Long Sadness Poems
Long Sadness Poems. Below are the most popular long Sadness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sadness poems by poem length and keyword.
To what I owe this joy I have no clue
for it took years to grow this little seed
Some days I had to dig to find its hue
and other times I just knew what to do
I do not own a smile for every face
for sadness often creeps inside my heart
Sometimes it disappears without a trace
that little joy in me that once took part
She is a butterfly that often flies
somedays she sits upon my window sill
and other times, cocooned by tries
she's bittersweet, elusive, gone at will
It is no lie she cannot fly when maimed
nor sit upon a shoulder filled with gloom
so many dark nights of the soul she claimed
then fleetingly she left this birthing womb
To what I owe this joy? I have no clue
perhaps in letting go of past arrears
we spring up hope and chase away the blues
perhaps when sorrow leaves then joy appears.
February 26, 2023
Sponsor Constance La France
Contest Name Writing Challenge -H Words
I Died Once
At this very occasion I witnessed my spirit decent from my flesh hurried to meet darkness as I lost breath
At that very moment a combination of numbness, sorrow and grief couldn’t be articulated from the strength I was soon to lose
I swear I saw light meet darkness in a split
I died once
The spirit connecting my body and spirit disconnected leaving my body going on a shut spree
I knew I would never enjoy this sweet thing called life
Or at least I knew I couldn’t enjoy it this time
At that very moment I hungered for light to be shone on my life
To light these warm memories life once shed with me
I swear I died once
Grief’s bitter cold and sadness consumed me like a stream sweeping away the ocean sand
My numbness was deep, and my desperate body needed a replant of hope’s little seed
Pictures of amazing people I shared memories with flashed with the slow deem of light like a candle slowly put down from the chase of light
I died once
For a moment I switched to this happy place where my peace was restored
Remembering my annoying laughter and all I ever did on this earth
I cherished my honest, caring and loving spirit along with the souls I met in this journey of life
The spring’s cheerful flowers then brought me back to life as I was about lose my breath completely
Poet
Masego Nkuna
I'm eruptive
Explosive
Ready to implode
Feel the heat inside me rising
Like a kettle on a stove
I clench my teeth together
Grind them with my jaw
So filled with pain and anger
My fury is so raw
My skin is turning color
I see it in my face
From white to deep red scarlet
As my blood begins to race
I'm so mad I'm shaking
These flames just cant be caged
I'm on fire, an inferno
Burning up with rage
Won't somebody save me
End this misery
Douse me with some water
Take a blanket, smother me
Please hurry it's engulfing me
Turn the heat down, make me cold
Before I char and turn to ashes
Like a kettle on a stove
Autumn leaves and melancholy
The city park an Oasis for a lovers stroll
As the cold nights invade the city lights
Park benches, the hotels for the homeless
A vagrant inebriated man, withered
Drunk and destitute, no home to go
He lies listless, snoring on the park bench
Ragged clothes and a tattered life
Wake UP Wake UP
Shoved by the Police in the dead of night
You must move on old man
Or we shall issue you a court summons
Ah but where shall I go? he boldly demands
This is of no concern of ours old drunk
You must vacate this park now
We have no time for old drunk fools
The old man asks, and who pray tell are you?
I am the police, and your nightmare, if you don’t vacate now
Oh Police? Not officers of the peace? Here to serve and protect?
And who pray tell are you serving and protecting tonight?
Do not talk back old man
Worse things than a summons may befall upon you
Now move on you stinky drunk
As the story goes, the old man moved on, drunk and broken
The next day, no better for the wear
The old man rose, to begin another beggar’s day
Voices inside tormented him
Wounds from long ago
Today, he proclaimed time to collect his just rewards
His teeth ached, his belly hurt
He bought a gun, from the toy store
All he could afford
Off he went to the City Bank
Time for a withdrawal
Hand me all your cash he demanded
The teller whispered
Old man we all know you
You can not think to get away?
Why you barely stumbled your way in here
I doubt you can make it to your getaway bus?
