Long Tragic Poems
Long Tragic Poems. Below are the most popular long Tragic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tragic poems by poem length and keyword.
-rearranging the stars-
How could we agree to separation?
If you were destined to be my soulmate,
Why would we allow the stars to change our fate?
They've written in a fresh verse
Sewing in a new song, soon to be sung
The Stars are not to blame
The fault lies deep within our hearts
Like earthquakes wondering through the years
separating silicone valley of tears.
Sweeping sweet dreams far away
What has become of my day?
Today the sun sets holding on to old hope
Tears fall down a sudden slope
Now my dreams are drowning down another road
Tonight I sit under the aspen cold
Alone, no longer in search of gold
Naming nights you whispered words of love to my soul
Your love no longer speaks
Without warning, the Midas touch slowly fades
In my chest - I find fault
The sound of heartache echoes every day
Rejuvenating every crack from display
In plain sight, I search for thee
The sun -The moon -The madness -The Salton Sea
My heart no longer speaks
Everything I dream of sinks like the night
Stuck in quicksand -- the aftermath
Healing scars the aftershock left behind
Finding ways to fill the gloom
Alas bridal curtains sit silently in my room
Setting boundaries between Earth's poetic plates
Like an earthquake passing through my heart
You left like the moon, moving mountains apart
IS THERE SOMETHING YOU forgot TO TELL Me, dear
Suddenly, San Andreas Fault looks tragic from here
Until then I will hold my breath
In hopes, our Plates will meet again
By: PD
6/29/15
In a town down in Texas,
Lived a man in a tree.
He used to be a Sailor,
And spent his life at sea.
After twelve years of service,
His fate cruely got him.
When sailing around the Horn,
His ship went to the bottom.
The papers called it tragic,
The death of so many men.
And as the lone survivor,
Swore he'd never sail again.
Then he moved to Santa Fe,
Built a cabin in an Elm.
Said goodbye to the water,
And that tree became his realm.
For twenty years he lived there,
But not a friend did he make.
How ironic when a twister,
Dropped his cabin in a lake.
Though he drowned that very day,
You know Heaven wouldn't cheat him.
When he reached the Pearly Gates,
All his shipmates there to greet him.
For My Daddy with Endless Love
decide … phone people … arrangements need made …
cannot pick … call who … where … when … oh, casket …
my world just stray-shattered fully dismayed
and pain’s pall stretch-burns me like thin plastic
BLUE MORNING - just took Dad …
hued my fragile blunt-sad --
my brain’s left its launch pad ~
no thoughts compose ~
tears fully oppose
planning-time throes.
in Dad’s home, his feel has not yet strayed ~
my known hangs in vague creases of tragic ~
whisper-feels from clothes, Daddy-scent-clad …
bring him to me via my grieving nose
The airplane's smoking tires kissed the landing strip at Dover.
The long flight bringing thirty brave men back home was over.
The nation mourns as one at the tragic loss of each precious life,
Who gave their all to rescue brothers caught up in terrible strife.
When the ramp is lowered, the Honor Guard will bear each coffin.
They know the drill well, since they have done this all too often.
Chaplains will intone quiet words of comfort and lead the last parade,
To honor each of them for laurels won for their righteous crusade.
They willingly placed national interests above their very own,
To ensure that our precious freedoms would ne'er be overthrown!
They performed magnificently with love, valor and dedication.
Alas, they won't parade or hear the acclaim of a grateful nation.
They will be borne to their final resting place in hallowed ground,
There, to sleep until the clarion call of Gabriel's bugle call will sound.
On that glorious morn He will present each with a regal crown,
Saying, "My dear son, you served Me and My people with great renown!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
To tell the truth,
I was no fan of opera, in my youth...
When did it come...? That turning point....?
I do not know, ........
perhaps I grew, to understand...
a wrenching tale his stories told
can grab the heart... ...grip fast ...and hold!
Puccini came, from out of nowhere
It finally made more sense to me...in spite of those who scoff, and shake their heads
Alive once more....this man long dead
has stirred my soul, ........and I was lead, into the clouds, where heaven lives!
I became a fan, ...and realized, such music lives within the blood
It rushes in, and floods my veins, just as it did to those so long ago
An aria... then a divine duet....Rodolpho and his sweet coquette
connects me to a vine entwined,
with those who listenend, long before my time.
Sitting in the dark tonight, I pause to think
who would have dreamed
how tears in the eyes, have formed a thousand rivers?
Long through the ages, still coiling with emotion
devotional artists, sing of such rapture
into the rafter's to countless reception...
A lover's kiss, the singing with prose
Skins turning cold....from the chill beauty holds
Tears to unfold, hypnotic poses
A bliss such as this
has left generations.... breathless
As the curtain is closed........ I must compose myself
Old music that echoes, as it has for centuries
bouncing off these walls....as I'm torn into two....
mingling with my heart, the old with the new
The rafter's of time, have absorbed one more time
Two tragic lovers, declaring in song
Throngs have been sung to.....hearts have been wrung
I listen, I watch, as lovers fade from the light
in poignant beauty, drifting away...
