Loss. Poems - Poems about Loss.

Upon the eve of dying she could not speak. And all her opened tear ducts Sprang awake And flooded forth from The founts of creation A new sea. Oh, yes! She cried a sea of tears Because her words Had passed the door of possibility, Because her boys Would not be there For her to comfort them, Because, perhaps A whole life Needed to be grieved. How I loved her. She could hear...

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“Death is the last chapter in time, but the first chapter in eternity.” – Author unknown Life Lived, now- departed. Souls gathered at - cemetery graves. Spirits now free, and at peace. To rest. Death ...

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I look at my work. I look down on the valley. I'm proud of its richness, of its green fertile fields, And each time I do, I can count up the tally. My sacrificial top's loss produces great yield. There's beauty in the valley, in its farms and trees. Morning fog gives it a mythical seduction. Yet though I remember how...

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Harried Harris heir still feels horrid courtesy heist he doth declare... Earlier this merry month of May a goniff who possibly did gossip about his/her surreptitious exploits when he/she brazenly accessed ATM machine situated at 13 West Ridge Street Lansford Pennsylvania 18232 pulled off outright theft found him/herself in possession of debit card with Mastercard logo (I deduce mail meant for us - particularly the missus got sent to...

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I loved a woman named Sophia— Not a name, but a flame, A living scripture written in curves and silk, In her eyes, the ache of ancient saints, In her smile, the promise of spring rain. But I was mortal. Soft. Whole. Ready to kneel, to build her a throne From the bones of my own longing. She whispered love, Then lay with a priest— Not...

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neon flickers pink, cherry blossoms broken glass—— I drank the false moon....

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her steps rhyme with mine an echo between yearn and daunt I ask her to keep pace, her shadows pine voices behind me, slick and gaunt —the phantoms want to keep her the light ahead hazy, yet I demur we’re so close—or too close panic surged deliriously, in prose— my eyes turn to my asphodel... her lost shadow whispers: ‘farewell.’...

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There are things I know that you will never be sure about. My life was easy, you have gone through more than me but I understand the world just the same. Every path I take I take with uncertainty and conditional faith, every path I avoid I avoid with thought and assuredness. ...

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I woke up on the mattress placed in our living room. I found a cat in my house—it’s the size of a Shiba, and its fur a vibrant orange, with stripes raven dark. I said to my mother, “What an odd looking cat.” She...

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ghostly gray petals— a shadow crossing the grass I stepped on a name ______________ A minimalist reflection on mourning and the erosion of identity, set in the asphodel fields of Greek myth, where unremarkable souls wander without memory… ...

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How many funerals of ones self can someone have before there is nothing left Don't answer It's rhetorical anyway Funeral number 1 A piece of her hair A symbol of when they would stop and stare At her hair When they would make her life a living nightmare Until she became too aware Until It became too much to bear Until she silenced...

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Oops I fell for it I spoke too soon I said too much I'm hooked I took the bait Now my life takes a 180° and there's no turning back ...

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"Memories buried in the wavering wash of time." I write you now with trembling hand, The ink runs like the river sand, Where once we laughed, side by side— Now silence stands where you had died. Your dog tags hang from rusted steel, A ghost’s reminder I still feel. Your voice just echoes in my chest, A joke, a shout, your final rest. We...

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In the beginning was the Single Stroke Roll— left-right, left-right, the primordial heartbeat of existence itself, each alternation a binary choice between being and non-being, the eternal paradiddle of consciousness striking against the drumhead of reality. Listen: the Buzz Roll of morning traffic ten thousand souls creating multiple bounces against the stretched skin of commuter silence each ghost note a rhythmic prayer unheard each...

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She says she loves me—yet dreams of another, her heart adrift on restless tides, where my name dissolves into echoes, a whisper lost before breath takes hold. I am broken. I see her alone within my marrow, etched into the walls of my being. But she sees him, an apparition of longing, a mirage flickering in the heat of her wanting. I am splintered. I stand...

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