Long Mournfully Poems
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It’s a cold December afternoon,
Four-thirty, and already dusk is upon us.
We walk side by side, like since forever,
Up the slight incline that takes us to the top of the road,
Shoes scuffling on the tarmac pavement.
Our voices chatter excitedly about the end of term and Christmas,
Each a sentient echo to the other.
Jokes, debates, and questions whizz around the air,
A zephyr of amity.
The streetlamps turn on suddenly,
Bright orange sodium bulbs of fire—
Fire that advances so slowly,
Like a curtain being drawn closed
At the end of the final scene.
Slowly, things began to change.
I no longer waited in the mornings,
And you, after school.
Oblivious, two pairs of squeaking shoes become one,
And we stopped being each other’s echo.
Looking back, I cannot explain why I didn’t do more,
Why I didn’t say more,
Except maybe I was too selfish.
It’s a cold December night;
The bleak winter darkness seems to have swallowed the world,
With not a crumb left.
I sit here, not because I love long nights,
But because I find it hard to dissolve my loneliness in daylight,
Because no matter how much I write in these pages,
I cannot keep you a moment longer.
Time has passed, and you have gone,
Like a popped balloon whose air returns to the vast world alone,
With no chance to meet again.
So let this poem be just a tribute to us:
Look at the butterfly, how it shakily flies,
Drifting beneath sunlit skies
In this cold season.
Look at the crescent moon,
How it steals the daytime bloom
And hides it in a starry tomb.
Listen to the autumn leaves,
How they whisper mournfully as the wind flees,
A tale of time that painfully grieves.
Listen to the winter snow,
How it comes and it goes,
How it hides the sobbing beneath its glow.
I call out again, but this time,
The only thing that meets my ears
Is my own voice.
Nevertheless I hope somewhere, you will hear me and remember
Us.
You shall not chase my gloom away!
There's such a charm in melancholy.
(Samuel Rogers, 1814)
I think, I was born under the shadow of melancholy. I was a woebegone girl
since birth. My mother said she never saw anyone with such an aching heart.
To me there was anguish and agony everywhere in my world. At the side of
the road, a dead bird would bring me to tears and with a heavy heart I would
hold a funeral. My parents refused to let me bury squirrels but I prayed quite
mournfully for their souls. When my sister died in childhood, I was overcome
with grief and down-hearted. I became desolate and miserable. In my eyes
there is a sadness still that could shatter glass, it is so sorrowful. As I grew up,
I was a moody girl, taken to reflection and reverie, deep in my innermost
thoughts and morose.
broken bleeding heart
there is such heartache to see-
beautiful sadness
Then, I found poetry writing and my sulkiness found an outlet. Now I have
learned to use my melancholy and weariness and tiredness and even my
forever bitterness to create deep and dark poems. And with each beloved
death I have been crushed yet have used the wretched pain to write my tears
away. I will tell you the truth, I write my very best poems when I am down
and blue. I was once told that a poet must suffer to be good and I believe
that to be true. Sometimes, and don't laugh I force myself to be sad in order
to compose a pensive, broken poem.
deep in thought musing
that is where I find my pen-
sweet melancholy
__________________________________
September 25, 2016
Poetry/Quote/Haibun/Senryu/Melancholy
Copyright Protected, ID 16-833-447-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
For the contest, Melancholy
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
First Place
This old house it creaks all through the night
a most mysterious voice echo's through out
even with the windows closed tight.
I never paid it a lot of attention except on
Halloween night, when a woman's ghostly
shadow appeared on my stairwell in the dim
lite hall light.
My body did shiver from the cool air and goose
bumps ran up and down my spine when I heard
her call, Are you there?
Mournfully she swayed upon the stairs and
acted as if I was not even there. Into the end room
she did stare and wept like a baby because who
she was looking for at that moment, was not there.
A bright light flashed and she was gone but no more
than an hour later I heard her singing a song. Was a
hymn from centuries ago and I couldn't place the song
but it was familiar and for some reason to hear it again
I longed.
A knock on the door rattled me so, it was children standing
on my porch in Halloween décor. I reached for my bucket
for candy to give and she appeared at my side and a smile
she did give.
No one seen her except me and I wondered how the children,
well they did not also see. Closing the door and returning
to what I seen, up the stairs she did lead me. I followed her
to the room at the top of the stairs and a boy sat beside her
in my spare room's bed.
She spoke not a word but her face was a glow and I had hoped
she had found what she was looking for. I closed the door and
down the stairs I ran, my heart was beating so loud it sounded
like rain beating a tin pan.
