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.
5/21/11-5/22/11
I rule over the night
undaunted with all my might
I have time to spare all I can bare
Watching the hand chime
tugging…pushing…shoving
through whirling toil
that feed the spoil
Perplexing strife
refusing to give up
Power and torment
We are too caught up in our own power
and ruling over each passing moment
each passing night…destroying the twin towers
Who’s doing all the blaming?
Who’s choosing our faults?
I’m tossed…shifting around with uncontrolled anguish
Zipping…tripping over rambling bolts
spiraling into a mad house
Don’t enchant your intolerable voice
I see no love dwelling in this household
Do you seek for your power…
you insufferable traitor?
Seeking our upcoming doom
brewing strife in the heap of ruins
brewing strife while we still leave room
to obey and remain under power
You are assuming the worst
father…mother…
rule over the passing anguish…circling around
stumbling around…not aware
Hey you! play fair
Behave and stay awhile
before you feed the fire that holds sheer vile
Allow love to not be thrown away
into another pile
I grasp no love engrained
In our giving garden
that plants ceaseless approval
Pardon my faults
I was far from comforting sleep
Dread is driven mysteriously
Through an endless night
Moving on the tracks
Forming into an alarming train
Who’s doing all the blaming?
Who’s choosing our faults?
Who did the labor suitably?
worthwhile father…pleasure-seeking mother
Don’t enchant your intolerable voices
and expect us to listen sensibly
Demanding us to do labor
and assist our displeased neighbor
Why do you melt the delight away?
Throwing away a flavor of ecstasy
and put us to glove-less labor
without putting our favor and opinion
into the overlooked pile
Burning agony
dries the buried glee
Saved for a grieving moment
Playing like a warped tune… unable to express
solitude that develops in the heart
raped by the ragged uncertainties
without taking heed of our pleas
These desirable moments
Cherished in the deplorable journey
They weren’t acknowledged by power
Love in those days were brand new
Do you have a clue?
they were cherished...
Bountiful…
stranded in a deserted past
in merciful beauty…caught under the spell
Where did that come to pass?
Where’s the love?
Who’s doing all the blaming?
Who’s choosing our faults?
Warm your heart with what’s left of summer, warm your heart and put on a thick skin for winter, open all the resorts and hotel all over the town and fill them with tourist where destiny is bound.
Fire and storms will come, twister, tornados, typhoon, hurricane, cyclone will take you up to the moon and when the earthquake levels everything to the ground you can find solace on the other side of the town. When the fires burn the hill, just look up to the skies and keep still, it is purifying the land so the next generation can sing a happy song.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer, warm your heart and dine with me in winter. I will give you discount on every suite and I will give you half price for a table for two to romance in the breeze. Get the whole family and come and have some summer fun life goes on for the battle that is not yet won.
Many businesses are down and total devastation is left in the town but somewhere in the middle of the ruins, there is hope. You can clear away a spot, set up a mobile kitchen, an entertainment corners and bring the caterers in.
The tourist bus will arrive in your town and they will greet you without a frown, the ships will come too and you will have business for the rest of the year so don’t fear.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer get your friends and family and join me for dinner, Aunt Jane cannot come because her grieving is long,
She cannot get over the loss of her entire family. Three boys, a husband and four dogs perish in the fire. She was away when the fire started; she is inconsolable and she is vulnerable so we visit her from time to time to tell her that life is divine. She will always have a seat at this table.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer and let’s go shopping, before winter, we will get something’s from the gardens store because we are going to do a big barbecue outdoor.
You must get some household gift, kitchen counter and table items. You will go to the electronic store and buy many things galore; business is very slow so you will bring some people in the town and have blowout sale all year round.
Warm your heart with what’s left of the summer, take a trip to Japan, China or America, just let it all go and get ready for the big show.
Winter is around the corner so enjoy what is left of the summer; just warm your heart.
"Life is a succession of lessons which must be lived to be understood."
Ralph Waldo Emerson
In this performance we call life,
my spirit searches for an interlude of peace.
My poetic mind riots consumed by rhymes,
savaging our memories of grieving beliefs.
