Long Grieving Poems
Long Grieving Poems. Below are the most popular long Grieving by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grieving poems by poem length and keyword.
Devastation turned to joy
when searchers heard a muffled sound
and found a tiny, frightened boy
beneath the rubble on the ground.
He lay, unhurt, surrounded by
the storm's debris and clinging to
a blanket. He began to cry,
as did the entire rescue crew.
Still holding to that blanket, he
was lifted from the ruins while
nearby his grieving family,
though lying injured, soon would smile.
Like trinkets, trees and home were tossed
throughout the town, but on that day
of miracles, no lives were lost.
They'll rise, rebuild, rejoice, and pray.
October 20, 2020
entered in Craig Cornish's After the Hurricane Contest
In the middle of the night,
when the butterflies
dance to the moon's song,
I create constellations
with the map of my soul,
allowing astral lights
across feathery skies
to guide my chrysalis
heart back to an avenue
of cosmic reveries.
I lay in a bed of
delicate petals,
and dream-catchers
designed in emerald
swallowtails.
They remind me
of how I found my home
in the gossamer warmth
of your lunar
struck presence.
And when sirens echo,
across silent seas,
distant muse ebb and
flow symphonies of
mystical mermaids-
grieving at the
outskirts of
bioluminescent shores.
For in your absence,
I long to hear your voice,
as the crystal clear
crescent glimmers,
amidst the fragile truth,
floating above
a flurry of glass-winged
jitters, that camouflage
with hypnotic tales
lost in the air.
Tonight I’ll lock
my pollen dusted
dreams in slumberland..
where peacock pansies
interwoven with
pastel peonies,
would be tucked
beneath sweet
scented sheets..
Your love is the
perennial blanket
to all my
nocturnal fears,
as hieroglyphic runes
of life rhapsodize
a lyrical elixir for the
shifting spheres,
whilst change is cloaked
in mellifluous hues,
unraveling a choir
of nature,
orchestrating a
celestial chorus-
to illustrate
cloudless mornings.
I usually sit down with my tea,
And Dora not so far from me,
Her slava drooling from her jaw,
On command she'll raise her paw,
On occasion food will drop,
Dora the hoover cleans up the slop,
She eats for fun she's never full,
One big stomach she's like a bull,
And one big drawback it isn't smart,
She let's one slip a smelly fart,
Such a stench she'll clear the room,
You dare to stay then that's your doom,
For such a size She has some strength,
Match a pitbull without its length,
A favourite pass time the great outdoors,
She'd plan her route her choice not yours,
Toilet done She wants her prize,
In your pocket and its bite size,
And when the day is at its end,
I cuddle up with my best Friend,
She keeps me warm all through the night,
Then let's one rip so unpolite,
Now that's all gone she's here no more,
A grieving pain in my inner core,
Again I look back to the past,
My future once more overcast,
I did what's right I know I did,
The cancer gone and we got rid,
Cost Dora's life it was the deal,
It will take months for me to heal.
Whether willingly or otherwise, at some point, everyone must let go. And
although often filled with grief, we must also let go of everyone. I never met
nor conversed with him except for compliments of each other's poems. But
yet when I heard of his passing, there was grief along with tears. Tears have
a language of their own, silent utterances we feel but cannot speak. He was
encouraging and supportive; someone I wanted to hold on to and not let go.
Milton, I know that you recently said goodbye to us all and asked us not to cry.
In time, the grieving wound will heal, but I shall long cherish the memory of you.
1323PS. In Honor of Milt - An Un-Contest Poetry Contest. Andrea Dietrich.1P
—A Poem for the Reckoning
You rulers of cold castles,
With pens that write in blood—
You sail on seas of sorrow,
Feeding empires with the mud
Of broken nations, broken backs,
Broken dreams beneath your tracks.
You dress in suits of polished lies,
But justice sees through every crack.
You preach peace, yet profit war,
Leave Africa wounded, bruised, and poor.
You take her gold, her diamond light,
Then call her children dark as night.
But night remembers every star,
And pain becomes a prophet’s scar.
You think the South won’t rise again?
The wind is whispering: think again.
You flood our lands with aid and debt,
You play the game, the same old set—
Divide, deceive, destabilize,
Then blame the weak for all your lies.
But history is not a tale you own,
And seeds of truth have overgrown
Your walls of silence, thick with sin—
The age of reckoning shall begin.
You build your riches on our bones,
Then cry when we reclaim our thrones.
You fear the fire that justice brings—
But we are not your broken things.
We are the children of the earth,
The sons and daughters of rebirth.
Our time is coming, step by step—
We’ve tasted death, and nothing’s left
To lose but chains and stolen names—
We’ve seen through all your wicked games.
You claim to civilize the rest,
While you enslave the world’s oppressed.
But now the veil is torn apart—
And every soul holds truth at heart.
You cannot hide in conference halls,
Your pride will shatter with your walls.
Your reign was built on blood and fear—
But every echo says: it's near.
The day when stars will fall like rain,
And every ghost you’ve birthed in pain
Shall rise and point a trembling hand—
To mark your legacy in sand.
The time when Europe’s mask will slip,
When power’s poisoned wine you'll sip.
You mocked the world, but now you see—
The world is waking. Finally.
So hear these words, not born of hate,
But prophecy you can’t escape:
That every child you left to die
Will rise and ask the heavens why.
And justice, dressed in silence long,
Will sing her last, relentless song.
And Babylon shall fall, not loud—
But slow, beneath the grieving crowd.
For what you sow is what you reap—
And truth, once woken, does not sleep.
At the age of nine her tribe was raided by Apache Indian enemies.
She lost her whole family and was forced to succumb to Apache slavery.
She was traded to white men in exchange for ten of the white man's ponies
She now was a servant for the Maxwell family and technically their property.
