Long Somber Poems
Long Somber Poems. Below are the most popular long Somber by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Somber poems by poem length and keyword.
Tatiana’s Twinkles
Once upon a time, a poetess created, such lovely, rhymes.
But, once the doors on free spech were forever closed, she
went on to be a mime!
She sat in the somber eve and cried, as there was no reason
at all to write.
As the beauties and uglieness of the real world, were defined now to
Turn us all, ghastly white !
Evil was to be kept a secret, and poets from all countries were with fierceness, duly Galore!were warned!
Only silliness,or total positivity were to be adored and with
jokes galore.
On their knees and with only positive comments to be adored!
But to express herself, fully, oh, no, she was totally( as were
others, forbidden and foresworn
Tatiana, the “no more poetess”.so lonely, bereft and with no freedom for all, became, depression’s mourner.
Like other writers, the floors of freedom were mecilessly gone!
And “Freedom of Speech”, down a lonely river, crooned a sad, pitch dark, song,
In the soft autumn’s dawn~ a football field of freedom loving poets was in ndeed born.
Bubbling and full of sparkling, audacity and true fun! America was not founded to honor a king..
Writers have the rignt, to let our hearts open and sing.
9/4/2025
One exception. No poet shsall openly advcate, shamelessly, for the murder of another entire race , this is advocatinhg for death. And is unethical.. i request you do not do that. Be humane. Please.
Not one of us is a repiorter, either. Our Enemies lie on TV daily, a pox . on them all.
God bless all nations! .We are not leaders of countries .. please do not spread hatred! Thank all who do this. Pangie
In earth's mournful sigh, the day does fade,
A quietus bow, as light to dark is made.
The sun descends; its fervor now grown still,
As night's embrace, a somber, haunting thrill.
Death's whisper cold, a solitary call,
To dance alone, 'neath the starless pall.
A journey's end, where memories decay,
In silent halls, where echoes die away.
The mortal coil, a brittle, fleeting thread,
Unravels fast, from life's loom it's fled.
Yet in this end, a somber peace we find,
As death's cold arms the weary soul do bind.
For in the gloom, where final breaths are lost,
The fear of end, by dawn's light is not tossed.
Death's icy hand, a guide through shadowed door,
To realms unseen, where spirits weep and soar.
So mourn it now, the quietus of night,
For in its grasp, there lies no promised light.
A cycle's turn, from ash to dust resumes,
In death, we lie, and in its silence, doom.
Life is as precious
As a rose, so beautiful!
And the slice of life
Tastes sweeter than
A cherry so sweet.
In the midst of life,
Myriads of lemons squeezed
Make lemonade,
Keeping us all infinitely thirsty.
God willing, we'll keep on
Quenching that thirst
For years and years to come.
In the final hour
of our inevitable demise,
May we all have the courage
To face it without fear.
God willing, we'll peacefully
Fade out as we sleep
With Morpheus cooing
A lullaby for eternal slumber
Into our ears.
May melancholy dirge
Be overshadowed
By uplifting music
At my own funeral. I'd prefer
Mine more celebratory than somber!
Norman Greenbaum's
"Spirit In The Sky"
Closing the ceremony.
Boy, what a send off that'll be!
A Poem About DEATH Poetry Contest/Winner(7th Place)
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Theme: The Midst of Life
Date written and posted:05/16/2018
After the party ends,
the guests leave one by one,
the psychedelic light dissolves,
the static air loses the cadence of music.
What takes their place…
the stillness of darkness disowned,
the silence of emptiness desolate,
waiting obscure for long outside.
Then the darkness melts,
a stream of umbra flows within,
cascading in the valley of blankness…
you swim in its scintillating rhythm.
The whistling ripples of air glide,
dancing in the abyss of void within,
hold your hands abandoned…
you merge with the music of silence.
You see the return of the guests,
chiseled now from blocks of darkness,
coming to life before your eyes…
sing the song of somber quietude.
The frames configured from dark hollowness,
assemble to fill your secluded space.
When they dance to your music,
the party never ends.
_________________
Written : June 21, 2022
June 27, 2022
Contest : 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 5
Sponsored by : Mark Toney
Mother and Child
Nothing is more perfect than mother and child
Baby clings on mom’s neck secure in the facts of life
Mom snuggles there in gentle endless caresses
What could be sweeter than the warm milk
Poured out as nourishment and purity for baby
To spice the day as they play
The old house on the cliff keeps them happy
Their days are filled with looking out at the great sea
Watching the heavy waves lap on boulders just below them
The sound, like a somber lullaby, moves them off to sleep
To keep them grounded up above
Sometimes in Spring they dance hand in hand along the cliff
Being ever mindful not to slip
Taking their love one step at a time in humble trust
Mother and child are always sweet and kind
old post from last year.....
