Long Saddens Poems
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Your face is not familiar
but please. just be kind.
I know that I should know you
but there's a problem with my mind.
I see the photos you brought me.
pictures of me and you
and so I believe you when you say
you're someone that I knew.
But those are pictures, not memories.
You're still a stranger to me.
I have these memory lapses.
I wish that you could see.
I would love to hug and greet you
like the old friend you must be.
When I see the hope in your eyes,
it really saddens me.
My world gets smaller every day
as less and less remains.
Please don't look so sad.
I didn't mean to cause you pain.
I love the photos that you brought,
I love the stories you tell.
But my memories have all but gone
and I'm in this living hell.
Your face is not familiar
so please, just be kind.
I know that I should know you
but there's a problem with my mind.
Crimson leaves gently wafting to the ground, thou hast done thy duty!
You graced my maple tree, now you adorn my lawn with untold beauty!
I saw thy nativity as buds in spring and throughout the summer days.
Now in the autumn of thy lives you carpet my lawn with scarlet blaze!
Alas, the subtle winds of October loosed thy grip on that ancient tree.
It saddens me somewhat to see thee go but you've had a glorious spree!
I saw thee dancing in the summer breezes and you provided shade for me.
You weathered the storms of pelting rain and hail with grace and dignity!
Robins that nested 'neath thy sheltering canopy have taken wing,
But they'll return to set up housekeeping again come next spring!
Squirrels scurried 'mongst thee, playing hide and seek on summer days,
And sprawled 'neath thy jade umbrella to avoid the sun's searing rays!
You've shed thy brilliant leaves and now the old maple looks so stark.
As if in prayer, its barren limbs reach for the sky with furrowed bark!
I anticipate thy return next spring - you've given me so much pleasure!
Bleak winter days lie ahead but the beauty of thy season I shall treasure!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Entry for Carol Brown's "Leaves" Contest
I know some deep pain saddens you.
It has been nesting in your heart for long.
Breeding in the silence of your soul
It leaves furrows on your brow.
It intensifies with every deepening night.
Leaving the wound in your heart severely bleeding
Something that you don’t want to divulge,
Robbing all your cheer and ebullience away.
I can feel the smoldering of your heart.
How I wish I could fan away those aches.
Wipe off all the gloom from your mind,
Or at least share a bit of it, my dear!
Even when you wear a mask impenetrable,
You might wonder how I know it.
Is it telepathy that I can read your thoughts?
Sense the rising palpitations of your heart?
When I see your struggle to cover up your pain
And put on a smile that is not genuine,
How I wish I could alleviate your pain,
Staying by your side, wiping those tears away.
Though far, please know I am quite near.
Somewhere so close, round the corner.
I am with you as an unseen presence,
Praying for you ever and wishing you all good.
Life is strange with sudden twists and turns.
Sometimes we feel we have come to a cul de sac.
But never lose hope, any time there can be a turn around.
It’s often after a bleary night, comes the bright morn.
Again, the sun shall show up in the East.
Darkness will recede and light shall descend.
The meadows with dew drops shall shine.
And the woods with the song of birds will resonate.
How I wish to be staying close to you,
To douse the heat of your anguished soul,
And tell you in assured tone and timbre,
That I shall be with you ever, if only I could!
April.15.2023
~ Placed First~
This or That. Vol.17. Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
It saddens me to gaze upon the stars
I see them blinking, fighting back their tears
Reminding me our distance is so far
Their numbers are the days without you near
Assembling pieces of my scattered thoughts
An image comes to me in stained glass scenes
Subconsciously I gather shards embossed
Create a picture of you here with me
Then suddenly a sign from fate appears
A shooting star takes flight across the sky
I close my eyes and wish that you were here
To stay with me and never say goodbye
I think about the happiness love brings
Then go inside to dream my stained glass dream
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Sometimes when the world saddens me
at night when I fold my hands to pray
I like to think how things would be quite different
If I was God…for a day.
