Sags Poems | Examples

Apparition

It’s 25° C clear
but she’s gone.
The outlines of her shadow, hoping
that they’ll have a chance of putting them into use
in the fashion world.
 
She wears a black, backless dress
with a plunging front.
The soft contours of her breasts are revealed
through the mirrors on the walls.
 
On the front page a gazette
 her cat walk
 rushing down to the battle.
Here, you’re making the neighbours squirm.
Here, you’re making their claymores shriek their hatred.  
That’s why your body sags against the bar in fatigue.
 
You’re trying to remember your voice.
Remember, your phone rings again.
It’s a voice you’ve heard,
that incandescent panic spread through the hall.
 
They’re marrying her.
They’re scarifying her for their day’s events.
You’ve made me interested in how she’s thinking
& you can’t control this with your beard.
Your gaffe is all there.
You gaze with gratitude.

An All Night Rain

An all-night rain: the smell
of sogged-down leaves and woods
stirs up feral urges: to tramp
the wetness like a snouted creature,
kicking up dead leaves, poking
deep for squirming things, sniffing
earthy scents for spongy roots,
gulping down mushrooms
with black grit, the bristly haired
skin taut and wet, until the belly
bloats and sags, generating heat
like a boiling cauldron.

Spaces Left Behind Left Bare

You left the chair, but not the room,
The silence clings, a flower in bloom.
The kettle waits muted, cold and dry,
Empty spaces haunt me as I go by.

No space is bare, if love stayed there,
Your breath floats in scented air.
Your shadow clings to every chair.
No space is bare - if love stayed there.

Your love shapes what’s left behind.
It pulls the door, draws the blind.
The cup you left, is still steaming.
Pictures on walls are still dreaming.

Your laughter still rings in all my rooms
Strumming our much-loved songs and tunes.
Fire’s died back to glowing ember coals,
Stoking the flames of everlasting souls.

You're gone, but you're carved in stone.
In every space you've left here alone.
The room still whispers your name.
Scrawled on every timber plank and frame.

One book alone, sags into space meant for two,
Your fingerprints trace the vital clue,
That I long to be - back with you.
Your space is here, when you break-through.

No space is bare, if love stayed there,
Your breath floats in scented air.
Your shadow clings to every chair.
No space is bare - if love stayed there!
No space is bare - if love stayed there!

THE WAKE WITOUT VIGIL

THE WAKE WITHOUT VIGIL
           

Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-

Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-

Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-

(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)

In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-

In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”

Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary eyed mourners:-

Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
 
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*


*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinke

Two Caught in the Draft of a Door Ajar

We're mannequins peering from a storage
bin. We slouch across from
the "No-Food" paper sign.
Its message sags to a pulp taped to the shoulders
of a glass door. Shoppers,
incoming, their shared orange

squirts juice. Our mannequin-custodial
grins bar us from the lips' sweet 'oh'.

Crowdsourcing emboldens shame, our French kisses hung
on tangy wind chimes breezes tongue.

First Day of Autumn

Late afternoon and the day
is withdrawing into a chill. 
So much more now 
lays abandoned
in sad pools of absence.

Overhead,
a tattered spiders web sags 
under the weighted
remains of the dead.

Today marks the start
of autumn for another year
and already 
a growing emptiness
is being backfilled
with fear.

Town

This town is old and cold and sick and sad
It’s every dark lit street 
you’d never walk down willingly
It’s every gas pump in the rain
With drain pipes working slowly
It’s every face that sags in knowing
They will always be this way
It’s every promise made to no one 
Of a better life some day
It’s every desperate raffle, every bet, every gamble, every trade
And It’s wishing on a star to take it far far away

THE WAKE WITHOUT VIGIL

Time longer than rope
Chokes hearts dangling
In the reality of struggle:-

Grieving mothers and widows
Veil their grief in sagging bosoms
As they wail in excruciating silence:-

