Long Bereaving Poems
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Used to jab the raggedly tagged faggots b/c sad crabby lads have had their tags grabbed badly yet wagged their drab as stag shabbily as it was dabbed from what came from the tab that came from the lab too reserved to gab at the slab of the drab of the somewhat cab like scrap that gave somewhat of crap before it shat itself after meeting the scapula that became like Dracula before it whacked half a spatula sized radically habitual, mystical ridiculously perpetual medically perpetual cyclically repeating ritual that happens to coincide with the Tik Tok enabled cellular tested, wrestled, meticulously meshed, caressed, messy radical, half-hazardously sexual, wrecked ineffectual, critical, still not quite literal, but mimical, of a cylindrical, syntactically, sporadically, lackadaisically, unanimously, fastened to the meticulously dastardly, massed, blasted, gassed, wrestled, brass, brash, bastardly, bass-like, mass mighty, hat-having, hiss-heaving, bereaving, belief-bound of a be more than beneath the beat up and bleak beak bitten breezy bean and cheese pile of raked leaves style bowl of chips and dips script that the lady with the bloods and crips lip gives as people sit with a ship to New York style trip seem to forget as they lose their because of the tip that hits one when instead of their mitt that would grip somewhat of a catch in a fit that would lick the one who sits with the kit of the fictionally fit mystery that blissfully bit into a tic while it in turn was lit with the mix of the hysterically, rarely, heretically, medically dissed fizz of some **** that would knit a new tit because of an antipsychotic, moronic blip on the screen of some that geographically, sporadically, masterfully admittedly mentioned, could cause retention of some invention, that one would mention if only and if one was sick, with a little grit left abreast a messy Mexican directionally challenged malice but talented callous chalice wielding balanced rally style for a carousel encampment trampled on and possibly tampered with tampon treated, bleached, beaten...
Was professor of astronomy, ah those heady days
Studied fields in cosmology, including solar rays
Observed galaxies all my life, seeking exotic events
Ironically happens now, as my death’s dispensed
By dour hospice window, seeds a suffusion of light
Not dazzling, quite fuzzy, discernibly white
Shallow luminosity, enters my departing room
‘Twas pitch black this night, no forecast moon’
Growing in intensity, colours turn purple green
Must be an invasion, of extraterrestrial aliens
Hope they finish me fast, this final stage is slow
Then the fireworks start, whole world’s set aglow
Heaven’s have ruptured, no raindrops seen
Cataclysmic silent eruption, yet everywhere serene
It’s not possible, unconscionable, too far south
Only a gamma ray burst, could bring this about
A possible hypernova, just light years away
Hits Earth’s magnetic field, in a mega-aurora display
Iridescent photons, avalanche over me
My teardrops fluoresce, through the apertures of agony
Hypnotic warmth, released from cold light
My woes are assuaged, God this feels so nice
Semiconscious state, accruing spiritual bliss
“So this is how life ends, amid ethereal fine mist.”
Nurses are praying, down on their knees
Speaking foreign languages, at wonderment they see
Some fear the apocalypse, whilst others run about
I hum Cohen’s Hallelujah, but these words spill out
#O come purge my mind, cover woes
Give back the life, that I forgo
Help me bear this weight, won’t ya
Blind darkness, annihilate fate
Finish suffering, show your face
Unleash the love, they call Gods grace!
#Hallelujah#Hallelujah#Hallelujah#Hallelujah#
Pyrotechnics are over, now quiescently asleep
Drowning no longer, in pillow soaked weep
Greeting my parents, bereaving my family
As I enter a tunnel, leaving the apertures of agony.
Originally written 02/18/21
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 19 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
11/06/22
In lengthening slumberous reposes lies
Dickens' sterling pen under bluish skies;
And through them gloats deathless sun,
Taunting all that under his embers burn.
No more savoring of Oliver’s twisty trials
In doleful dints and extra-nuanced miles;
Nor shall of tested Nell all posterity hear,
Cooed in sweetly plaintive rhythms dear.
Nicholas Nickleby's adventures now
Must halt and take a somnolent bow,
And leave us at Muse’s orphan gate,
Slow to hug our stark bereaving fate.
Whence comes a defter pen to tell
Copperfield's youth and pupil spell,
By stingy virtue ridden through cry
And toil with dismal affection nigh?
