laura Loo
       Deadline, April 22, 2018

Blood-Red Morning

A blood-red private view of morning
A second chance to climb the attic stairs.
The ceiling, ticking time, cascades
A thousand pricking darts, stampeding 
Purple chariots, blanketing the sky.
The zealot's blade, so swift to still
The heart that beats an alien rhythm,
No backward glance to desolation.
Within a vastness all-consuming,
The wolf retreats to primal isolation
And howls unheeded at a distant,
Cold and quite indifferent moon.
As thunder clouds converge
And drown all hope of harvest home,
We find that, like the wolf, we are alone.
Inertia quickens, takes a hand,
At last to move the day.
The cabbage, wilting on the edge of sanity,
Bleakly views the blackened pot.
The steady chop chop chop is heralding 
The grand ensemble of the daily stew.
Regardless, now the day's awake,
The perils lost in sleep are there anew.
The blood-red now transforms to palest grey.
The resurrected monotone of every day.

Crow's Feet

Crow’s Feet


What dark epaulette drapes
the scare crows shoulder?
Gazing bleakly upon
withered corn stalks
rustling in the wind’s
disdainful howl.

What mistaken duty
denies dismissal’s call
condemns the sullen sentry
to cower at death’s touch
mourning silenced wings

What twist of fate
draws him to the ground
in featherless
shivering
death?



John G. Lawless
©11/15/2017

Fog In the City

The vibrant colours of a Venice day
Are muted now, and drained to sombre grey,
As huddled shades of countless long past years,
Sharing their tears and ever constant fears,
Silent, intangible, diffused, now roam,
In tones of dank, primeval monochrome.

Sweet Melancholy breathes her mawkish air
As stony faces add their baleful stare,
Sightless, yet knowing well within their core
The days of pageant, and the grief, of yore.
These shifting nearly-souls of latter day
In sorrow, and against their will, they stay.

As pigeons bleakly view the scene below,
The church bells, softly stifled, peal, as though
In cotton wool. Canal sounds harmonise,
And gently rhythmic solace therein lies,
Easing the pain of those the city shuns,
Her unseen, phantom, long-forgotten sons.

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