Long Grieved Poems
Long Grieved Poems. Below are the most popular long Grieved by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grieved poems by poem length and keyword.
Facing a street kid pleading for bread, I was gripped with mixed feelings, especially that I had in my possession purchased goods for our orphanage from a grocery with this label: “the good life you can afford.” Oh, the social worker in me could not escape being confronted with this question: “Why does a child have to beg for a basic necessity... when it can be afforded?” By God’s grace, I have settled myself with the answer while fulfilling my commitment.
emotions clashing
grieved midst reality angst~~~
still love* and care reign
* 1John 3:17 But whoso hath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?
April 17, 2021
2nd place, "Moments Of Reflections - Haibun" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Malabika Ray Choudhury; judged on 5/11/2021.
Love us as if we were there,unforgettable friend;
love us indefinitely: like a real mother would!
And we promise to keep your affection in amorous care,
because the same sea you look at and adore...
still separating us, is not different
from the one you are staring at!
Remember us...when you'll gaze at the sea;
those undying words and smiles are alive as much
as they were yesterday; and we will not forget!
No darkest sky,with sullen clouds,can ever match
the inner sadness that this sea brings upon us!
No bluest sky,with striking beauty,
can ever be as lovely as your thought;
when a good heart cries: it seek out sympathy!
Remember us...when you'll gaze at the sea;
your many embraces and your last kiss
did leave such an unbearable pain,not felt silently,
as our tearful faces leaned upon yours!
Remember us...when you'll gaze at the sea;
don't be grieved,or helpless:
unsepareble fried,love comforts even the lonely!
"Life denies everything to some. Though they live and die with no dignity, they'll be crowned thereafter"
.......by the poet
I lived poor and died poor.
No obituary written
Nowhere a black flag fluttered
No one grieved
No bells tolled
No prayers recited,
To still my departed soul!
My body was wheeled in a hearse
With a few following
With hesitant steps
More as a custom than a gesture true
The open gates of the walled cemetery
Allowed a glimpse of the newly dug grave
In a remote corner it stood
Close to an overgrown hedge
Among many a mound
That bore no name on it
Oh, the indigent and the lonely
Are destined to huddle together
In death under the sod
With their identities merged
Into a single clan!
My body when swiftly lowered to the pit
And as everyone left to join the rage of life,
I pondered, how on this Earth
The distinctions of rank
Extend down unto dust
And follow one like a faithful mongrel
~ Placed First ~
Feb. 22.2022
F Form-Free Verse- New- Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Topic- Death
Same Roof
We shared a roof, a table, the same four walls,
and still I lived on the far side of a door
no one had thought to knock on.
Their voices filled the house each morning,
familiar as the kettle, the taps, the stairs,
and none of it ever reached me.
I was in the room. I was not seen.
You can stand in a doorway for years
and be furniture to the people you love.
They were meant to be the ones who knew me
before I knew myself,
who could read the weather in my face.
Instead I learned to fold my heart small,
to keep it in a pocket
where no one would ask what it weighed.
I have grieved the things that happened.
That grief has edges. It has names and dates.
The other grief has none.
It is the hush where the conversation should have been,
the hand that never reached across,
the people I sat beside for years
and never met.
I was not only mourning what was done to me.
I was mourning the child who kept waiting to be known,
and the closeness
that never had its chance to exist.
Relative to the political arena, several months ago, I was a participant in a prayer meeting and heard a prayer to which I could not give assent. It did not leave me speechless, but I could not disagree more nor say 'Amen'. It was not an enigma, as I well understood from where the person was coming. When I heard it, I was aghast and grieved, and wondered what God must have felt. In my view, she was rather extreme with her politics, inconsiderate, out of order, and disrespectful of her opponents. When referencing the people in the opposing party, its official name was replaced and inserted with the word 'devil'. Suffice it to say that I could not condone her political exuberance; but beyond that, I shall not indulge in further detail.
It is clear to me that we are often tempted to 'go overboard' in our pursuit of 'political righteousness', which I am not sure is an objective without significant and emotional pain, if not loss of friendships. As for me, I highly value genuine friendships, and rather not seek to persuade others that God is on my side.
However, I will to the best of my ability, thrive to convince everyone that we best pursue the course that puts us on God's side. And in the meanwhile, I will simply bite my lip and remain silent rather than say 'Amen' or so be it.
012221cjPS
VILLANELLES IV
She Always Grew Roses
by Michael R. Burch
a belated eulogy for my grandmother, Lillian Lee
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she always grew roses.”
What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes,
fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses—
she always grew roses.”
How does one repent when regret discomposes?
When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes?
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“Too little loved by the ego in its poses,
she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us,
and she always grew roses.”
Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes
its too-patient will as the opened book recloses.
Tell us, heart, what the season discloses.
“She always grew roses.”
The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall because it was in my autumn years that I realized I had written poems for everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to repent and correct an old wrong.
Little Sparrow
by Michael R. Burch
for my petite grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels
“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
What did she have? Hardly a thing.
A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring.
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
“Hosanna!” angel choirs ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
Whence comes this praise, as angels sing
to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting?
Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering.”
Let others have their stoles and bling.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!
“In praise of Love and Life we bring
this sacramental offering
as the harps of beaming angels ring.
