Long Mourn Poems
Long Mourn Poems. Below are the most popular long Mourn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mourn poems by poem length and keyword.
The loss of a child, can be quite hard, to bare,
it’s just not the natural order and it will never seem fair.
Our children are everything, we give them our all.
They get every hug and kiss, and we pick them up when they fall.
I remember a little boy who I have not seen, in quite a while.
His laugh was infectious and I can still see his smile.
He is now a grown man, but that is not what I see.
I just see that little boy, laughing and smiling back at me.
He was a part of something special, a family that I love and adore.
They helped mend my broken heart, and never shut their door.
Weekends at the lake and holidays spent in their home,
in my hour of need, they made sure that I was never alone.
No greater love have I seen, in all my days,
than that of this family, with their kind and generous ways.
It’s been twenty-five years since this young boy was born,
I am sorry for your loss, and now with you I will mourn.
In this near future
I’ll never die
I must never open my eyes to cry
In this near future
It seems I have cursed this presence of life
I have placed doom
Upon any courtesy of essence due to what’s right
Your angel of light
One flash
A simple loan of your most treasured belongings
And in my vaults of anguish shall rest your ash
Messiah of arched smiles
I’ve carried this burden
For time has been measured “a while”
Summon me perched in hurt
I have searched for the warmness within your smirk
Beyond my pieced together songs
My emptiness lurks
Never the less it’s all in further efforts
Yet in this near future
I’ll never die
I must never open my eyes to cry
In this near future
Disaster shall not be worn
Therefore the pieces of this song
You shall not mourn
Why walk when you can fly? I wondered then,
When she had left me standing on my own,
When I was left to mourn her yet again,
When all I’d wanted was her love alone.
She was no angel, but a demon; still
I thought she was an angel sent to me
To give me peace and love, my heart to fill,
My one true love in this cold world to be.
The things she put me through, the hate she poured
Into my life; the sounds she made and roared,
Were later healed when I stood up to face
That demon who had tried to take your place.
We could have flown back then, that girl and I;
And so I would have given all, I know.
Therefore I asked, why walk when we can fly?
Though she would not deserve that love, oh no.
I felt not sad at all, but softening
For what you give is what you get; the twist
Is that you left, and you took everything.
Your karma now awaits, and you’re the .
When you had vanished, then it was I flew
Toward a life away from hate, and you
Are left with him you chose, the wretched beast
Who on your anguish and your pain will feast.
I’m happy, always, living with a smile,
And you’re in pain, you hurt, and wish to take
Back everything you did to me. Meanwhile,
I write this, not for yours, but for my sake.
The words stick in my head when I don’t write,
And back me up, so now I put them down.
It is not that I think of your sad plight,
Though when I do, I laugh at your sad frown.
They say that which we sow is what we reap,
And so each night I drift to lovely sleep.
I loved you once, although I should have known
That you would walk, although we could have flown.
Oh kelpie with your dripping mane
seducing valiant men of heart,
who by your spell would all be swain
and every sense in them, depart.
Why weep you by the loch and tide?
What brought you from your kelpie depth?
Sure no desire is kept aside
from your cold, illusory breath.
No longer do you haunt the bank,
but mourn a clever witch of wile
from whose enchanted cup you drank,
now captive to her charm and guile.
She'll bid you work a hundred years
in slavery chains for nigh
'til kelpie legend disappears
for proper penance, hue and cry.
*In Scottish folklore, a kelpie is a malevolent water spirit in the form of a horse.
Kelpies were believed to inhabit lochs and rivers, and to lure men to their watery graves
by transforming into beautiful women, once drowned the kelpie would then eat the victim.
The kelpie of this poem was the victim of a love enchantment, eagerly agreeing to a
lovesick life of slavery for penance of past misdeeds. Ha, whoever heard of a repentant, lovesick kelpie?
Your timing, O God, is flawless, they say,
Mercy spills from Your eternal edge.
I cling to that truth, yearning for solace,
Yet it slips as I bleed through the years.
Woes swarm like static, sharp with insult,
Words that cut, leaving a thousand wounds.
Will You, my Maker, cradle me close,
When tears and fragments are all I am?
If pain is a teacher, why is wisdom stalled?
Tears fall freely, but insight won’t rise.
I surrender—heart, mind, my tangled mess—
Yet fear grips tight, numbing my bones.
Your spring of life should mend my soul,
But dread chokes me, a fist at my throat.
Poverty pins me to cold concrete floors,
Your blessings distant, just out of reach.
Why speak of heights my dim eyes can’t see,
Of glow beyond the grave’s heavy veil?
I need bread now, not tales of endless joy.
Hunger drowns whispers of paradise unseen.
You warn of fires below, yet I’m already scorched,
Melting in trials You’ve allowed to unfold.
This whirl of letdowns, this haze of scorn.
Where I am lost to another world to mourn.
You promised a land of milk and peace,
Where grace alone runs deep and free.
But I stand empty, hollowed by grief,
grief my only weight ,sinking deeper.