Stung reader must content themselves
With ancient writs mute on dull shelves,
And with relish cherish and revive tales
Mid-voyage drowned by muffling gales.
God's organic clothes are coming unglued,
seasonal seams tearing apart,
emerging alarmingly chaotic
whatever, dissonance?
Supremely straight white noise?
Next time,
I'll recover your naked monolithic culture
in clothes of hard rooted wood
and yet how would you wear them?
Who could?
Perhaps we did
when God grew a tree
like earthy S/He.
Children of Me/We healthy trees
defectively praying for underfed worker bees
while ripping apart Earth's fertile forests
becoming undressed deserts
Unflowing river sand beds
bereaving naked tree trunks
Dead dry
senseless
sexless headstones
where future children of trees
would otherwise have grown moist fruit,
divinely dressed.
Day coloring
wheel
of precision
giving earth
new gown
each season
brushed over
by heart
capricious
set in motion
by words
of emotions
what's spring
with colors
and songs
to a heart
bereaving
a loss
or winter
iced silence
grey clouds
to a heart
with passion
on fire
love rises
like dawn
in the morning
with rosy
expectations
day coloring
then rain
unexpectedly
starts falling
and winds
from nowhere
start blowing
with thunder
of anger
and lightning
in arms
of delusion
heart plunging
on faith old stump
new budding
like seasons of year
life recycling
green fields
of emotions
new joy
for a fifth
new season
of love
Fifth Place Winner- Brian Strand-1459 New Poem Premiere-4/3/26
Since the genesis of this nation young patriots have borne the brunt of war.
To ensure the preservation of our freedoms, they've heard the cannons' roar!
Politicians send them to battle claiming 'tis in the best interests of the nation,
But, when the conflicts cease, the way some are treated is an abomination!
Many vets fight other battles when they return to the shores of this nation.
They are spat upon, called 'baby killers' and suffer many another humiliation!
Many agonized from the effects of 'agent orange' and fought to set that aright.
A reluctant bureaucracy agreed there was a problem and finally eased their plight!
Alas, too many forgotten heroes are homeless and dwell wherever they can,
Yet the government seems to provide ample succor for the illegal alien!
The powers that be finally realized there is a problem with post battle stress.
After years of debate they avowed, "Maybe it's a matter that we should address!"
Others have been carried from the battlefield wounded in body and soul.
So very much we owe these brave men and women who've played their role!
Are we minding Lincoln's pledge to those who've borne the din of strife,
To care for him, his affairs, his orphan and his bereaving wife?
I have a message for all politicians that is very loud and clear!
Why is our blood and treasure always at the tip of the spear!
If you don't want to care for our vets, then don't make any more!
Stop policing the world and keep our youngsters out of war!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Love is blind, deaf, dumb and stupid.
I blame it all on the imp called Cupid.
No warning shot fired over my head
His arrow struck and brought me dread.
The poisoned point of that lethal dart
Was the reason love grew inside my heart.
The toxin traveled within my veins
And held me with the strength of chains.
Love spread as quickly as a wildfire,
In heated flames of uncontrolled desire.
It left behind a heart he had torched,
Bleeding, torn and badly scorched.
I refuse to rhapsodize that love is grand
it can be washed away like words in sand.
Only a romantic fool will ever believe
Love brings only joy and no reason to grieve.
Of sad songs and tears, I've had my fill.
They've left me cold as winter's chill.
I now sleep alone in my half empty bed.
It's the price to pay when love is dead.
No longer reason for me to linger.
He'd removed the ring from his finger.
Without hope that he'd want to put it back,
Our marriage was shrouded in funeral black.
From the precipice edge I began to fall,
As high as a towering castle wall.
In fear, I trembled ever further down
Into a moat of tears, I fell and drowned.
Heart-wrenching, my decision to walk away,
But I could no longer risk my life to stay.
No words of regret would I have written
If by Cupid's arrow I'd not been smitten.
How different would be my thoughts
If he'd not taken aim at my lonely heart.
A reflective moment of bereaving.
A remembrance of love's deceiving.
Would I have wished I'd not been shot
And wounded by love? No, I think not.
Even though it's all come to an end,
My bleeding heart has begun to mend.
What good is there to live with regret?
Or in wishing that we'd never met?
What once was love is now in the past.
Cupid's potions don't always last.
Sometimes love brings too much pain
With more to lose than there is to gain.