I'm a soul rasping winter's woeful wings,
afraid I'll become a poet who ink will forget.
I'm trapped in the desert of dejected demons,
wandering in aching avenues of dreams,
forgotten in ferocious frozen vine's of time,
surrounded by meadows of blood poppies,
Season of death is a cursed caricature of memories,
full of salty tears, bitter goodbyes with spiteful sentiments.
Let me sleep in the synchronicity of angels,
as ebony horizons drift into darkness.
When crimson clouds bleed to paint the sky,
I scream at silent scarlet skies,
as black rain from a dark storm plunders.
Like acid burning my metaphorical paper wings,
I float like a butterfly cursed by moths of deceit,
as hope dances dangerously with my malevolent muse -
grace and hellfire waltz with my heart's chambers.
I can't help but remember last November,
when death clung to the air around me,
as answers we found turned into a designated dead end.
In delirious desires of deathless shadows,
I still see your daggers and cigarettes in a charcoal silhouette,
with your every breath laced with guilt.
Yet, the ghost of your voice lulls me to sleep,
as the silence crawls along the walls at night.
Who are we to judge who is a sinner or a saint.
I wonder if you will walk down the stairs of heaven,
hold me in all my fragility, remind me of childlike charms,
or will rebellious regrets open the gates of hell.
I scream at the Grim Reaper to take my soul,
ravage me, before I go,
but put a white veil on my corpse,
so each night when I visit my grave,
provocative eyes with loose desires,
can feel the wind beneath my sails.
But, gift me one more midnight,
to create my final masterpiece to paint my dreams,
carved with marble white ink,
engulfed in sentimental verses -
for this is poetry, formless suppressed speech.
One day our quill will eternally slumber,
as our conscience passes from poetry to dust.
In the plight of adversity, only I, truly know,
that stars speak stories how simple words were not enough,
as truth only prevails through poetic justice.
She was an Indian Barbie, long curly lash
And brown complexion. The hair was
Perfect, shiny black and she had on a small
Pink gown to cover her 36-24-36 body.
Last seen, she still had on her high heeled shoes.
Oh how my daughter cried, “Dolly, Dolly,
Where are you?” when she found out she left,
It on the basketball court’s grounds. She took
It along, against her mom’s frequent reminders,
When grandpa brought her with him for a walk.
She cried horribly, my wife mailed me. Tears
Rolling down her cheeks even as her mother
Scolds, tears not for the accusatory words
But for her Dolly who is gone. Gone away,
Lost and probably in another child’s hands.
My wife, with a guilt ridden grandpa’s idea,
Told her Dolly wasn’t lost after all. In fact
She was on her dolly way to dad now who
Works onboard a ship, sailing far, far away
So he can buy milk and nappies for small kids.
“Punta sya dun kasi lungkot si Daddy di ba?”
(She went there because Dad is lonely right?)
She asks in between sobs of her mom, who
Can only nod and kiss her on the forehead
And whisper a “Yes,” the whitest of white
Lies meant to comfort a grieving, sad child.
Fast forward to the time I talked to my child
On a long distance call, from a very public booth.
She asked me if Dolly was with me, forewarned,
I can only sigh a cheerful aye. “Talaga? tignan ko nga!”
(Oh yeah? Let me see her then!)
Of course she must have meant to talk to her.
I didn’t hesitate, all so suddenly I knew what to do,
Then and there I belted a falsetto, uncaring
Of the Island people around me, for in that one
Sparkling moment, I was talking to my child not as
A father but as a long lost friend who misses her.
“HAH! Helloooo Dolly, andyan ka sa barko ni Daddy?”
(Hello Dolly, are you there on Daddy’s ship?)
She asks me after my high pitched hello, asking
with such gasped longing, with such breathless relief,
with such childlike delight and innocence. Even as
Eavesdroppers wonder what harm befell my balls!
The rest of that dreamy conversation is lost to me now.
The wonder of her tone, her concern, her yearning for
Her doll is all that remains, of the father and daughter
Transcending bounds of love, blasting colors and
Rainbows to a gray span of reality, even for a while.