Your silence erodes my faltering faith,
Your waiting, a detour some devils plan
If Your mercy is real, God, find me now—
Before that path lead me to the murky pit.
Desperation leaves behind a rancid,
State of mind,
Bomb blasts ring through the city,
Deafening the already blind,
What a pity.
Aimlessly wandering alone,
Have no more a home,
All I want is a small space,
In a bombed out place,
To hang my head,
Cry and mourn my dead.
I heard my wife’s terrified scream,
Our children died,
At the scene,
As so did she, the apartment
Separated into two,
As bricks, mortar and
Debris flew,
The images are and will be
With me,
Wherever, whatever I do,
I made my way to
Join the line,
Wanted to be recruited.
Behind me,
I was joined with yet a few,
More who wanted to fight,
As was the only thought
That was foremost in our minds
For what we had, and lost,
We paid the unimaginable,
Ultimate cost,
Our family’s blood was spilled,
To live or die,
Meant nothing anymore,
I wanted to join my family
At Heavens door.
And so I enlisted,
Men, anyone please come, we
Need you, I was thirty nine,
In my prime,
Over eighteen, another
Twenty one years to reach sixty,
They accepted a limping
Volunteer who was fifty,
Same state of mind, me
And he,
Our weapons at the ready,
Wishing for the moment,
As I held my
Daughters’ small brown teddy.
I never thought revenge
Was sweet,
Dear God forgive me,
Such a treat,
Holding this gun,
Even though I know
I’m beat.
Such tanks I’d never seen,
I did not care, I stood in front
And fired and fired.
I must have died,
For faintly I see,
All three,
Welcoming me,
My wife,
My life,
My children,
And my papa.
Who we’d lost last year,
I felt no fear,
I was almost home,
And no more alone.
“If, to speak my truths, I bleed these syllables, let the wind ferry them to a moon-kissed shore,
for I am a caged rose dreaming in deafening darkness” Quote by Poet
I mourn within an aquamarine aquarium,
drifting like treacherous torrents of the Arctic Ocean,
while my ink, stained with sorrow, floats like splintered sapphires,
serenading the unspoken reality of obscured waves in blistered black.
But if truth were a poem,
woven from bleeding colors of supernova scars draped in stars,
will the calligraphic constellations carve my tale in crystalline cadence?
For I’ve long been fighting currents of chaos in silence,
too reluctant to wade beyond the familiar torment,
as I’ve sealed an eternal curse,
enveloped with macabre metaphors from cold caves of satanic seas.
Now I am the throned rose of darkness, breathing hope~
and faith, to erase scribbled heartaches.
I know one day I’ll reach my shore.
~ Gems For The Soul ~
~><~
Written by: Joy Wellington
For Constance La France ~ A Rambling Poet ~
Contest: Create Your Own Form, Maybe?
This is my own form, the name is : “Inverted Rhyme”
What I did is to rhyme my words that’s in the middle (or almost) of each sentence.
A walled in pond with trees draped with oakmoss
Brighten by a warm predawn glow across
Earthy-wet forest floor scent of nature.
Playing shadows bend, rouse the wild creatures.
Two sisters sit on a small stone clearing.
Nippiness breath near ripple spring brimming
With verdant ferns, guardianship of trust
Closely guarded innocence does entrust.
A gleam of awe on their lovely faces.
An open gold filigree chest graces;
They hold a string of lustrous pearls once worn
By gramma they loved, ever since did mourn.
A bond between two sisters dearly share
That can by no means be lost, but most rare.
4/7/2020
In 1996 I was living in DC
while serving as a diplomat
At the State Department
My wife was in the military
Serving as a major in San Antonio
That fateful morning, I went jogging
Early in the morning
Fell down a ledge
I did not see in the dark
I shattered my heal
Into a millions pieces
Had to have heel surgery
The ER patched me up
I went to San Antonio
And had the first
Of 15 surgeries
Over the course
of the next nine months
After the army doctors
Preformed an experimental procedure
Using shark cartridge in my heel
The staph infection got lodged
Behind the cartridge
Morphing into an evil, malignant
Mutant, multiple drug resistance staph infection
Had to take IV antibiotics
Using vancomycin the nuclear bomb of antibiotics
Blood tested four times per day
The dosage had to be constantly adjusted
Too little won’t kill the bacteria
Too much could end
killing the patient
Meaning me of course
I Almost lost my leg
And my life
Left me with lifelong arthritic pain
Fibromyalgia and hammer toes
Five years later had two hammer toe surgeries
And will have to do it again within a year
I soon developed a ritual
The night before the surgery
I would call my wife
My mother
My two brothers
My sister
My five best friends
My wife I knew
She would be my side
Even if she was far away
I felt that my brothers
Were indifferent
It would not really matter
If I died or not.
My sister would mourn me
My friends would miss me
My best friend was in DC
And visited me before
And after each surgery
My mother was slipping
Into dementia.
And I was not sure
She understood
What I was going through.
But still I wanted to hear
Their voices perhaps for the last time
before going under the surgeon’s knife.