Long Mournful Poems
Long Mournful Poems. Below are the most popular long Mournful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mournful poems by poem length and keyword.
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Goree Island
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: February/2014
I see the blood
of my ancestors
that swell
in the Atlantic ocean
on
Goree Island -
The unmerciful ill winds
that fell
over my people,
in Senegal,
on that
horrific night,
brought the European's,
across the Atlantic,
to our Village -
Everything
in the world
changed forever,
and
will never be forgotten,
when the "unthinkable"
cruel acts
of slavery,
cloaked my people
like
darkness in the night -
White men
dressed in British
formal attire,
brought with them,
bullwhip's, chains, machetes,
and rifles,
to capture us.....
to ENSLAVE us!
We were brutally beaten,
and
taken to
the House of Slaves,
on Goree Island -
The malice intent
of
the British,
intensified our
suffering
at the slave house,
as they
cuffed us to
the walls,
in neck, waist,
and
ankle chains -
Days would pass,
some of us died
from
diseases,
and
starvation,
while waiting
for
the slave ship
to come
from the Americas -
The hideous inhumane
acts
by the British,
sold us
as property,
as we were
auctioned off as
commodity,
to the Americas,
during
the Atlantic Slave Trade
The mournful ness
in our helpless eyes,
spoke of horrendous fear,
as a feeling of distraught,
distress,
and despair,
clothed us
like
death -
We are innocent people
that will never
see our families again
Our homeland again -
It's unfathomable,
to see black souls in chains,
taking those final usurious
steps towards the "Door Of No
Return,"
in the House Of Slaves,
which left its ugly mark,
on the whole global earth -
Once through
the Door Of No Return,
we were sold to the Americas,
and
faced a future of
severe beatings, burnings,
hangings, lynchings,
and
rape -
To this day,
ancient spirits
of
black people,
still scream in rage
on
Goree Island,
where an untold number
of us were
slaughtered,
and
branded
before walking
through the slave door,
of
an uncertain future -
The ominous clouds
of slavery,
will
forever cast
a dark shadow,
over the
House Of Slaves,
the Door Of No Return,
and the world -
Goree Island,
in the Atlantic Ocean,
will forever
cry tears of blood,
from the souls of
black people -
To the proud parents, Anna and Theo
A serious lad, silent and thorough
A clan of preachers
And dealers of art
From the southern Netherlands came Van Gogh
When sent to school, he did not want to go
The separation led to much sorrow
But he learned to draw
Whatever he saw
Sent off to sell art in Paris, Van Gogh
His happiest time, and now in love, oh
Till the landlady’s daughter told him no
Now a broken heart
Surly to sell art
Fired from his job in Paris, Van Gogh
Vincent sought out a coal miners’ burrow
A priest of sorts, but a squalid fellow
The church was appalled
And cursed his resolve
To the asylum for crazy Van Gogh?
His father baffled, on the verge of foe
Art interest, once again, began to grow
Back to school again
This time, in His name
To paint in the service of God, Van Gogh
School’s out, back to his parents he would go
Using neighbors as subjects to ditto
Proposed to his cousin
Which she found disgustin’
Burning his hand to see her, holy Van Gogh!?!
Now off to The Hague, a family furlough
To live with Sien, a boozing bimbo
A man to see ya…
Caught gonorrhea
Three weeks in the hospital for Van Gogh
The pain of loneliness drove him back home
Once again, a failed love with fair Margot
Then Vincent’s father died
He grieved deeply inside
The tragedy further refined Van Gogh
Finally, Vincent’s work was in the know
“The Potato Eaters” made an art show
Just add more color
Said his dear brother
Rubens brightened the dark gloom of Van Gogh
Vincent’s diet: coffee and tobacco
Mixed with absinthe began to take its toll
Though he kept on painting
Then Paris, more training
The end was getting closer for Van Gogh
The masters: Monet, Degas, Pissarro
Cezanne, and Seurat in his studio
Influenced his style
Learning all the while
That time was running out for Mr. Van Gogh
Then he moved to Arles, bad health in tow
Completing great works the whole world would know
“Sunflowers” (in vase)
“The Café Terrace”
Minus one ear, the frail, ailing Van Gogh
With his tattered mind, and mournful woe
Committed to the asylum, Mausole
With his final works
“The Church at Auvers”
“Starry Night” was painted in pain, Van Gogh
“At Eternity’s Gate”, he was sorrow
Wandered into a field, farmer’s fallow
Put a bullet in his chest
In hopes of peaceful rest
“The sadness will last forever”, Van Gogh
The crone can hear the children's laughter, cold as ice
And they exclaim out "witch", not thinking she can hear
Their parents then admonish, "Try to be quite nice."