I stayed down stairs for the rest of the night and not once did
I see her again until next year's Halloween night. I searched for
records on the history of this home but there is nothing that
explains why these two souls, live in my home.
They come every year On Halloween Night and I stay in the den
until daylight. They never bother me, but it still scares me so and
hopefully someday they can find peace and can finally go.
January’s snow flows stealthfully through my fifth-floor apartment window, flung wide open to welcome in the new year. The half-drawn curtains bellow with brisk salt air blowing in from the North Sea. A distant foghorn groans in a resigned, forlorn resonance, guiding ships braving the churning, ice-slushy waters as church bells strike twelve stately brassy tones.
This night I stand alone and content, a rich cup of espresso in my hand. Eschewing nostalgia and perhaps too sober of thought, I prefer my pleasures to be of the vicarious variety. Beneath me I take in the muted ambers and oranges spread out from the four cafes, out past the cobblestone road, glistening as snowflakes alite. Young couples drinking, glasses clinking, hug, kiss and revel, strolling out from the cafes. Some indulge in a traditional waltz, before the speaker blares more modern fare. Waves of laughter and singing ebb and flow as I turn and head toward my bed and blessed sleep.
Again the foghorn blares mournfully, like a tuba vainly pleading to be united with a long-lost orchestra.
Headpiece filled with potential straw
Play often by the dictates of law,
The day with its fill of silent sorrow,
Filrts with sense, and falls tomorrow.
A motion and a spirit that impels to lose,
Uploads the videos to attract more views,
Time's winged chariot slows down the gate,
Forgets the event, and confuses the date.
Like a burnished throne that packs often more,
Falls from the window, languishes on the floor,
Turning around the road less travelled by,
Burns up the hope to give up with a try.
Infite riches in a small amount of room,
Begin with a blessing that calls out the doom,
An old and worn bilthe spirit haunts the little lake,
Gets up the ladder and unravels the mistake.
Peculiarly pure and polluted wings of poesy,
Terminates the yarn and drowns in urgency,
To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield,
Cracks up too early and stumbles on the field.
The forest of the night gives way to crops,
Fumbles and fiddles and fizzes out at stops,
Why a second coming grumbles like a dream?
Without any care flows down some stream.
Traces of soiled feet and sparrows not in grand gutters
A wasted wayward soul comes and mournfully mutters,
The ignorant armies clash by night under the Casuarina tree,
Makes the lines, breaks the rhythm and turns them fully free.
It takes too long for the last duchess to uncover and sing,
Distances of dissociation constantly throw and fling,
Never the mistress of spice shall ever be there so soon,
And look at mandates of a sudden and savoury tune.
Nine bean rows, poetry of earth crowd up the avenue,
As the lines search the old in the funeral of the new,
Mists and mellow fruitfulness fuel the futile fun,
Ignore the grace, spit out the truth with sixty minutes of run.
The decade, a facade, distills the wilfull muse,
Reverberates, rediscovers, and stacks up glorious refuse,
So this is the beginning of the end and a no way home,
Recklessly strives to the few to find a lost syndrome.
November comes down gliding on filmy wings,
Bringing cool and dank days on her way
Sweet it is to watch the spectacular changes she brings
In a medley of colors, plants and trees proudly stay
Earth puts on a finery no other season can beat
In glinting flashes, the land and sky look so bright
The delectable pumpkin pie is the season’s favorite treat
As the day advances sunbeams fall in sparks of light
.
Early mornings come covered in snowy mist
Soon leaves nose dive and mournfully weep
The fallen leaves tremulously cry under our feet
As their last goodbye before they finally fall asleep
Evenings turn colorful with sinking sunlight, bleeding red
Squirrels chatter noisily as they gather nuts in the wild
As autumn tightens its grip, men retire early to bed
Wind blows all through the month with a temper mild
Soon the air turns chilly with blizzards coming in a row
And winter waits impatient for its icy-cold embrace.
The land will then be covered in a maze of snow.
Even the last flower shall fall and fade from earth’s face
The fallen dead leaves lying in piles and rotting away
And the sound of wind whistling the dirge of November
Bring to me the thought that we must all take leave one day
Down on earth, fall and rot, thus be fodder for new life ever!