"Music Maestro," the conductor turns-
The curtain rises and the ballet begins,
People sit on the edge of their seats-
Tasting the sweetness of the violins-
Dancers make not a single sound,
As their slippers touch the stage,
The audience, still, gazing forward,
Quite intimately engaged-
The music pitch is soft, then loud,
Creating a somber mood,
With cabrioles, jetes, arabesques, plies,
An ambiance of mystery, the dancers all exude.
Painting a captivating canvas,
Gracefully moving, white sylph-like silhouettes,
The "Prima Ballerina Assoluta" twirls,
Executing perfect en-point pirouettes-
This ballet tells the story,
Of how a peasant girl, from a broken heart, dies,
Her last dance - a spectacular performance,
Brings tears to the audience's eyes.
Nearing its dramatic ending,
Dancers complete their last entrechats,
Spellbinding, flawlessly done,
A standing ovation for them all-
The music stops - the Maestro takes a bow,
The curtain lifts, then falls,
The applause of the audience demands,
A number of curtain calls-
Ballerinas retreat backstage to celebrate,
Their "Prima's" last dance was today,
Inside, the dancers weep softly,
Outside, people praise the ballet-
Captive burdens
Of dismay
Problem solve all away
Corrugated spills actions happening
Distorted views memories misshapen
Quantico rehabilitative fathoms
Sway
Complicated positions do not keep me at bay
You get my drift
Stuck in a horizontal position
Cradling the bed
Somber silence immovable body Solace
Asleep Not Dead
Sway
Call kaydence spills actions fashion
Peace talks fail time for military action
Complicated positions do not keep them at-bay
Asleep Not Dead nothing is left other than to pray
2/18/20
Written word by James Edward Lee Sr 2020
I walk through the cemetery where my dreams and heart have gone,
Among the silent gravestones, shadows linger on.
A somber pilgrimage, where echoes of love reside,
In the hallowed ground where dreams and hopes have died.
The air is heavy with the weight of yesteryears,
Each step I take, a journey through my fears.
The heart, a tombstone, engraved with love's refrain,
A melody of sorrow, a relentless, haunting strain.
Beneath the mourning willow, where dreams now rest,
I seek solace in the silence, my grief, a silent guest.
Photographs in hand, memories carved in stone,
I wander through the graveyard, forever alone.
Tears fall like raindrops on the cold, hard ground,
Lost in the graveyard where silence is profound.
Whispers of what could have been, a ghostly song,
In this cemetery of the heart, where I've belonged.
The wind howls through the tombstones, a mournful cry,
As I revisit the graveyard, where love chose to die.
Yet, amid the shadows, a glimmer of grace,
A love eternal, transcending time and space.
I walk through the cemetery, where my dreams now sleep,
In the quiet of the graveyard, my heart begins to weep.
Yet, through the pain and darkness, a flicker of dawn,
In this sacred ground where my dreams and heart have gone.
a pillar of strength i am not
an emptiness consumes me
like these trees in their starkness
in this harsh winter breath
my thoughts stifled by the winds
that sweep past the pools of tears
that lie frozen like beads of glass
in the depths of somber eyes
my lips sipping coffee
trying to regain warmth
from the kiss of death's lips
and this bitter air that surrounds them
my arms reaching beyond shadows
like trees reaching for the sun
trying to find warmth of arms
to comfort me... falling short
within the loom of clouds
as they gather around me
my soul feels as lifeless
as all that is around me
in the wake of winter's glum
silently searching for something
to lift me back up off this ground
to make me dance, like autumn's leaves
in the warmth of winded breaths
my heart shattered -crumbles within
awaiting the pulse of night to come
to carry it on the wings of dreams
where happiness is in existence
and absence is often less felt
born February 7, 1812,
whose living descendents
I would be thrilled to befriend,
hence if anonymous reader
by some genetic fluke
linkedin to said
prolific storied author
please kindly reciprocate.
greetings mutual friend,
hard times dash
great expectations in this bleak house,
whereby battle of life ensues
when Sunday chimes
from master humphrey’s clock
issue somber american notes
invoking overshadowing doom
from young gentlemen:
oliver twist, nicholas nickleby, barnaby rudge
martin chuzzlewit, david copperfield,
young cricket and on the hearth little dorrit
collaborated on pickwick papers
with dombey and son detailing
how I (a haunted man/
ghost’s bargain) alias mudfog
got self absorbed in his old curiosity shop
hunted down by boyhood days
(akin to an endless Christmas carol
frieze as child’s history),
now a thick dust covered holiday romance
memory portraying this signal-man
(according to george silverman’s explanation)
eerily similar to the mystery of edwin drood,
exiled after his trial for murder
birthing three ghost stories
inhabiting a haunted house
affecting the young couples lamplighter
an uncommercial traveler
evidenced by pictures from italy
prone to speeches, sketches
by boz and his lazy tour
an oft repeated tale of two
cities best read at dusk.