Upon her thin, emaciated form they leer
Of love forbidden she has paid the awful price
Malicious magic powers all the children fear
She only wears black, mourning each and ev'ry day
Her world is full of dismal, somber shades of grey
She loved a wealthy cultured handsome gentleman
But she had not the clothes nor proper pedigree
And never would be issued any wedding bann
For poverty did not amuse his family
When finding herself great with child of his, she ran
She felt displaced, just like a dead uprooted tree
In bleak back alley child unwanted disappeared
No chance immoral tainted peccant child be reared
Although she lost her core, her heart, her soul, her mind,
She wandered dazed and crazy back to town she knew
Her fam'ly said, "We never have produced your kind."
There was no place to go and nothing left to do
But after mournful agony she came to find
Satanic powers very evil she would rue
She met the incubi in wooded forest glen
Although she knew it was an awful, grievous sin
Her soul and body raped by evil forces bold
Instilled in her the seeds of their foul awful pow'r
That grew more potent as she grew extremely old
Demolished, shattered self continued still to sour
Her sterile body, now quite barren, grew ice cold
A vile vexatious tongue lashed out at all each hour
Thus she became a bitter venomous old hag
While dressed in filthy clothes; on head, a dirty rag
She met a fine genteel young man, so good and kind
A person reaching out to all in charity
Attempted making better lives where he could find
He wanted human folk achieving parity
However, he had never met an evil mind
The succubus seduced his soul with clarity
She crippled psyche; took his cash, his bonds and stocks
Her languid lips convinced him caged; no keys for locks
Then when the moon was full one night, she murdered him
Around his vile demise all sorts of tales arose
She had dismembered rigid corpse each limb by limb
Disposed so very well of ugly bloody clothes
The whole ordeal had been a gratifying whim
Upon his naked body set a blood red rose
His corpse was never found; base tales do not abate
Today she suffers vile result of cruel fate
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking the trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt is the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion for poetry shrivels on its vine.
Withering like a flower, my empty heart
has stripped my soul of its craving to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings.
They thirst, and their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorse and regret.
That mocking voice invaded my aching breast,
when again, it ridiculed me as a fool...
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task.
You should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken, drowning in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only drums in rhythm to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered.
Parched and dying, drying up in a field of grief.
While I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
into an abyss, my fingers charred in a fire.
I can only water the seeds of self doubt
with salty sweat from my furrowed brow
and over fertilize them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds reprieve, a relief.
I've tried to save them all, or was it just
a half-hearted attempt made in vain?
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain.
I'm suffering from loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and praying that I be forgiven.
For the folly, I've only myself to blame,
this pillaged poet.
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.
To the authorities, your hands may be clean...yet to those who matter most...to those
looking up at you now with welled up eyes, your hands drip reddish black with my
blood...the children catch a glimpse of your sly victor's smile...quickly you hide it
behind a newly saddened facade, feigned and fabricated. The price of your happiness pales
in comparison to it's cost, woman...you just don't know it yet...
In this life and the next, I shall be your dark shadow...I shall haunt you without mercy.
Though you won't see me, I will be there. I will be the cold breath on the back of your
neck...the sense of impending doom that pushes down on you. When you hear a noise in a
dark room, it will be me, crouching in the corner with claws out, watching you in your
trepidation, whispering your vile name...I will be the chill crawling down your wretched
spine...the catch in your throat when you can't breathe and I breathe anew...
I will be all of these things for you, Rita...this is the least I can do to repay you.
Tell the children what you will about their father...the painful truth will be reflected
back to you every time you look into their confused, mournful eyes...when they stare off
and you try to catch their tears, oblivious to the waves of sorrow inside. Your victory
will become the wolf disrobed of the sheep's clothing. I will be the puppeteer of your
remorseful conscience, as it wraps it's hands around your gargoyle throat and ever so
slowly, takes your life.
