Long Bittersweet Poems
Long Bittersweet Poems. Below are the most popular long Bittersweet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bittersweet poems by poem length and keyword.
She was a beautiful woman…his friend…her heart…simple and pure
She totally believed in miracles…he…was not so sure.
As her end of life approached…as she stood upon deaths door
she spoke to him of miracles…as she never had before.
She said she couldn’t wait to see heaven…she wondered about the crowds
She wondered how easy it would be…to find her place among the clouds.
Knowing he was a skeptic…she took his hand one day
And said, when I get to heaven…I will find a way…
to help you believe in miracles…with angel wings I will take flight
I’ll get a message to you…I’ll show you everything’s all right.
He listened to her, held her hand and smiled while trying not to cry
as she spoke to him of miracles…until the day they said goodbye.
It was a few days later on a morning walk…still feeling bittersweet
when a feather floated from sky and landed at his feet.
A pure white feather which he picked up then turned his eyes up to the sky…
wondering if it had fallen off an egret flying by…
or could this be from an angel’s wing…as from heaven she took flight…
announcing to him she had made it…that everything IS all right….
And he smiled at her heavenly message…which was both sublime and sweet
that miracles can be as simple as a feather at his feet.
twists and turns of serpentine.
perfumes that emanate from time to time,
through a wall of quietus-trees.
perils in the doubting waters,
amidst the anaconda, caiman, and piranha.
perhaps, after all, man is the more sinister
as his stomach growls
and his face’s beaten bittersweet
by the zenith of the Amazon.
his legs carry portage and dugout canoes.
sinkholes churn whirlpools.
vines hang down and choke.
~ most hope from within ~
for despairing we learn to be thiefs,
murderers hewn out of fear.
insects further trouble and attack,
and tribal eyes spy, and agitate
in perpetuities’ suspicious waters.
Rio Roosevelt thrives cantankerously
as Theodore’s enemies attack,
with deadly scratches and malaria.
but Rondon never forgets
to map and be respectful
of the tribes, even if
it’s to his own demise.
1/22/2018
Guilt is immortal
Grief can live only in the tender hours,
in the sweet bittersweet tender days -
the days who number some number
unknown to all, felt by each...
If guilt makes its home where
seeds of grief are sown by circumstance,
watered by the downpour tears of the broken,
lit by shadow at the feet of those missing the missing,
will grief ever come to fruit?
No.
If guilt must grow.
(And only if.)
Let it be put off.
A hole in the canopy
letting light find the darkened forest floor.
There where rot rises and decay undoes all doing.
Here in the dappled understory each story comes to rest (at best.)
Here in the dappled understory where the rich soil flowers only in mushroom.
This is the onlywhere where grief can grow.
Grief takes root, takes hold, takes it torn form in only the brief.
Guilt is the mind displacing the work that each heart must do.
The brief needs of grief arise where and when the head might, of habit, of its own twisted comfort, displace the heartneeds with mindwants and revel in guilt.
Grief needs.
This.
Grief needs.
You.
Grief needs.
Now.
Will we not have Grief have its time, in its time?
It’s place, in its place?
In the light of the dark?
-ShhDragon
Our family gathered to you attend,
The overcast day your bed rest did end.
Your smile was sunshine filling the room.
You asked of present and future blooms.
Your final hours were never about you,
But of things you would not see come true.
You implored me not to weep or look sad,
But offer whatever joy that I had.
You smiled wanly as your last breath fled.
A tear ran down your cheek, lonely.
I kissed away that lucid saline drop, slowly.
Your last tear throbs to each beat of my heart.
It will drop when through heaven’s gate I start.
No fugitive lost in a mopey reminisce,
You nurtured dreams of future blooms and bliss.
Walking up uneven sidewalks—
up cracked little hills of pavement,
past dingy apartments
gliding through trailer parks—
rough rails and low fences
skidding my fingertips—
reaching the dampened street.
Through an empty crosswalk
where children once would
wait to pass—
vigilant cross guards leading
laughing kids to safety.
Staring ahead at navy-blue walls
once where gathering peers chattered,
beholding the path ahead through the
towering gate—
my heart flutters in
fearful bittersweet.
I wander through those familiar
school gates now darkened—
glaring in the dead of night.
“Go home,” it warns,
as I pass—wiry wind behind me
rattling the black metal
openings.
“It’s dark out here.”
No voices…
No teachers…
No students…
No faculty…
No giggling…
No taunts…
No lunch lines…
No time-outs…
No tardy slips…
No restrictions tonight—
but there is trash from yesterday
splayed along the wet grounds—
midnight rain ceasing.
Do I feel exhilaration
or shame walking through
this graveyard of academia?
What am I learning in this
strange silence?
I try not to recall
the dead black cat wedged
in a crevice of split concrete,
located in a locked, gated corner
past the large, muddy PE field.
I used to play there.
I would gaze through that locked gate,
terrified of what I would see—
but it was empty
Then.
Now,
near the edge of school grounds,
I hear her hiss from where I stand,
as if she is warning me.
I would hate to be
locked up into your dark corner—
destined to gaze up lifeless
at an unforgiving night sky—
destined to exist lonely
amongst the screams,
coaches’ whistles and laughter
from oblivious children and teachers.
In my wildest dreams,
I hold endless keys to locked gates—
filled with ends and hard truths
most will fight to forget.
She taught me something
that makes my blood grow cold:
there is far more to learn now
than ever before—
beyond these school borders.
Poetry, a patsy mourner here, would you be the churn?
Tamanna Ferdous
Poetry, a patsy mourner here, would you be the churn?