- concern and compassion in her voice
He replied all proud
None the less hand me your cash
My plan is sound, you pretty lass
Fear not I mean no harm to you sweetie
At the door, those very same Police
Yelled drop your weapon
And so he did
As they pushed him violently to the ground
Sitting in the back seat, he smiled
Finally justice will be served
The Officer scolded him
You drunk, you will be locked away now you scum
40 years before, the irony of life was to be painted
The old drunk saved the life of a fellow soldier
Who had a son, whom became a police officer
Irony is the sadness that shall sink many a heavy heart
Now the old man, with 10 years in prison
Finally his country paid his dues
This old war vet, got his 3 square meals
His teeth all fixed and healthcare for an ailing heart
God bless those who truly serve and protect
Regrets
Impatience coursed through my body
The mehendi art is taking a long time
Then there was you
My heart skipped a beat
Our eyes met and I looked away
Quick glances paved a path towards him
Why was I so impatient before?
I decided to take a seat in the hut
Knowing that I'll have a clear view of you
Then there was you
Hurrying towards me and sitting beside me
Now I'm a mess
And he starts shifting towards me
And I shift away from him
Making me clamp my lips hard so I wouldn't smile to myself
Your laugh
It stood out like a definition given at lectures your voice
I listened intently
Like its the instructions given at a mid exam
Making me clamp my lips even harder
She finished it quickly!
Now why was I impatient again?
Oh yah he's still there
Not having a clue that he's making my tummy a kaleidoscope of butterflies
Are we that desperate to have a quick taste of love at first sight?
Is it even love?
Maybe..
I moved myself away from him
Away from the hut
Towards the little gap between the wall
Swallowing my feelings of regret
Do I have to go home?
Whoa! love does make you blind
Were you that special to make me still think about you
To write about you
To try to remember your laugh
I guess you certainly are
I regret it now
I regret that I didn't make a move to show how much I like you
I regret holding back my smile
I regret not saying a word to you when you sat beside me
I regret every passing second knowing that I would never see you again
Glancing at my mehendi art
Realization crept out
A few minutes
A huge crush
A heavy weight of regret.
The Key
Ever have a day or moment you knew was
a milestone? A day you Felt as a person that
you had moved on? Today was that day for
me.
Fredy's apartment key was still on my car
keys. I brought them everywhere, even
though He died five years ago, We were
together eight years ago.
I just couldn't bare to remove them. To me,
it meant removing Him or somehow removin
his memory. A link.
The keys meant he had lived . Proof. Proof
I was part of his existence. And him, part
of mine. No matter how grim the end was. No matter the face I looked upon that day he was alive, no more. Me, in Love still.
Today, at the nursing home, I had a very
confused but grateful patient.
In fact, he reminded me a lot of my
grandfather.
Although very happy & in the moment, he
often worry about his lost house keys.
He was perseverating on his keys today,
again, unable to focus on anything else
during rehab. "My Keys!" he shouted,
"God, I had keys now I will have to buy
more!" It was all he focused on again and
again the whole hour.
Remembering my spare, I ran to my bag,
removing Freddys apartment key. Why
do I need this? I asked myself. These keys
, to me, mean nothing but death and
sadness. As I pulled the green top piece off
of them, I saw an anonymous key emerge.
The key that meant nothing to me, that
would help and anxious, lost and dying man.
After all, Fredy was beyond help. Now Fredy was gone. But, I could use these to help others. He would want me to. It's time I
realized that.
As I zipped the key into the old man's pocket
, his frown turned to a large smile
"Thank you you kind lady. You have eased my pain. Now I have my key. Now I am happy. I can get into my house and return
to my family." He smiled warmly, grabbing
my hand.
He slouched back in his wheelchair with
a smile, finally calm.
I knew that the patient would not go home.
But, why not ease a worried mind with this
key. The key that seems to be always
tormenting him. Perhaps, we are both the
same. Perhaps it is I who should thank
him. Thank him for relieving me of my
sadness.
Sent from my iPhone
Whenever I spot
red-bearded Origin,
the destitute street musician
of Budapest who asks for a donation,
not making a protest with a grin;
don't be amazed if I'm the first
to drop coins in his empty cup:
does anybody, not in a rush, ever stop
and give him some attention?
Does he ever feel humiliation?
He's too young to be singing the wretched blues,
he's too strong to waste his precious youth;
and whenever a crowd gathers around him
his sadness becomes joy, his day is not grim:
when he's discouraged he expects many boos,
and unable to play his thoughts express no worth!
He strums the strings of that old guitar,
to show everyone that life is worthwhile...
despite the moments of pain and anger;
he sings brightly to match Ruby's big smile!