---Part 2 on my poem list please read too long to post
Because the mind still stays
The memory of the holocaust,
And the face reflects the twinge that still lurks
In the hollow of our frail hearts;
My mournful pen shall bleed
In a forever flow of pensive mood.
We are survivors
Who suffered the flame of covid.
We are survivors
Who sampled the taste of death.
We who saw the gate of hell and live
To tell the tale that hell is cosy,
Compared to the wicked world;
We are now casualties of war.
Hell is a cooling place
The earth is not.
And no one devil inhabits a calming hell.
They all abide with us here in the flaming hell;
For the earth is hell,
The hell is earth.
The earth is hell where the devil-incarnates dwell.
The hell is place where the hostile hunger
Shoots fiery darts at poor souls.
The covid slaughtered its thousand,
We heard it.
Hunger slaughtered its ten thousands,
We saw it.
The devil is innocent,
Man is not.
Many visited the heaven but never return;
It is safe to die.
Many visited the street but never return;
They were shot in the head.
But thousands remained indoor,
There they welcomed their death and followed him.
The death loved them more than their rich neighbours.
Tell me, why my sorrowing pen won’t bleed
When death is kind and man is cruel?
Tell me, why my sorrowing pen won’t bleed,
When the devils hoarded palliatives;
And poor souls suffer?
Those invented pandemic did no harm;
Those feign pandemic to peculate did.
Those declared lockdown meant well;
To feed man with the wind,
And slaughter souls in hunger.
Lekki toll-gate episode is enough
To succor our grieving souls.
Now to those buried their dead
In the heart of their memories
For the lack of further space in the burial sites;
In the sundry lands and climes
Where pandemic havocked like hell;
To you whose mirth has been ceased
By the cacophony of the holocaust;
To you whose land the inferno lingers still;
May you be brave to fight to victory.
May new dawn cure your night of mourning.
May you forget the season of cold;
By the warmful rays of sunshine.
May your heart be filled
With overwhelming songs of joy.
For until this war is over;
And the mind lets go
Of the memory of the holocaust,
And the face reflects the ebullient heart of the optimist;
My mournful pen shall continue to bleed,
In a forever flow of pensive mood.
Aurora stood at the gravesite close to Robert’s casket on the bier
“Look at her, why I’ve yet to see a tear”
The lady whispered to the other so Aurora could hear
“Her dress is disrespectful; it’s a heartless thing to wear
“My heart bleeds for her husband lying there”
This was Robert’s favorite dress and he always used to say
“Aurora, wear it for me when I ‘go away’
If you care and I know you do you’ll dare!
Aurora, promise me please no tears
We’ve known this moment was coming for almost two years.”
Aurora saw a man appear under the oak tree on the knoll
It was Robert walking in an unhurried stroll!
He used the “royal wave” he liked to imitate
Aurora repeated it in reverse, she didn’t even hesitate
She saw and felt him there emotionally reacting
Intellectually realizing “this can’t be happening!”
Staring at each other across the expanse of lawn
Sharing a last loving communication not as two but one
Robert blew her a kiss and walked out of sight
Trembling wildly, Aurora fought to stay upright.
A solitary tear fell from Aurora’s eye, she felt it descending
In slow passage down her cheek carving a groove blistering
Stories abound about this unique and mysterious solitary tear
Report it happens infrequently, only every several years
How or why the tear finds its mourner cannot be explained
The tear’s origin and source has yet to be discovered or named.
It’s said that a person’s intensity of inexpressible feelings
Make the tear appear by their profound grieving.
Aurora, like others, is disorganized and unfocused following Robert’s death
Making endless adjustments, trying to catch a breath
One day she touches the scar on her cheek made by that solitary tear
Her mind clears and it becomes an amazing day without confusion or fear
Salvation and comfort take many forms if you pray
Especially if you believe what God imparts in His way
She finally understands that Robert’s soul and spirit were not lost to her
And that living isn’t meant to be a meaningless blur
Robert rejoiced in living and in his love for her taught her to feel the same
They had priceless moments together more than she could count or name
And she starts recalling all the memories they made while husband and wife
Who’s to say what or whom finally brought Aurora back
And gifted her with a tender and loving renewal of her life.
