Pitiable Poems | Examples

Yet, it returned

My old house stood
by a march
surrounded by bushes and rushes.
Thrown over it
garbage  and faeces
sometimes,death rodents.
Disgustful it's dwellers often came up
on the portico of my house,
Intruded inside.
Yet pitiable every time 
from it heard
the distress call of a frog
grabbed by a snake.
I filled the marsh with earth
cut down the bushes,
built a new house
in place of the old one.
But true to what old folks told
after a long time
it returned to me
myself felt it's dwellers.
Then, I preferred darkness,
I not be seen
and silence
listening their clatter,
wishing the bushes
myself to hide.

Last touch

If demons had wings they'd find they're way to her heart,
It's a blasphemous affair
She's white linen fabric and I,a pitiable being
Our differences make us beautiful creatures
These are the forbidden thoughts I have of her...
Her father has purchased crutches for the man who is to champion her chambers,
I care less, at this point I died when she grabbed my breath only to give it to me after she exited the room,
Lately my sheets wake up to a fragrance of hope,
A taste perhaps.... It's like she visited tonight
And I tasted her in my dreams...
This is beyond sorcery,complete addiction
She's nicotine and tar, Gin and olives...
The thought of her has me stumbling to the memory of our first date,
As I looked in her eyes and she conversed of her deepest insecurities...
Ice cream dates are great but on this one I left the kiosk with a melted heart.
At this point i can't listen to advise....there's no reasoning with a man feeling love
And when we last touched I licked my fingers
This level of lust is disgusting!

Desultory Existence

Dry dust rises behind me as I walk
The earth has become a panting sterile desert
Words become incoherent and rattle as I talk
Dry dust rises behind me as I walk
When I try to communicate, people begin to mock
Before reaching my destination, my path I divert
Dry dust rises behind me as I walk
The earth has become a panting sterile desert.

Dry dust rises behind me as I walk
Words become incoherent and rattle as I talk
When I try to communicate, people begin to mock 
Before reaching my destination, my path I divert
The earth has become a panting sterile desert
How my pitiable fate, I can ever avert?

Sipping Claret from a Lismore Goblet

Bereft and alone since love was lost,
she sits in deep shadows
humming the same song
sipping claret from a Lismore goblet

Day and night, in silence she dwells 
Time no longer sifts through an hourglass.
Heartache has cast a wicked spell
cursing her into a void of loneliness 

She's drawn the drapes,
praying an eclipse will fill the abyss
into which she's fallen
Hoping it will swallow moonlight's glow
keeping it hidden from sight

Entombed as though in a sepulcher,
her insipid soul sits spiritless
on this night, cold and bleak
No spark of life can be roused
in her vacant eyes 
as if blood no longer flows in her heart

Naught but darkness does she seek
Only that and to be left alone
away from pitiable stares
She sits in deep shadows
humming the same song
sipping claret from a Lismore goblet

The Wail of a Love Letter

Carrying the fever and heat
of love’s first flame,
I set out on a journey
expectant and anxious, 
sealed and tight lipped,
all emotions bottled.

From port to port I journeyed,
travelling in a little love vessel.
What a heavy cargo of dreams I carried
with the scent of memories perfumed.

Did a black cat cross my path?

Behind all veils of cloud, 
hope lingered
My spirit….
pulsating inside.
My senses….
waiting for the moment of beatitude!

Skyward I flew
floating through the air
to land,
finally in your trembling hands,
dreaming of a nameless delight,
bursting out at the earliest moment.

With my heart beats rising hoarse,
you slit my mouth,
pulled my soul out.
But,
gnarling at my face,
mercilessly you tore me into bits.
and threw me into the bin!!

In the Westerly wind,
slivers of me flew about
like ghosts,
unable to get back to their graves.

After whirling naked in the gust of wind,
pieces of me fell down one by one,
to lie inert on the ground,
gasping for the final breath.