Though my thoughts became my fantasies, I never had your murderous resolve. Tell everyone,
tell the children that you never wanted to keep them from me, that I could come by
anytime, like you always said after months of painfully endured reality...no one will ever
believe you. Everyone knows, Rita...especially the children. Pray for my words to unetch
themselves from the forefront of your demented mind...still I will dangle them in the
background. Our beautiful children, your little pawns, your poker chips with a
pulse...will come to truly know their mother.
So enjoy your foul, pyhrric victory...these six feet of cold earth matter not...the grasp
I have on you now is surpassed only by my reach, and like an unwelcome guest at your door,
I will be the puppeteer of your painfully reflective conscience...I will haunt you forever
in the darkness.
Form:
In the depths of my heart, a shadow dwells, Regret's icy grip, a tale it tells. Missed opportunities, choices made, Unraveled dreams, a path that swayed. Like a phantom, it haunts my waking hours, Whispers of "what ifs" in my inner towers. A constant ache, a gnawing pain, Regret's cruel hold, an endless chain. I yearn for moments lost, chances slipped, Paths untraveled, choices I've gripped. The weight of could-have-beens crushes low, A burden of remorse, a heavy blow. In the stillness of night, it echoes deep, Regret's symphony, a song I weep. Each note a lament, a mournful cry, Tears of sorrow, a soul's goodbye. Oh, internal regret, your sting is sharp, A wound that festers, leaving an endless scar. But within this darkness, a flicker of light, A lesson learned, a chance to set things right. For in owning my remorse, I find my strength, To learn, to grow, to make amends. Regret's embrace may linger still, But I will not let it rob me of my will. I will embrace the present, seize the day, Create new memories, come what may. And though the past may cast its shadows near, I will rise above regret, banish fear. For in the journey of life, both joy and pain, Regret can be a teacher, a guide to gain. It whispers lessons, helps me understand, To live with purpose, to make a stand. So, I will carry regret's weight with grace, Learn from my mistakes, embrace its embrace. For in the depths of sorrow, strength is found, A resilient spirit, forever bound In the depths of my soul, a shadow dwells, A constant companion, a haunting spell. A tapestry of sorrow, woven with care, Embroidered with moments that lead to despair. I search for solace, but it eludes my grasp, As memories torment, holding me in their clasp. Haunted by thoughts of what could have been, I'm dragged down by regret, an unforgiving sin. But amidst the darkness, a flicker of light, A glimmer of hope in the depths of the night. Acceptance's embrace, a soothing balm, A whisper of healing, a shattered soul to calm. Forgiveness, a gentle salve on my wounds, A bridge to the future, where healing resounds. No longer will I be held captive by the past, Regret's shadow, its power will not last. From the ashes of regret, a phoenix shall rise, With newfound strength, I'll face the open skies. No longer will I dwell in sorrow's embrace, but never trust my smiling face.
.
In the beginning ...," roosts;
Christians and Jewish boosts.
Hubs stretched out their ellipsed
rung, un-Earth cures eclipsed
space; science clues darkling,
emerging as sparkling.
Up and down, primordial
chains--retards cordial.
Time slot checking briefly
when brain cells claim chiefly.
Focused an analyst
review a panelist,
truth and not devious;
now, post-, and previous.
Be of good health, nourish,
mindful, and to flourish
together ... we harness
our outreached true farness.
Constants are the scatheful,
equaled by the faithful ...
life marks trails that puncture
time cross-over juncture.
Naysayers, "That's crackpot!"
Truth smiles at the jackpot
as hopes, a bit mournful
of those fiercely scornful
Truth be told--mortified,
unseat those fortified,
advent-relegating
actions delegating,
doting are distinguished
evil hailed extinguished,
sage passage dutiful,
heart imparts beautiful.
Gauging your fealty
accents self-realty ...
descension diminished;
exalted goals finished.
Daily scriptures strengthen,
understanding lengthen
all regenerated
by the venerated.
A righteous behavior,
prophets teach, a savior ...
of a lost lamb was--not,
for The Shepherd does--not,
hence, Heaven will cherish,
hell reroutes won't perish,
reborn renews brilliance,
transforming resilience.