Who could forget what happened on that unsuspecting and sunny day,
when no visible clouds drifted over the Twin Towers?
Little after midnight, the cool rain adds to the melancholy
of the descending angels; and I join them in prayer to remember the tragedy!
This should be a day of remembrance, not of hatred for the ignoble acts
the wicked committed, but would God accept unkindness instead of merciful deeds?
They called it another day of infamy,
and like Pearl Harbor we were taken by surprise;
that was an attack aimed at the military,
but on September 11 the terrorists attacked the civilians!
It seemed like lightning striking down sturdy trees,
and then fire broke out with smoke trails of a thousands feet;
" O my God! ", every employee screamed...quickly running down
the stairs engulfed by fire...causing an indescribable chaos everywhere!
" Take my hand, I will lead you to safety! " the firefighter said to the coughing woman.
" Hold onto my arm! " the policeman yelled out to the frail man,
who had dropped his eyeglasses and couldn't see!
Every firefighter and policeman acted like them, rescuing many without fearing death;
and hundreds of them, that awful morning, never returned home alive...
what a tragedy for their families that watched in horror and couldn't help!
Who wouldn't remember the courage of their noble and willing hearts?
And furthermore, who wouldn't engrave their valorous names on plaques and monuments?
Up above, by the gates of Paradise...Christ and His Father awaited them to accept their souls;
while archangels surrounding God's throne, sung hymns that humans couldn't sing...
those hymns that all the earthly heroes will sing with them when Heaven mourns again!
Their portraits, pictures and memorabilia hang above the fireplaces,
and on the decorated walls of the victims' homes, precincts and firehouses;
how could anybody take them down as they were worthless items?
Prize them more than gold or diamonds, o friends grieving that tremendous loss even today;
don't hate those who caused you sorrow and unbearable pain, be forgiving and show mercy...
as God does toward us; o friends remember your heroes for their valor and sacrifice!
My poem is dedicated to the victims and survivors of the September 11 attacks on America.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I'm Heavier than the walls of a writers block
Hotter than a favelas summers clock
I'm Rougher than sand paper, hanging on a carpenters sock
Distanced like lands separated at sea
step in these 11 and a half's , so i can show you what it takes to be free.
You once said it still hurt! I was dead!
You once said love, and i ****ed up.
I wish you would of read,
Me , as cool and empty as my breathe and lungs.
I should have woke up when your love rung.
I shouldn't lose, but it feels right to fail.
In war and love their is no mercy in this jail.
For us id move the gun for the canine to score,
yet, I've never met a person id try losing for.
"I got the blues ladies and gentlemen.
A round of an applause for our fine men playing tonight.
I have a love story to tell you about.
Its a bout a fine man, who was no different from you.
Yet, this man was a whole lot different."
He was strong, with a vision holding his nuts and nothing mattered.
So even the liquid couldn't get to his bladder
Maybe a brother, maybe a son, maybe a close friend,
it doesn't matter who or what only when it ends.
There comes a time in a mans life, where he is living and not looking.
It is then where he feels free and forgets about her first cooking.
In you i have faith my god, my mother and father.
It isnt much to say,
its just doesn't feel right to still feel love in 100 shades of gray
Im lifting the writers walls and cooling the sun with the moons clouds.
Ill pray i never lose this much.
Life is good, but shell never answer to tell me why she was so out of touch
No time, nor dimension,
can show what hes feeling,
another day it may be easier to take a break from this grieving.
Good night ladies and gentlemen,
i just pray you show her this note tonight.
Giving me a breathe, gazing into this uneasy nyc sight.
Ive learned to live without air and only with my memories of the world ,
you were so beautiful and pure on the first date as u smiled and twirled
"By then the young man turned into a gray angry man,
no tear could he drop,
Its then the girl played the music of love and he finally let his ego drop"
The heavens opened up and gave the young man reason to live,
she was back again, and he was stoned and passive.
Trying to catch his mental, he grabbed her tight, he lost his mind for one more time
to never forget her smell on that Bronx night.