Did the firmament tattooed by stars
mock at my pitiable plight?

The Sullied

On the streets of Lagos,lumbasa , Kigali,
Cairo and their environs 
Shame etched his name on thy skin 
Thou art become a site for dumping
For all willing to dump

Gone is thy once-proud stature
Now a harlot to Pitiable exchange
Opening for every Harry with a Dick
To be violated time and time again

From noble lineage thou sprang
Chastity thy emblem of might
now a vessel of disdain
Clad in rags, masquerading as night

Oh, how the currents of time dost erode
The virtues once etched in thy core
Now bartered for fleeting gold
Adorning thyself, a mockery to adore

What tempest ravaged thy noble frame
And stole thy essence, pure and bright?
Was it the ceaseless onslaught of shame
Or the fading whispers of thy inner light?

And now thou art but a shell
A mere specter of once was
Thy name a symbol of lost fame
A testament to virtue lost

The Sorrow of the Skies

The Sorrow of the Skies

The sun and the moon were once great lovers
In ancient days gone by.
The clouds formed from their sorrow, and the rain, when they would cry. 
For this pitiable couple were cruelly cursed to be apart,  alas, 
To share the same vast blue home forever, but only distantly could pass. 
The sun on the side of the bright days, 
The moon on the dark night's side …and when one was fully visible, the other had to hide. 
Who cursed this pair, so sweetly in love, to be near but always too far?
The jealous, mischievous Little lights, the bitter, hateful stars.
So when sadly we are witnesses when true love sometimes goes truly bad, 
We say the lovers are “star-crossed”, for the stars crossed out the love they had.

Dark Side of a Great Love

Wordsworth wrote, in 'Splendor in the Grass,'
about the glory that can be found in the flower.
He alluded to a love that had long since passed,
like clock hands tick off each second and hour.

He was saddened when taken from his sight,
was the radiance of a great love he once knew.
His world had been filled with splendid light,
but then darkened in shades of gray and blue.

He wrote to tell readers they should not grieve,
for a love that has been lost or left behind.
But that poet's words I am unable to believe,
for I consider them callous, no truth do I find.

I wonder if Wordsworth had ever shed a tear,
or had his heart broken or hardened to stone.
Did he ever lose a love that he once held dear?
And in his hour of pitiable grief, did he cry alone?

Wordsworth may have been a bard, a poet grand,
but in his 'Splendor...'  quote, he has clearly shown
the falsehood written with ink quill in his hand,
for I have grieved for lost loves... I have cried alone.

State of Affairs

Oh, life was good, the days were sunny
Every taunt, every insult seemed funny,
I loved all my foes and friends to a fault
and ate my dessert with a pinch of salt.

With a dash of vinegar, some sour cream
I turned nightmare into the sweet dream,
Aches, pains, cramps and shivering cold
For pennies my profound thoughts I sold.

I buried my legs in the sands knee deep
I laugh with the wind, with the sea I weep,
I frolic in the rain, waddle in the puddle 
the state of the world’s a pitiable muddle.

How Many More

How many lies until my hands are in your brows? I ask 
Perhaps a couple more lavender candles? 
She tells me to write her literature before I can hitch her lips....
Disgusting? But here we are
How many more lies until my hands are in your brows?
A thousand?
I'm a pitiable man with an interest of stanzas
That's the problem with losing innocence,I know the world owes me nothing
But it's the valentine fever speaking.
So I touch on her Indian hair and she brushes on my waves 
Modern love stories are hilarious
A couple shots on a day someone died will have us beneath sheets
Sweating like two dragons in a rumble
Plying on what's suppose to be sacred like it belongs to me
It's these type of poems I write with my eyes closed,
Look at the disgust 
The day my future wife reads this I'm a dead man,
She's not here yet,so how many more lies until my hands are in your brows? 
To her my words are scripture and these are my songs of songs