Who has ever felt sadder than the unhoused street musician
and found a cozy corner to grieve or to be applauded?
A house is a home only for some: there dreams are weaved;
there smiles abound and those four walls are protection!
Feel empathy for the lonely street musician in Budapest,
keep filling up his paper cup with another coin that tinkles;
dedicate a minute of your time before his hope dwindles:
he may not be the greatest player, but surely the proudest!
killed under the wheels of a gravel truck, January 29
that's what the headline read that day so long ago-
at noon a girl was crushed to death beneath the
rear wheels of a fully-loaded gravel truck, the driver
told police that he first saw the young girl standing on the
snowbank at the side of the street and that she suddenly
darted off the snowbank and then tried to stop as she saw
the truck passing but she slipped on the icy street and
slipped beneath the heavy rear duel wheels of the truck,
she was killed instantly, I will never forget my mother
screaming, screaming at the side of the street and how
Suzanne's blood soaked the snow red.... I broke inside
(the truck driver took his own life we heard)
In Memory of Suzanne
Days of sadness still come over us
tears in silence often flow
for our little girl, gone before us
you are not forgotten, dear one
or ever will you be
for as long as life and memory last
we will remember thee
Mommy and Daddy
Memories are treasures no one can steal
death is a heartache no one can heal
some may forget you, now that you are gone
but we will remember no matter how long
Grandma and Grandpa
It was my birthday on February 1, the day after the funeral
why mother did not cancel that party, I do not understand
but it was my last birthday party ever, I declared
Mother said we can change the date of your birthday
but I refused, saying that would be Suzanne's day
and it has been... I go dark around this time of year
I cannot stop it, so I go with the flow, it is what it is
if anything good has come of this grief and sadness
the tears, and wailing of this broken girl
is that a poet was born out of death . . . and grief
____________________________
January 13, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/a poet born from grief
Copyright Protected, ID 20- 1216-369-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Dear Heart
sponsor, Silent One
Second Place
Be gone..
Do not look me in the eyes
We were not belongers
But,Intruders
who happened to trespass
into each other's lives
We were no Romeo and Juliette
But, Pretenders
Like moon rocks believing they are the ones
who light up the infinite sky
Be Gone..
Do not look me in the eyes
Let not my lips go there
to that young and serene night
When we danced barefoot on the sand
with arms against the sadness of lost time
Your decision has been made
The last petal of an untouched margarita
withered in dust and rain
And you never asked Why
Be Gone..
Do not look me in the eyes
Do not remember me
Do not think of me
Forget my foreign whisper
like I 'll forget the wrinkle in your smile
There was never a better place
Nor will there be another time
The empty pages have been filled
Our unfinished book - Not anymore
I am a nobody ~ an echo in your hourglass fading in the sand
an empty barrel without the sweetened wine
Do not miss me - Do not think of me - Do not need me
Who am I
I' m just your rehearsed dream . a metaphoric lie
Be Gone
Do not look me in the eyes and say goodbye
I was never yours You were never mine.
I was You were
Were you ? Was I ?
This poem isn't about me or my life, but inspired
by someone else's life.
Without a word - you speak to me through particles of pigmentation
For centuries held within the grip of linseed oil
Where now I gaze upon the many faces that you wore
And their beauty shakes me to the very core
For in each one I see and feel the life you lived
All the different stages - on which you played
Each faze of life - portrayed in raw emotion
So powerfully and brilliantly displayed:
Surprise, confusion, anger and mockery,
Humbleness, arrogance and gaiety
Contentment, resentment, agitation and condemnation
Impatience, sadness, bitterness, and sorrow
And finally resignation all conveyed -
In vibrant shades of autumn leaves
That without a word, so loudly and profoundly - speak to me.
~~~~
Written: July 8, 2011 - 0:03 a.m.
Inspired By Brian Strand’s contest:
POETA -ANY FORM/ THEME max 15 lines
Awarded: 1st Place
~~~~~~
Note from author as taken from Time Life Library of Art:
No artist has left a loftier of more penetrating persoanal testament
than Rembrant van Rijn. In more than 90 portraits of
himself that date from the outset of his career in the 1620's
to the year of his death in 1669, he created an
autobiography in art that is the equal of the finest ever produced
in literature---even of the intimately analytical Confessions of St. Augustine.