When the wolf applied nicely
If he could come in,
The pigs replied thricely he shouldn't.
Then they scratched at the hairs
On their chinny chin chins,
And tightly bolted the door so he wouldn't.
But wolves, when out shopping,
Are not easily put off,
Even faced with the risks they are takin'.
This one ignored the wheezing,
And the nagging, rasping cough,
In his lust for ham, pork chops, and bacon.
First, he blew down the straw house,
Then the one made of sticks,
But by the third he was straining and grasping.
It was a veritable fortress
Of well-mortared bricks,
And emphysema left him panting and gasping.
With one last mournful howl,
The wolf knew he was done
And lay down in the driveway, embarrassed.
The pigs regained their composure
And called 911,
But when the cops came, the wolf claimed he was harassed.
The argument raged
For an hour or more
'til the cops gave them all a citation.
Still gasping for breath
As he slunk from the door,
The wolf was stopped by a squealed invitation.
"Wolfie, oh, Wolfie, please won't you come in?
We'd so like to have you for lunch."
And he would have gone on and ignored the appeal,
If he only knew that "ragout de loup" (pr. rah-goo duh loo)
Was the entrée, but he had no hunch,
And he was not one to pass up a free meal.
When a wolf's sick and hungry,
He might let down his guard
And do dumb things a wolf shouldn't ought to.
But for pigs, it's expedient
To get the final ingredient
Required for a tasty "wolf stew".
The wolf's huffing and puffing
Couldn't even come close
To the pigs' stratagems and devices.
After seven martinis,
It still hadn't dawned on the dope
That intelligence wasn't one of his vices.
If he'd had more brains than brawn,
This poor wolf might have known
That the pigs never meant to surrender.
They'd no more need to fear or hate him,
They knew the booze would marinate him,
So when they served him up and ate him,
He'd be quite succulent and tender.
If this tale has a moral, I'd like to propose
That "three heads are better than one" be selected.
In this case, not the one who worked the hardest,
But the ones who worked the smartest,
And as the little piggies guessed,
The wolf was the perfect luncheon guest.
Of course, their table manners weren't the best,
So they still made pigs of themselves, as expected.
I heard echoes of scurrilous snarls,
from my conscience as it spoke
contemptible remarks aimed at me.
What shame those words delivered.
"Fatuous one, why does your hand quiver,
mimicking trembling lips of a child in fear?
You dare call yourself a poet,
but you're nothing more than a joke."
Guilt, the culprit that tunnels my mind
as my passion flower shrivels on its vine.
An empty heart has stripped my soul
of its craving need to write.
It's my own foolish notion
that causes me to shiver.
I weep over my planted seedlings,
their mournful cries I hear.
Abandoned by their mother who begot them,
and for this I'm filled with remorseful regret.
That mockery invaded my aching breast,
when it ridiculed me as a fool;
"A self-proclaimed bard who gives up the task,
should put down the quill and live in disgrace."
There is no saving grace for me.
No nourishment for my verses to thrive.
My heart is broken and lost in memories.
Without the will to live, how will it survive?
It only beats to keep me alive.
Rows of sprouted thoughts have withered
dying of thirst, drying up in a field of grief,
and I, their neglectful sower, helplessly sit
as time elapses and I watch them expire.
I’ve fallen between the gaps of missing lines
and must retire.
I've watered the seeds of my self doubt
with salted sweat from my furrowed brow;
over fertilized them with tears of frustration.
I do not seek salvation or redemption.
Damnation will out.
My ink well of impetus has sprung a leak
or maybe it's a new watering hole I seek.
I have not a drop to quench their thirst
no morning dew, nor afternoon shower
to give my wilting buds a reprieve in relief.
I've tried to save them all,
but half-hearted attempts were all in vain.
Not one more rhyme can I rescue from pain
and suffering loss. All hope is gone.
My fear is that I cannot express myself
in what was once an emotional voice.
No wonder my pages remain barren and blank,
except for the blotches of spilled ink.
My parchment lies in a state of immortal decay.
I relinquish my quill to a better hand than mine,
setting it free and pray that it may be forgiven
for my folly, for I've given it no choice.
I've only myself, this bereft poet, to thank.
Written January 24th, 2021
Judged N/A 2/22/21
Contest Open Poetry !