Rapture

I have seen yet another miracle under the sun,
An eastern girl.
A firefly that has brought light to my pitiable living....
Poetry like music is just another description of art a painter never had the words to say out loud,
But in my case this is what happens when charisma plies against literature.....
What if I told you my wrist is part of the arms that planted the Boughs of the forbidden fruit?
And in my reveries,I write lustful poems like it's an addiction,
Sin after sin.
Or perhaps I write of love knowing I shall only taste it on stanzas and metaphors?
It's this type of poems that feel like they were written for me....
But today I'm a lucky man,
For there's a lass I wish to say my love to, love of it's purest form,
Stand on mount Everest and shout her name for millennials like I'm on salary to do so,
I'm not much of affectionate behavior 
But for simplicities sake....let me just say
I want go on lavender candle dinners,hitch eyes until she's comfortable enough to talk about her insecurities,
And if I was to die before her
Bring me kwachas and ngwes...for I will need bus fare to find my way back to her, only rapture will do us apart.

Naive Dominoes

Some easily fall prey to the pranks of friends
Others seriously victimized subsequently fall,
Serious victims experience the saddest ends
They are the most pitiable victims after all.

Others seriously victimized subsequently fall
Like naïve dominoes lined up for a parlor trick
They are the most pitiable victims, after all,
Unwittingly preyed upon as being weak or sick.

Like naïve dominoes lined up for a parlor trick
They’re pushed down heartlessly without warning
Unwittingly preyed upon as being weak or sick,
Because they were struck without forewarning.

They’re pushed down heartlessly without warning
Often wondering what happened with innocence
Because they were struck without forewarning,
They can’t even think about a just recompense.

Often wondering what happened with innocence
Serious victims experience the saddest ends,
They can’t even think about a just recompense
Some easily fall prey to the pranks of friends.

Written November 3, 2022

Hypersomnia

Every so once in a while
I'm telling you this with no guile

I simply have to escape


Well rested from the night before
at least in hours of apneic snore


Found I in pitiable shape



It happens none to often
Or you'd find me in a coffin


The lure so interminably deep



Dream filled  as I wonder through
The halls my cocoon a grayish blue


A place going farther than sleep


Wrestling a struggle to wakefulness
In my padded cell said with no jest


A decision made in resolve
In returning to the rest


Of sleepwalkers walking through their lives


A pattern I notice of brain fog
Precedes this place of which I log


To the place where cobwebs swept away
things sorted put once more in play


All inclinations and drives

A Quest For Beauty

In the ethereal grace of twilight 
A shroud of serene solitude settles 
over the skies and the mountain range
like the pitiable pain of a pining heart.

Nature suddenly seems 
to have lost the flare of the sun
and the radiance of the moon
awaiting some spiritual manifestation.

A languid river snakes languorously 
through the forlorn forest
as if overcome by the soft
and healing autumnal evening.


~Contest: A Brian Strand Premiere Choice.

There Is Fault In This Gender

There’s Fault In This Gender


 

Late, last night,
she was caught by a group.
Men wrongly said,
monsters in troop.
Molesting, harassing,
the helpless in fright.
The vulnerable is not right.
By default at fault,
must have been the cause,
the onset physical assault.
How badly thrashed !
To be raped one by one.
To bear the pleasure of the fun.
Pitiable she!
Must have been the cause,
attire must have been short.
Shouldn’t have been out of the house,
shouldn’t have worn such deep blouse.
The pebbles of judgement are thrown,
her pain, her wounds, all unknown
 

The mind set of men shouldn’t be changed,
it’s the gender, women to be blamed .
To wrap themselves up
with attitude, conduct ,not bad.
To be whistled walking alone,
while crossing the danger zone.
But men shouldn’t be taught,
to respect this gender a lot.
It’s a woman, an angel.
Born as mother,
as wife ,as sister
to get things untangle.
Born to be at fault,
Until life comes to hault.

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