Form:
I was sleeping and dreaming, silently screaming, while violently weeping And mildly feeling that I was honestly grieving I was quitely greeting my anxiety's breathing It was wildy eating at who I was... I could see through the mirrior he was frustrated Feeling devestated, felt isolated, feeled truly aggravated Did I mention the love and hatred upon his eyes Or even the soul teared through a genocide A gemini inside, but set aside he felt terrified But through the lies disguised in your mind He was ultimately petrified...It was you that was scarier then ever, even his barrier Now I'm flying high like a harrier, with you i'm more marrier Was it scary cause of your terror, or your character? See I truly miss you miss, you're a beautiful beautious Broken and brutal, but with you I see what beauty is I love it, cause you're so humorous, is it obvious? I'm operating this auto race Just for you, I'd be dominating...I'd be going pedal to the metal, just till it's settled I just want to win a medal, I'm feeling kind of dreadful I've even beaten my only devil, going crazy, am I mental? Nah, it's where I extract scratched tangets and you stare vast in past pamphlets And you have no answers for your last math's classes, within exams I see you vanishing You close your eyes and drift in planets'n'canvases, and you crash in crafted canyons That clash with granite and imagitive paniced bandits with a habit that granted An attached handprint that reflected my poetic languages They call us anguished animals, but I pass on my damages, on through these messages See I may look different with my clothes that are charred and almost carved off I'm scorching like dark hearts, and warped like barked bronze Can you see I was meant for journalling? I'll be discerning them, as they see me surfacing I'll just be surging in, and it's you that i'd prefer to bring even out of all these earth-a-lings I hope it's permenant, you showed me what my purpose is, I needed the encouragement It was a form of your subtle perfectness, is it courteous that you bring me nervousness? Right now, you got me prouder then, all my extended ends, it's pride from you that i'm conjuring in.... Your loves got me flying high in your turbulence, it's a superb inherent gift, I don't think I could picture it, It has me feeling one with the churches and all my burning urges end...
In the pantomime of pretend prose,
the moon dances on lonely nights.
Before the lights go out at twilight,
unforgiven ice cold hearts,
remain abandoned, hoping this is the end.
Her eyes like Eve were deceived,
by manipulative sea green serpents.
Stranded on shores where time has no name,
the artistry of dread, breathed in poetic chills,
inhaling life, exhaling pain like dolent daisies.
Concealing metaphors of dying embers,
behind an avalanche of emotions,
she anticipated the rebirth of an artist,
by an art nearing the opposite side of yearnings,
because in the deepest chasm of poetic love,
an alliteration of antithesis attracts affection.
I was not as naive as Adam,
searching for heartbeats from heaven,
knowing that is how you ruin a poet.
An empathic spirit ignites pens full of fire,
burning the strings of poetic puppets -
the greatest gift of entrancement.
Rumi taught me the universe is infinite,
and so am I, so I knew I would meet my muse,
like stars greet the moon in a meadow of miracles.
As roaming romance conjured my dream's horizon.
Her name always echoed in the silence of quiet nights.
An empress without an emperor in a crumbling palace,
yearning to blossom in an epodic flower field.
Her seldom smile was as radiant as the golden orb.
Despite ghosts hiding in the shadow of sunlight,
mystical silver spirits were summoning me to her abode.
Her misspelt phrases accidentally fell on my page.
I found her burying her frozen quill under six feet of snow,
with a withered heart reliving a winter wonder nightmare,
constantly bleeding pearls in a silage of tears,
cursing her tormented tongue.
Her winter kisses were as tender as butterfly snowflakes,
but at first, her rage slashed at my wrists,
drowning me in her obsidian grieving seas,
but my soul is like a seasoned samurai full of scars.
I always believed small steps lead to great places,
and I would kiss her sorrows goodbye.
Upon realisation there's no blood in my veins, only poetry,
together we portrayed pastel coloured sunsets,
illuminating a celestial canopy of light,
sowing trees of forgiveness,
surrounded by colourful petals,
leaving behind the dark long road home.
In our internal garden of Eden,
there is no darkness,
there is no forbidden fruit nor sinning,
only an aura of love personified.