The first thing I’d do is eliminate hate
I’d throw everyone’s hate away
I’d replace all their hate with love
If I was God…for a day.
With love in our hearts we’d accept everyone
we meet along the way
no matter how different they seem to us…
If I was God…for a day.
If I was God…for a day.
Everyone would grow up healthy, safe, secure and well fed
We’d all live long and happy lives
and die peacefully in our beds.
I’m sure there’d be more to do
more problems to face along the way
but this seems like a great place to start
If I was God…for a day.
Of course this will most likely never happen
I may never get to be God for a day
but at least it gives me something to hope for
at night…when I fold my hands to pray.
I fail to hear musical notes playing upon the breeze,
but I can see golden leaves rhythmically swaying.
It must be a winter sonata making snowflakes tumble
on this cold night meant for sleigh rides and romance.
Emotions flow in melodies on a magical night like this
for those in love, those who discern lyrics and chorus.
Moonlight's glow rests softly on the heads of lovers
as they kiss beneath myriads of twinkling celestial stars.
The sonata builds from a slow adagio to an allegro beat.
It's a symphony played on the wind no piano can match.
No stringed instruments. It's not a cantata written for
voices singing of love and what the future may hold,
but it's as picturesque as a snow globe winter scene.
There are silhouettes of pine trees dancing in firelight,
as embers spark inside of those who hold on to each other.
Like fluttering butterflies, they feel love within their hearts.
Once the music starts beneath snow draped branches,
they hear the rhythmic beat of their own kind of music,
and the emptiness of solitude no longer saddens their souls.
Each completely aware and content with Winter's Sonata.
XIAO LING
I wish I knew you well ?, I wish I knew what is in your heart ?
I stepped out of my bleak, four cornered room on Sunday.
I stepped out from my sterile four walled prison to day,
walked with the sun on my face, warming the hours,
as I walked with the Ghost of you in my arm,
you, leaning into me like you used to do.
Visions of your beauty, your lovely face
graced the blue skies before me,
taking me to heavenly places
I once knew,
with you.
I saw the essence in you, dancing upon the face of
Mother Nature, Mother Earth with such joy
as your Ghost and I walked hand in hand
along the dikes (both sides) of the River
Pitt with thoughts of you and I and all
we once shared, carrying me through
the pain, the tears I shed like falling
rain drenching the earth beneath my feet.
Soggy, thoughts that we might meet once again
this time, you could feel for me, as I feel for you.
I watched the sun gaze passed the cloud cover,
wash away the ugliness, expose the whiteness,
turn the grey snow, caped mountain tops
into a clean blanket, gleaming white
and I began to wonder ?, if I will
know, no more grey skies.
Will white snow fill my eyes ?,
as I walk with the Beautiful Ghost of you,
in my arm, leaning against me like you used to do .
B. J. "A" 2
March 24th 2011
You know Xiao Ling, there is so much I would have loved to have done with and for you. I guess?, now that you have others to do for you, I will never again, know the pleasures of giving to you all that I was capable of, all that you would allow me. It saddens me Xiao Ling, to think that I will never again get to do even the little things for you .
Gone are the the oppertunities !,?, like the sun, behind the storm clouds ( your anger, your disappointments ) that have been hovering above my head like bombers waiting to drop their load on me, to watch them explode on me .
I am so very SORRY Xiao LIng, for every mistake, for every discouraging, disparaging remark / word that came from out of my mouth, for every act ( kissing, hugging, caressing, touching, etc., etc. )that upset you so .
I hope that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me .
You have a great life !
LOVE
BILL .
Saddens when strength fritters, muscles run to flab with age;
a once smooth surface wrinkles bold etchings of joy and sorrows
while rough landscape seizes the trophy, buries beauty beneath
creases and squinting eyes and drooping girth and jarring joints.
Look at a mirror—you're yet you at heart though reflection feigns.
