Long Woe Poems
Long Woe Poems. Below are the most popular long Woe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Woe poems by poem length and keyword.
"Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves dashing roar,
There I would weep my woes,
There seek my last repose . . ."
Robert Burns _Had I A Cave
__________________
The journey of my life has been tangled,
from a young child I have known death;
it made me a child in a quiet world,
lost in my imagination.
In an attic room I played with my dolls,
my best friends were a teddy bear;
and an all white Christmas cat called Snowball,
I liked to write stories for them.
Not sure when exactly I found my Muse,
seems he has always been with me;
and with each death I sank deeper- deeper,
into a lovely, dreamy place.
And when I am hurt I still travel there,
where in my mind I create words;
that fall on pages to create poems,
I pour out all my woes and hurts.
I thought that my introvert ways a flaw,
until it became my asset;
for in an attic a poet was born,
and in quietness I now love to dwell.
I will write 'til I cannot hold a pen.
and when too frail I will still write;
my last poems will be locked in my mind,
in death all my woes and hurts- gone.
________________________
October 25, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Soulful Words of Woe
Copyright Protected, ID 10-1400-648-25
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
She wails over the clasped corpse,
the sound ricocheting across the classroom
entwining with other morose voices,
baking the atmosphere in melancholy,
and immersing the cacophony of wails and squealing.
into shouts and screams of aghast lads and lasses.
Mothers, brought in haste by news of woe
and Witnessing Barbarity in first ordeal;
for such was the scene on that campus,
and astir was the town.
Rocking to and fro was the nation
With breathes, held in fright and trepidation.
The left wing said 'Nay".
The right wing said "Nay."
Speculations clashed on streets
as who could be this bloody
For the Kids in neutrality
now repose in butchery.
From the town, some took to their heels
just to alight back months later
and be mocked by same wordings:
"welcome to Kumba".
Hitherto, a mystery it remains,
but the pains still lingers
and all what remains
is the mounds of Earth,
that separates they, from us.
© Temajung Michael T.
In three billion years the sun dies, Earth with it and the ring around Saturn too.
When will the apple fall?
Will it fall close or roll?
The apple rots eventually, the tree forgets and fly’s brains are too minuscule to understand at all how to mourn.
Grey hairs mean death.
It starts with the milk teeth twisted out, in blood and pain - experience is necessary for the end, I suppose.
How feelings infect the stomach then implode in a cloud of stardust that consumes Neptune’s ice cold handshake.
All this inevitable, repeatable for a few billion years.
And yet we worry of what is to come in the next fifty or so.
A death in the family - dominoes topple.
A spanner in the gut that wrenches and pulls and ties in knots all coherent thoughts.
A language of dashes and dots rattles with haste before the soul, mind, brain, spirit, heart and living tissue rots.
All the while pulsars rotate with a common rhythm but how beautiful it is that we must do the same:
To live and to breathe and to walk amongst start dust we must all just be dying stars.
A second in a black hole bends to a year.
A neutron star collapses a decade to a minute and we worry when or why or how the future may proceed.
As does Mars when his soul settles down and he marries, starts a family, then worries of his daughter’s daughter’s marital status.
The apple that hit the nail on the head rolled down the hill and was kicked into space to orbit, forever, Gaia’s deepest woes.
The same dust that it conceived flows through our veins today.
The pulsars vision of a continued rhythm is humanity’s constant dream.
All cosmic terror and dread, worries the same as an apple that is used to be bitten, a human that is conceived to indulge themselves in a pool of lifelong anxiety and a pulsar dreading the next time it beats.
That beat may never come.
Oh woe is me.
Life is bad.
Things are horrible.
I live in pure sad.
I drag my lethargic body
Through mire, muck and mud.
Down in the mouth always,
A true Elmer Fudd.
All things are terrible.
I feel ugly and sick.
You cannot help or uplift me.
My brain skull is thick.
I focus on all bad things I know.
Life is full of meaningful powerful woe.
Oh woe is me. The days are brutally long.
Come back here, I want to sing my death song.
In spite of your realization, there is simply no gray.
Life is horrible and bad, ridiculously ugly and sad.
My friends are all gone, they have all run away.
In my world anyway, things are awful and bad.