...........dying in the distance, ........
as will Mimi,
leaving her love behind....alone with a shattered heart
as death tears them apart
leaving my eyes brimming over
with tears in the dark
_________________________________
"Music By Puccini"
Somewhere deep in the recesses of one's heart
A tiny voice speaks of love and compassion
Of what one could be, if one chose, even now for a start,
But want it one must with an all-encompassing passion.
It needs not the urging of one's other self in the brain
Asking one to use logical thought and set on the path
Of pleasure and avarice and, in endeavoring, refrain
From the clutter of ideals, altruism and angst-filled wrath.
Between the two (the Yin and the Yang?) lies the pit
Of perdition resonating with the twang of irretrievable arrows;
Words once mouthed shape scenes which neither fit
With whatever the feeling or thoughts of the selves in their narrows.
Thus each, caught in one's own mix of the madness
Goes about creating individual worlds and carries out tasks,
Sometimes filled with elation, more often with undefined sadness,
Donning, as fits the scene, grotesque tragic or comic masks.
Did Shakespeare speak of the world being a stage, and, before exeunt
Players saying their things, acting out their parts, of seven acts,
I agree with the bard but to a limited, very limited, extent,
For a man creates his own world , his stage, with which he interacts.
DILAPIDATED GLOBE
A weary pneuma bleeds
Tears of the miserable
The poverty-stricken tumbledown
The opulence shows gusto.
At the sight of the indigent
But very penurious in helping...
They live in safety isle
But parade in the dilapidated globe.
Masses weep
Agony of the wretched man
Mercy he pleads
To mother earth and nature.
Under a thatched leaking roof
Muds fall at bewitching hours
Petite ice drops like contingent snow
If wishes were horses...
If the night could give way to day...
Friendly enemies of the night parading
What a tragic horror for the cynical
In a dilapidated globe.
An Ijeoma Ikonne's poem © 2021
Ego pride rise, we behold in surprise
Filled with lies, bubble yet does not capsize
Fed by thought, spiralling in narrow slots
Shaky hubris of consciousness, fear fraught
When we cease to weigh and size, ego dies
Voice of conscience stifled, weary soul sighs
Earth entity’s antics, gently decries
Floundering despot, origin forgot
Ego pride rise
Discerning eye within, does truth apprise
Revealing Gods path, through life’s lows and highs
Tragic bondage to desires ego brought
In web of our making, we are thus caught
High time we recognise, as do monks wise
Ego pride rise
01-June-2021
I've pondered this since I was a child
What makes the grass so green
I know there's a logical explanation
Sure seems like some magical scheme
To explain why oceans are a deep indigo
Or the cerulean blue sky up above
The rising sun is a bright yellow ball
Why red is the colour of love
Pink is associated with a baby's skin
As we cuddle and snuggle and coo
Mauve is usually the colour of sadness
When life throws a curve at you
The colour of nature is a wonder to behold
Artists try to capture its magic
What if the world was just shades of grey
Sure would be sad and quite tragic
So pray when you wake up each morning
Nature's colours will still be the same
It's what makes this world a joy to behold
And its beauty continues to reign
In the velvety night, caressed by shadows,
A poet whom I deeply respect whispered to me,
That my verses, through his cold and harsh eyes,
Were but weak jokes, a pale reflection,
Not slicing arteries, not unlocking true agony,
But instead, terribly to pronounce, accessible.
I lift my head under the dream-laden sky,
Grasping the truth like a bouncing rubber ball,
Determined not to hide. In this world of reflections,
Of scratched masks and overflowing illusions,
Rejecting the utopia of sincerity for the spectacle of the prism,
Silicon Valley brings virtual realities,
And I, with my pen and stigmatic signs,
Bring forth virtual poetry, not my soul,
But a perfect simulation, a construction of smoke,
Mirrors and crocodile tears.
So come, take your place on the carousel of my heart,
You will find Hollywood blood, hard luck stories,
Wounds made of plasticine, rented mourners,
Tragic confessions and inflatable dolls of lost lovers,
What do you seek, my sweet? What makes everything good for you?
What does integrity mean in a world of irony and facade pain?
Yes, I can possess integrity if that excites you,
In an era where blood clots are art, and jokes are farce,
I will learn, versatile as I am, I will cry those ninety-six tears,
Develop stigmata on command, embrace surplus suffering,
To maintain my place in the artistic galaxy.
But if you are wrong, upon your death,
You will traverse into hell,
Where Groucho Marx will tickle your bare foot,
With Edgar Allan Poe's feathered quill.
So the truth remains steadfast in our tormented minds,
For we are sculptors of virtual pain, rooting our identity,
In an abyss of irony.