She took on the Maxwell name and all treated her as a member of the family.
Outsiders looked upon her as a legal slave,
but her new life was truly liberated and free.
She became a permanent fixture in her community
for her care giving skills and herbal remedies.
Most if not all depended upon she
when a loved one fell ill, sick with disease.
Her name was Deluvina Maxwell,
of Navajo Indian kindred,
but in history she is known to all mostly
as the closest friend of Billy, the Kid.
She was ten years his senior and Billy probably saw her
as a strong mother figure for him.
There's also been rumors that the Kid and Deluvina
engaged in some steamy romancing,
but we'll never know, we can only be sure of this one very real thing.
After the Kid was shot and killed, Deluvina never stopped grieving.
She would visit the Kid's grave well into her senior years,
her hand held over her heart weeping endless tears.
and so regarding the above, this is what I do hereby contend;
Deluvina and the Kid were very special close friends.
The moon dances
on lonely nights,
to astral beams of
the clear quartz milky way~
I lay in an olive meadow
designed in fragrant
promises,
hidden between thorns
and thistles disguised
as fields of ferns.
Inhaling life, exhaling pain,
as the Universe unravels
a cosmic shadow that
follows hail storms
brewing in my mind.
Whilst Vanilla butterfly
snowflakes swirl
in solitude through dark
December nights,
drizzling shooting stars
upon my poetic heart.
reminding me that
there’s always pastel
colored sunsets waiting
to smear forsaken skies in
feigned wishes and
mistletoe kisses,
that last as long
as inconsistent seasonal
hollow gusts,
thawing glaciers on icy tips
of my fragile fingers,
with fleeting flames
quilting lilac lavenders
into a blanket of happiness.
But weary winds
can pierce
through the strongest
of roots,
and I always knew I was on
my own~
an empress without
an emperor
in an empire of
raging tempests.
Although, nightingales
sing soothing serenades,
oblivious to the sinister
sun that lacks empathy,
enshrouding my
grieving spine
with scorching thick
threads of electric heat,
feeding life above the
emerald waves of time,
there’s no antidote left
in my empty sphere of
familiar faces, with frosty
chivalrous smiles,
I’ve walked through
frozen miles,
cloaked in sparkling silence,
where hopes and faith
died, like ephemeral
colors of northern lights,
within the tilted stage
of my tainted black
and white soul,
releasing a
wounded sigh.
So, don’t question my
invisible wand with
pixie-dust, that
wipes away every murky
cloud, enveloped
in hazy unjust;
I deserve more than
this pantomime of
pretend,
of decayed trust,
where wooded
trees stand empty,
with rosy
lies scribbled in blood,
from envious pens
and sharpened nails,
full of ferocious fire
on forgotten trunks..
what is born must die …
this we know but do not accept
in as embrace with vibrant nonchalance ~
no, let us admit it fellow souls
we are in truth truly afraid
we have seen birds in mourning …
majestic lions tear eyed when grieving
rain drops falling when skies are weeping
one by one fangs of death have wrenched away
family and friends who made us feel complete
we too will die, who then are we, we wonder
scriptures and fables offer not the taste
direct knowing of death that erases doubt
to imbibe truth we enter time dissolved silence
animating attention in the bardo of formlessness
soul’s eye then beholds dead leaf of ego drop away
reflect oh hermit, do we not die with each exhalation
at our core we know the next breath’s not promised
sleep is death yet we look forward to it each night
is not death then just waking up from this dream
why oh why do we cling to ephemeral illusions
shrugging off death of form ~ death yet pursues
we die when voice of conscience is subdued
when lust, rage and envy are fires we fan
or a girl child is abandoned at the orphanage
we die whenever ego opaques the light of our soul
The light is leaving
The sun is grieving
The world feels distant
It’s gone in an instant..
Dark clouds roll in as if the sky’s about to cry
Daylight starts to fall as the shadows start to rise
Feeling like the world is getting lost within your eyes
Or lost between the bittersweet blues within the sky
Twilight in the air, it’s like a melatonin dose
Your mind wanders far but the past feels kinda close
The veil is getting thin but not everybody knows
Behind those empty screens are the spirits that arose
That artificial blue light in the corner of the room
Your only source of comfort since you up and left the womb
Nostalgia has you sick so now you scroll into your doom
Cuz now you’ve locked yourself inside this digital tomb
It’s the melancholic hour that sits before the night
It’s the painful dusk of sadness that fell into the light
The day is over now, it’s simply through without a fight
It’s time to let it go and let your mind just fade to white
It reminds me of a song that I use to hear
when I was a child so many years ago. The song
spoke of a man traveling here and traveling there,
and finally coming to a place in California where
he decided to stay.
Although it seemed strange at the time, some 10 or
more years ago, while worshiping in our church sanctuary
one Sunday night, that song came knocking at the doors
of my heart. It was one of those beautiful songs about
California. In a small way, it was a picture song of my life.
Well, I had traveled here and traveled there in most parts
of the USA. I had seen the eastern coast of New York City
and driven along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. I had gone
to college and met my bride in the great mid-west metropolis
of Chicago. I spent a few years in San Francisco making castles
in the sand with my kids on the shores of the Pacific and flying
kites on windy days in Golden Gate Park. I had sojourned in one
last sunny California place for 35 years which I thought would be
our last place to stay.
But I hasten to say that it did not turn out that way, and I shall never
forget that early Tuesday night in February 2022 when we found ourselves
on the road again. We were young and adventurous when we entered California 40 years prior. There was so much mystery. Now, we were
leaving behind so much of our personal history. I confess that deep inside, there was a bit of grey; I felt a little pain as we drove away that February night. Our bodies were leaving California, and another part of me was grieving. But really, it was okay.
111522PS