Time has passed without a pause
And broke the hold of Cupid's cause.
I've taken away the hunter's quiver
Before another shot can be delivered.
Another love to tear me apart ~
Another arrow to pierce my heart.
....................................................
2-18-16
The Heart That Bleeds: Forever Malta
I've written of great longing while my teardrops flare
Rhyming lines of sorrow that were nested in my mind
Tomes of poetry that exposed the depth of my despair
Now, my heart lies withered; to its fate I am resigned.
My sonnets are all testaments to the love, now haunted,
decaying on yellowed pages, they make my heart bleed.
It languishes with pitiful sighs, ignored and unwanted
like my dust-laden poetry that I will never again read.
Verses were woven tapestries, a lovingly stitched story,
Remnants of us left threadbare, colors dull and faded.
Time cannot repair moldered love to it's former glory.
Ours lies buried in a grave; rotting because it's jaded.
Love spills its final drop as I gasp for another breath.
From this mortal wound, my afflicted soul is bereaving.
I've one last poem to pen, in refrain before my death
about the broken part of me, still mournfully grieving.
September 22, 2020
Quatrain Writing Challenge - Decay
Sponsored by: Constance La France
The Hunter
(His identity and his prey)
Love is blind, deaf, dumb and stupid.
I blame it all on the imp called Cupid.
No warning shot did he let fly
Before his arrow struck the bulls eye.
The poisoned point of his little dart
Was the reason love grew inside my heart.
The toxin traveled within my veins
And held me with the strength of chains.
(The result of his hunt)
Love spread as quickly as a wildfire,
In heated flames of uncontrolled desire.
It left behind a heart that was torched,
Wounded by being burned and scorched.
I refuse to rhapsodize that love is grand
For it can disappear like words in sand.
Only a romantic fool will ever believe
Love brings only joy and no reason to grieve.
Of sad songs and tears, I've had my fill.
They've left me as cold as winter's chill.
I now sleep alone in my half empty bed.
It's the price to pay when love is dead.
No longer reason for me to linger.
He'd removed the ring from his finger.
Without hope that he'd put it back,
Our marriage was shrouded in funeral black.
From the precipice edge I began to fall,
As high as a towering castle wall.
In fear, I tumbled ever further down
And saved myself before I drowned.
Heart-wrenching, my decision to walk away,
But I could no longer risk my life to stay.
No words of sorrow would I have written
If by Cupid's arrow I'd not been smitten.
How different would be my private thoughts
If he'd not taken aim at my lonely heart.
No memories to keep me awake at night,
Or to recall upon morning's first light.
As bitter as these words may sound,
It's an honest attempt to be profound.
A reflective moment of bereaving.
A remembrance of love's deceiving.
Would I have wished I'd not been shot
And wounded by love? No, I think not.
Even though it has come to an end,
My seared heart has begun to mend.
What good is there to live with regret?
What point in wishing we'd never met?
What once was love is now in the past.
Cupid's potions don't always last.
Sometimes love brings too much pain
With more to lose than there is to gain.
Time has passed without a pause
And broken the hold of Cupid's cause.
I've taken away the hunter's quiver
Before another shot can be delivered.
Another love to tear me apart ~
Another arrow to pierce my heart.
Left my heart twirling;
whorling in the whirlpool.
Sweethearts a-hanging,
thumbs a-banging sugarplums.
My hair rapunzeling, enraptured,
captured by fairytale-pirating.
My heart as red as an apple,
shining from wax, waxing upon
the sugar-moon, crystalline
catastrophe of high-cheek crimson.
Heart, pleasingly plump, round
in the palm of the beholder.
Bereaving the helplessly bound
breath and palpitations; no rest.
The song of the ages; sages
are mad with platinum platitudes.
Drifting, my soul cascading;
spelunking into recesses
of caverns, cold, distant;
teeny feet fettered, forlorn.
Ferocious waters, funny waters
hold onto the beating with vines.
How divine to let go; let the rapids
take me real slow, circulating
through arteries and veins;
throbbing with sobbing, regress.
Peachy, unpretentious, potent,
progressing to the end of the ride;
calm waters preaching, teal grass
with its daisy chains reaching,
holding me fast in gracious arms,
drying moon-eyes, sagacious.
My heart never needs to lie;
Sincerity is paradisaically prosaic.