Nov.13.2022
~ Placed First~
November or December Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Caren Krutsinger
"life goes on...even though our hopes are crushed...
leave their dreams to the dream catchers" (By Poet)
inhaled alluring fragrance floating around me ~
imbibed radiance of the gleaming red roses
gradually those roses losing their enchanting sheen,
their unique lustre and hue diminishing, some dried,
parched petals already hopelessly crumbled on the hard floor,
fading, shrivelling, drooping, descending.
my heart aching mournfully to see them decline and fall,
who can stop the inevitable...one by one...those flowers
will lose their shimmering petals, painfully reminiscent
of the decay of a sublime beauty - cruelly discarded.
life goes on...even though our hopes are crushed,
even though a few flowers, which could have fully bloomed
and enchanted the world... fall and perish.
they leave their dreams to the dream catchers
to be cherished…
October 10, 2021
Inspired by "Let's Mix It Up" Poetry Contest
Two lines Of Unrhymed Couplet (12 syllables each)
Eight lines of Unrhymed Free Verse (Imagism)
One Stanza Of Unrhymed Free Verse
Sponsor: Constance La France
SECOND PLACE
For Strand - 1059 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
Caught in a vortex
Gripped by turbulent fingers
Drawing me downward
Panick stricken stimulation
Rushed through my mind
Mesmerized by depth
Of the murky waters
Where rusty relics rest
Capsized. Relentlessly
Thinking furiously
Thoughts radiate recovery
Repose is resistant
Seeking refuge
Trinkets tearing tides
Strung on moonbeams
Villain’s vile venom
Tauntingly summoning
Sublimely stressed
Beckoning below
Embodied by a captor
No subsequent release
Sinking to my doom
Do I dear to hope?
Subconsciously searching
Unknowing of what to search for.
Abject resistance
Will His almighty hand
Pull me free from fatal forces?
Curiously thinking of iced tea?
Would it ease my burning throat?
Lungs laden with water
Wishing to be afloat
Brushed by serpent style tentacles
Creatures of the night
Mystically aglow
Shifting sands swirling
Oozing between toes
Fathoms below the ocean
Perpetual nighttime fears
Frigid wetness chills
Last pearl bubbles escape
Demise is eminent
Whispers lull me
Entering a dream state
Calm befalls sweet serenade
Lilting song of the sea
Sirens mournfully singing
Deception flaunts desire
Cruelly taken greedily
Mercy not an option
Given up to the sea
Is it my prelude to paradise?
The epitome of surrender
Pitch black graveyard
No one to bury me.
IV.
But come the next day he saw no Cammy,
and could do nothing but sigh mournfully,
then say to himself,”I guess we're all done.
Even broken she'll stay here in the sun.”
Norm returned home, to his calm, rustic life,
though inside he didn't feel all that right,
realized he'd been putting off many things,
like a fool child he had been acting.
He wanted kids, a family of his own,
two week affairs didn't help such things grow.
So he tried to date, would go into town,
but things never really got off the ground.
Not many women liked the backwoods scene,
such freedom played to the masculine dream.
Alaska has less women to offer,
none seemed to want what he had to proffer.
Eventually it all began to grate,
and after another go-nowhere date
as he walked back slowly, no spring in his step,
he saw something that caught his heavy breaths.
There on his steps, with half a dozen bags
sat his Camilla, her face low and sad.
She looked a bit tired, stripped of youthful charm,
but he didn't care, and wrapped her in his arms.
“I'm sorry,”she cried,”there can't be another.
I'm tired of just being a lover.
I can't go back there, it's not worth the cost...
I regret all of the time that we've lost.”
He just kissed, did it repeatedly,
said, “For you I'll put in electricity.
If that's what you want, I will make the change.
I want you besides me, please, take my name...”
She did that as soon as the judge would allow,
and except for internet 'Where Are They Nows'
nobody much noticed that she had left,
Hollywood is fickle, likes to forget.
But none cane say Cammy really much cares,
she lives a life in the woods, with the bears,
and a husband who keeps her belly full,
not the life she planned, but at least it's not dull...
Tomorrow I shall see the birth of the awaited dawn
Today it seems I am locked in a midnight zone
Tomorrow I will not walk into the dread of the night
But shall be led by the blazing light
Tomorrow I will carry my yoke manfully
And never recite the litany of my woes mournfully
Tomorrow I shall slow down and stop by the mountain side
And watch the silvery stream joyfully down way glide
Tomorrow I shall seize every chance that comes my way
And never wait for them to fall on another day
Tomorrow I shall be out of my prison cell with discord round
And shall enter a palace with joys abound
Tomorrow I shall willingly partake of another’s grief
And never seek solely my own relief
Tomorrow I shall wait for the calm that follows the storm
And not grumble in haste that life is a withering dream
Tomorrow I shall look beyond the clouds of gathered gloom
And see for myself the beauty of stars that in hundreds bloom
Tomorrow amid hostilities I shall keep alive the sparks of friendship
And never mourn the absence of anyone for companionship
Did I hear someone teasingly say to my utter surprise
“Your resolutions sound so good! But what if tomorrow doesn’t arise?”