Tamanna Ferdous
I cared for the beauty spot , her left trickle salt takes oath there in bittersweet chime
The smile and the smile line , a mystic rhythmic rhyme.
Her smile and the wind catcher , assonance, anaphora , anapestic and the trochaic, as 100 hair fall after a comb
The streak of moonlight, a droplet of beauty , submerged in homesickness, border less and home , in exile home.
Her toddler fingers , gone yesterday, broth of a messed later , growing up
Modulation and a flight of a tune, a journey to rhythm back to the rhythm , superb
Poetry that bits with heart beats and peaces , will you break free to tame the words, misfit, they are gods' hands ?
In glum, in tears , rejuvenation of the easier love, the placid affluence and all right throughout the caravan of timely rounds..
I adore you, I breathe into thee, homegrown soil, my distraction, my homeland, that forced to zoom out to Babylon, tragedy
Phantom would lure me to cuff again into the evangelical oxymoron, key mono-Lilith to polymath-a Murfreesboro prodigy
The fathom of the salty water step, and Soho, and an easy simile
They static, they enigmatic and they empathetic , not for, anymore, than seely!
Copyright Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2025
Dear manipulative muse,
I have watched you calligraph your craftsmanship into oblivion.
I must say, your concoction is a wild enterprise,
Dreaming in the darkness, you have sketched me an aura of rose
From an oasis that sings a broken lullaby,
Playing chemistry with macabre metaphors.
Such a shame…
Did the bittersweet sun in your sky teach you only black and white?
Must a woman almost always be the mosaic mind?
Spare me the brain-blistering sad songs on the 1900 radio.
Now witness! Observe!
See what it means to be the dawn of pain in familiar torment,
Time stolen and a heart far beyond broken,
Dust lost beneath the hidden October embers.
Why wait for a volatile vortex?
When your indigo moonstone stirs up like a furious faucet,
Impatiently waiting to explode into the aftermath of a war?
Are you done keeping score?
Or does your pride need to see how I can walk out that door?
You are barely a quest,
You pathetic flamingo!
So get your head out of my backyard
And bury it in a forgotten graveyard.
Oh how it must have been to watch the ship
as bright flames licked the sky in Pitcairn bay,
before the Bounty's mighty hull would slip
with dear home England half a world away.
Along with dreams and hopes, regrets were drowned
- a cheer, a tear, for bittersweet release,
yet paradise is not so simply found
nor climates where the sins of conscience cease.
Two centuries had passed and dreams of yore
were carefully detailed in spar and mast;
Her Majesty's lost pride would sail once more
- the Bounty's tropic grave was not her last.
Its perfect likeness slipped and down the stairs,
the model broke apart beyond repair.
written - 1/27/19 for Movie Magic Contest
for Sponsor Gregory Barden
Subject Mutiny on the Bounty - Fletcher Christian and crew
A tempest of sorrow, where heartache seeps.
Through depths of despair, its tendrils entwined,
A haunting melody, forever enshrined.
Like a silent storm, it ravages the soul,
Leaving scars unseen, taking its toll.
In tear-stained moments, the ache finds release,
Echoes of longing, seeking solace and peace.
Through sleepless nights, the memories persist,
A bittersweet dance, where joy and pain coexist.
The weight of loss, a burden hard to bear,
Yet love's indelible mark lingers in the air.
In quiet corners, grief finds its abode,
A pilgrimage through darkness, on a solitary road.
But in its passage, strength begins to rise,
Resilience awakens, as hope softly sighs.
For grief, a teacher, in its somber grace,
Teaches us the depth of love's sacred space.
Though wounds may linger, the heart will mend,
Embracing life anew, where healing transcends.
So let the tears flow, let emotions unfold,
For grief is a testament to stories untold.
In its solemn presence, we learn to let go,
To cherish the light, as memories continue to glow.
...But times did change, the great drives stopped,
the state came and blew up the rock,
some though that Joe would now pass on,
but he still showed up on dark nights,
and his face was such a sad sight,
a ghost depressed, his one last purpose gone.
For decades the dead man looked blue,
what kept him here, nobody knew,
and he soon passed into folklore,
people forgetting more and more,
appearances grew ever rare,
most didn’t know that he was there,
and Joe was shadowed by despair,
a soul driven half-mad.
It was October when we heard,
great rains had flooded the river,
steams swollen up by a hurricane,
trees by the shore came crashing down,
the water lapped the streets of town,
and great trunks came a-racing down again.
A blue hatchback was swept away,
it came near Joe, and there did stay,
he appeared, and then looked inside,
and saw a child, barely five,
her parents were still on the shore,
mom screamed in panic, waved, implored,
the child screamed back in horror,
no help was to be had.
Joe panicked, as he was a ghost,
which made him more useless than most,
his hands would pass right through the car,
so he cried out to God for help,
and heard the terrified girl yell,
nobody could come help, they were too far.
So he tried to reach for the latch,
and, stunned, felt metal touch his grasp,
the girl looked up, shock in her eyes
at seeing ghostly figures fly,
but Joe grabbed her within his arms,
said soft words to cool her alarm,
and floated that girl clear of harm,
to a stunned mom and dad.
Amidst that hellish overcast
a single beam of light did flash,
turning Joe to a golden sheen,
he smiled and began to face,
the Man has mysterious ways,
but finally Joe would know Heaven’s scene.
A dozen people saw all this,
on it many still reminisce,
the lost river-driver’s story…
in death the man found true glory.
They built a statue in the square,
and people will leave wool shirts there,
of their hero they take great care,
and to this day will brag.