Each cherished memory of mine...cause iz woe
Analogous to unique ventifact for shore
and seven years ago,
where time and tide faintly roar
within noggin o'this common Joe
reviewing silent film unreleased,
unpopular, unimpressive tour
de force if technology existed
to broadcast and show
projected on big screen only
to elicit chore
tills whereby rotten tomatoes
lobbed accompanied by dough
less bro (i.e. an alter ego equally hoar
rubble at lifelong accomplishments), though
woke to awareness, whence
twilight years sped more
bajillion times faster than greased
lightning, when final adieu
will tide dully be high water mark
luke king point blank at poor
etch heave mints mostly
abysmally, equally,
pathetically barely drew
stick figures upon tabula rasa
mostly feeble scratches galore
looking at you
unknown reader, now
doddering, hobbling, loafing... ignore
rant of untold opportunities
(long fostered barnacle clad) view
wing gamut of healthy risk taking
avoidance in name of war
re: ness against challenging,
testing, upending... true
and tried loathsome
overstayed welcome, a deplore
hubble basket case squirreled
within bedroom, who
suffered rabid exhortations, objections,
ultimatums... told to shovel ordure
lack of gainful employment
beset courtesy a slew
of psychological mailer daemons
case closed by parental cloture
countless decades ague
reduced present fulfillment score
indelible bitterness toward
self confident self I never knew
afraid of doppelganger to
central processing unit silly con wayfair core.
I have a cassette,
a video recording of my mom and dad;
on it are images and voices I cannot forget,
it gives me goosebumps and makes me sad.
You see my parents are laughing and talking,
and each time I watch it I am left rocking;
my reaction is great love and grief shocking,
and I am in a cold sweat.
They passed years ago,
but to hear my mom's voice is delight;
and to watch them alive is love and woe,
I flutter before the sword plunges with might.
Deep into my broken heart I feel the pain again,
grief and joy falls over my flesh like rain;
and I wilt from this sweet agony stain,
where my love will always go.
______________________________
November 8, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/Love and Woe
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1194-957-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudomyn.
A few pages of unanchored memories,
A few crushed petals of life,
An unfeigned friend’s gift of love,
Leaves of reminiscences on the earth!
A life unabridged on tattered pages,
In ink, with a delicate hand,
A long journey - of bliss, and woe,
Precious times with beloved souls.
Nights beside the lonely flicker of a lantern ,
Unworldly feelings of a damsel, pouring heart,
Visioned life as surreal, and flawless,
Her love as unreal armoured knight.
The pages remained silent as a noiseless night,
Life went on like a meandering stream,
Feelings unexpressed, promises hushed,
The voiceless scribe remained unvoiced.
June 25, 2020
Inspired by An Old Scribe Contest
First Place
For "All Yours (March 24) Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Woe is me, Oh woe is me!
Life is so unfair.
I know all sometimes have hard luck,
But not more than their share.
I live beneath a darksome cloud.
I think I have been cursed.
The minute things seem to abate,
Something makes it worse.
My home life is an argument.
My job is just the pits.
I get no rest, I get no peace,
Sometimes I want to quit.
Quit my marriage, quit my job,
And run away and hide;
But where on earth can I go?
The world is not that wide.
Food and shelter are a must,
No matter where you are.
One must needs support oneself,
Or else you won't get far.
Where'er you go, what'er you do,
You'll have the self same problems.
It's how you handle them that counts.
It's the way you solve them.
You must do it on your own.
No one can do it fr you.
It's called "growing up" my friend.
Just like all those around you.
medication makes me sleepy
I have been congested for three weeks
Mucinex, Vicks and Benadryl have put me down for many naps.
Some days I have taken up to three of them.
This morning, I agreed to go to the bank at ten.
I woke up at 7:13 and decided to nap at 8:08.
At 9:47 my husband yelled “I AM GOING TO THE BANK!’
in one of those anger-aggressive ways.
He woke the dog and me both up.
I got dressed in three minutes.
I do not have to look prissy or even good to go to a bank.
At the bank the lady asked if I had my cell phone.
I told her there was not time.
My husband hustled me out of the house so fast.
Weird that she asked me about a phone anyway.
No one at the bank has ever asked me if I had my cell phone.
They were lucky I grabbed my identification at the last second.
My husband will probably tell me why when he gets to the car.
I am sitting here, writing up my tale of woe.
The helmsman sings a merry song:
Haec est vera fraternas,
and downs a cup of something strong,
Hick, vera, hick, hick, fraternas.
The sailors dance a lusty jig,
forsaking sails, crow's nest and rig.
Young princes and their ladies fair
join in the drunken helmsman's air:
Haec est vera fraternas.
Commoners with nobles prance.
Friars and laymen, how they dance!
The jester sports a broken lance,
a trophy from the fields of France.
"To Henry!" sounds the raucous toast.
Hear the young knights, how they boast
of conquests on and off the field,
when foemen or coy maidens yield.
While Fitzroy strokes a wench's leg,
the boatswain opes yet one more keg.
See their chains of gleaming gold,
but feel the wind grown strangely cold.
William the atheling alone,
to the marrow of each bone
feels what sorrows must atone
for the sins of court and throne.
Woe to the ship, woe to the realm,
where none is mindful of the helm.
Woe to the king who ne'er shall smile,
woe to those bereft of child.
Gone is that day and gone that night,
gone that ship so ghostly white,
gone the prince who bravely sought
to save his sister, deed ill bought!
If, one night by Barfleur's shore,
you may hear that song once more:
Haec est vera fraternas,
et haec est aeternitas.