Beauty is forever, not strength, not health. Life has a bell-shaped
trajectory—a sure-fire sine curve, though the sonic boom pales
at prime. Blurred vision fails to see the diminishing present
or the long haul ahead; ought to, and so cuddle the rhythm,
bound up to breast the finish line. Else gamble at summer's crest;
winter in the trough with a wobble. What an old age with sighs
and stings, peace paling with aching joints and flabby muscles!
Robbed of youthful verve, a pain prick twitches the nerves.
What a youth spent as if now's forever! We all need a brace ahead
of when the frail frame fails at nine or ninety... or in between!
The wise may think otherwise. Maybe!! The pudding has proof.
All I know: Old age is divine!
© Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
4 February, 2019
That three-dimensional solid so symmetrical,
Suggests how life could be - understandable,
With only six faces, all square for equal sides,
And a formulae to describe what makes us stable.
This staple of stability is taken, unchallenged and assumed -
The rational is included unthinkingly in life’s plethora:
Carted to anchor that which horrifies and saddens,
And bread to float and strike chords which harken.
You can also make a cube into a sphere,
That circular goddess that looks like a globe,
Reminiscent of the earth’s fullness and dwelling,
With freedom, liberty and happiness so giving.
It has space, dimensions and co-ordinates,
And its tesseract is plottable on a graph;
Other polyhedra can be related to it
Its symmetry mutations of tilings laugh.
Understanding and sense derive themselves well -
You can't laugh at the cube’s skeleton;
Furnished, not flawed or gaunt by posture,
It's structure sits regally for exposure.
Descriptions are it's glory, that flushing realism,
The Cubism movement pushed academic boundaries;
Said that paintings can be made of shapes and cubes,
Which built a monument to reductionism’s theories.
That we can be reduced down to basic matter,
Particles, atoms, cells and molecules,
Is cubism's gust and enterprise for all,
Who gather so as to hear its paintings flatter.
I love cubes, and always have,
They’ve offered hope in times of despair;
Their eloquence and beauty spark with naturalism,
With natural life’s inevitable repair.
It lies within a long valley,
amongst rolling Green Mountain Peaks,
its southern Vermont’s largest lake,
a place boaters and partiers seek.
But nature did not build this lake,
that task fell to the hand’s of men,
built up a broad, high wall of earth
to ensure the valley was dammed.
I saw pictures of what went before,
a small town they called Mountain Mills,
built back when lumbebrjacks ruled here,
and could harvest trees to their fill.
There were nearby farmers around,
raising cows to sell their dairy,
who brought their product to this town
to try and make extra money.
There was a broad house, wide and white,
it most likely was the town inn,
where locals talked the news of the day,
where lumbermen revelled in sin.
Across from it was an old barn,
ancient a century ago,
leftover from before the town,
it watched the small main-street go.
There were housing, rambling houses,
packed in tight, this was before cars,
made sense, if you needed supplies
you didn’t want to walk too far.
The road itself a line of brown,
straight and narrow, gravelly dirt,
there’s not much sand around these parts,
they had to make what they had work.
Tiny shops, the family-owned kind,
butchers, dry goods, hometown bakers,
the places we nostalgize now,
we imagine they all 'kept their word.'
Near the back is a church spire,
simple-looking Protestant kind,
when people dressed to go to church,
find guidance for spirit and mind.
Behind it all, a lumber mill,
stacks of board-feet, three-stories high,
a chimney pumping out black smoke
from the big saw spinning inside.
Nearby a narrow railroad gauge
pulls up to take the wood away,
men work their shifts here 'round the clock,
it’s tough work, but they need that pay.
Not far away, a small graveyard,
where men from the Civil War rest,
the last dying not long before,
at least that what the stones did attest.
But Connecticut needed power,
that’s the reason nothing is left,
just cellar holes when water’s low,
in the months when you see your breath.
It saddens me because most days
this lake is just a place for play,
under the water, under the earth…
someone always walks on our graves.
And they don't even know.