Little sparrow of a woman, sing!”
Keywords/Tags: villanelle, villanelles, refrain, roses, angel, angels, sparrow, sacrament, sacramental, family, grandmother, heart, ego, season, seasons, legacy, elegy, eulogy, remember, remembrance
His name was Lattie McGee.
I never met him, and he never met me,
but he touched my life in a profound way
when I saw his face on the news one day.
His little body was bruised and battered,
every bone in this child was broken or shattered.
He was tortured to death at the age of four,
on the south side of Chicago, like a prisoner of war.
He was beaten, he was gagged, then hung upside down.
He was burned, he was starved, and then he was bound
inside a dark closet to hang there and die,
for no one heard the little boy cry, no one heard the little boy cry.
Thirty years to life, Johnny Campbell received.
He showed no remorse, he never even grieved
for the tiny boy named Lattie McGee
who died so young and so tragically.
If the time ever comes for Johnny to be free,
I pray the parole board will look at him and see
that no man who tortured a child that way,
should ever again see the light of day.
Let him suffer alone, let him rot in his cell!
For what he did to Lattie, may he burn in hell!
Before he takes his last breath, before he can state his case,
I hope that he sees Lattie’s innocent face.
May he look terror in the eyes, may he feel Lattie’s pain.
May he struggle to survive, but let it be in vain.
When the last light goes out before Johnny Campbell dies,
may he forever and ever, hear Lattie’s cries…
forever and ever, hear Lattie’s cries…
Wordsworth wrote, in 'Splendor in the Grass,'
about the glory that can be found in the flower.
He alluded to a love that had long since passed,
like clock hands tick off each second and hour.
He was saddened when taken from his sight,
was the radiance of a great love he once knew.
His world had been filled with splendid light,
but then darkened in shades of gray and blue.
He wrote to tell readers they should not grieve,
for a love that has been lost or left behind.
But that poet's words I am unable to believe,
for I consider them callous, no truth do I find.
I wonder if Wordsworth had ever shed a tear,
or had his heart broken or hardened to stone.
Did he ever lose a love that he once held dear?
And in his hour of pitiable grief, did he cry alone?
Wordsworth may have been a bard, a poet grand,
but in his 'Splendor...' quote, he has clearly shown
the falsehood written with ink quill in his hand,
for I have grieved for lost loves... I have cried alone.
Some are born to carry shadows in their bones—
to know the weight of stones
uninvited visitors throw.
We are soldiers in a war with no front lines,
an army of one
navigating minefields,
exploding bombs inside our minds.
We live in nightmares dressed as ordinary days,
chasing peace through smoke and haze
while hope erodes like shoreline
beneath relentless waves.
The armor we bear is heavier than lead—
each plate hammered from a scar,
each rivet driven through the tender parts
we've learned to guard.
Tears descend in silent streams:
salt trails mapping territories of pain.
Trauma swallows us in waves—
pulling us under, again,
again—
until we learn to breathe
in the spaces between drowning.
Memories cling like winter frost
to window glass,
distorting everything we see.
They haunt the corners where light fails,
cruel melodies on endless repeat:
the songs life demands
we learn by heart.
Do you see me?
I see you—
the same fractured mirror,
the same shattered view.
But still—
In the caverns of my darkest days,
in the marrow-deep ache of surviving,
I find a strange and tender grace:
a gift the light-touched never claim.
This appreciation blooms
in soil where others see only decay—
I notice what they hurry past:
the way dawn breaks on broken things,
how shadows teach the light to dance,
the fierce beauty of a body
that refuses to surrender,
the sacred weight of second chances.
Even as I grow bone-weary,
even as I break and bleed,
I see extraordinary beauty
hidden from those who've never grieved—
The silver veining through the cracks.
The strength in things that bend, not break.
The way the wounded recognize each other
across crowded rooms:
a glance, a nod—
the silent language of survival.
The poetry in what we had to forsake.
This beauty rolls in with the seasons,
then away with winter's breath—
fleeting, precious, sharp as sorrow,
intimate as life and death.
We who carry melancholy
see what joy alone cannot:
the full spectrum of existence,
the terrible beauty we've been taught
by suffering,
by surviving,
by singing through the pain.
We are the ones who know
that breaking open
is how the light gets in—
That the cracks are not the ending
but the place
where we begin.
Rain befall and sun scourge me
I am left without shade to protect me
Amidst thousands yet lonely
Death pierces my heart and sized my right kidney
Half death yet living
Million tear fall on grieved soul
How I wish she stay with me
Accident took her away unaware
My soul craved for her presence
Eyes shine bright at midnight
Spontaneous flow of heartfelt expression awaken memory
I am king whom am I without a queen
I am a king whom am I without a crown
I am a king whom am I without a throne
My kingdom shall forever reign in her heart
A million kisses fall on our lips yet hunger for more
Her lips is as succulent as honeycomb
Tastes of her lips keep me awake
Her hugs warm my heart more than black coffee
To hell with sleep
Her boo clap to the rhythms of my heart
The sounds keep me dancing all night
After all was said and done bed turned rumpled
Its 8a.m
Call hopped in from boss
Gust what happen?
You’re fired
I awake unto reality
Then I realized how much I missed my girl as it was all dream