Fragments of men, void of hope,
View and count communal graves
Swelling with dirt burying the dead:-

(Buried are “The Wretched Of The Earth”)

In the neap tides of sorrows,
Mourners wade the airy blood
Of the children of Pilate’s hands:-

In the stale winds of time, “woe is me”
Cries the forsaken land–lamenting scriptures—
Echoing Freneau: “They saw their country’s woe:-”

Stacked like molded bread slices,
Decaying bodies release spores
Of death to weary-eyed mourners:-

Like an aching bosom’s colloidal tears,
Life sags on, and Sisyphus-like children
Sit under the warrior ghost of lingering hope:
 
(Indeed, “At this wake…none keep vigil…None:-”)*


*A line from the poem, RECESSION, by Wole Soyinka

Unpacking Loss

it hits you
like a freight train,
but softer,
more like the silence
after it’s passed.

the bottles on the table—
they don’t speak to you anymore,
they’re just empty.
the letters from her
are still in the drawer
but the words don’t mean
what they used to.

the clock ticks louder
when you’re alone,
a cruel metronome
mocking the time
you can’t get back.

you think about
what it was to hold
something that mattered—
a hand, a dream,
the idea that tomorrow
wasn’t just another
repeat of today.

and now the walls lean in,
the bed sags heavier,
the mirror spits back
someone you don’t recognize.
loss doesn’t take you all at once;
it nibbles,
bit by bit,
until even your shadow
doesn’t trust you anymore.

but you keep walking,
because what else is there?
somewhere out there
the freight train circles back.

hot days

when it gets dark
it remains humid and warm
the stars are obscured
by a heavy haze
the trees are so still
as if two-dimensional
a thick silence
broken only by boy racers
revving up Willett Way
night’s muggy cloak
stills the birdsong
open windows bring
no refreshing breeze
my clammy body sags
my brain slows to a standstill
my eyes can hardly keep open
my bones feel my age
my spirit feels even older
I yearn for days
cold and wet, while
realising that our selfishness 
short-sightedness and greed
mean that future summers
will be much worse
while I’ll be even
less able to cope.

Renew

My spirit sags
so where do I go
to renew my spirit
Only I know

To my notebook
or laptop
I sit and I write
Until my fingers say stop

And my heart feels light
My soul is uplifted
my mind is sharp
my thoughts are sifted

Poetry is my vacation
where I relax and rest
It's where I can get heavy stuff
off of my chest

I love to visit poet land
and give it my all
so that I can live my life
and still stand tall

Elasticated Waistbands

Elasticated waistbands, at what age?
Comfortable trousers are all the rage.
For a mature figure and the oversized,
Some teenager's just take the rise.

Long-sleeved shirts in summer months
Cover the arms sags and bumps.
Dignity for the middle-aged
Whose bodies have maybe decayed.

Maxi dresses shade ankles and thighs,
Better days sometimes denied.
So, cover up your soft white bits,
As you get older have clothes that fit.

Take pleasure in your bulging figure
As you have grown with consummate vigour.
'Bought and paid for' is the phrase,
Now elasticated waistbands get teenage praise.

Do You Have Answer-Shades

The shades of “blues” might have an intense wavelength.
It literally overshadows her “colorful seasons”.

This school champion might already realize this.
Games are not that easy in this "normal world."

An imperfect design never fits into the Fine System.
It never fails to tell her how bad she is in this.

It might be her first criticism.
She push herself hard,  in this race of Infinite Perfection.
Sometimes running, chasing, breaking.
Even pleading  never going to works.
It's not that easy. Right?

The more intense she gets, the more she sags and breaks.
but she is still too imperfect to get pity on her.

What she tries to do?
does she collect the shattered pieces?
that was over-walked by many without even noticing.

What… sudden gray shades in the weather?
ooh….! I think rain is going to come.
It is one of an intense, heavy rain.


Why does she still crawl over there?
Wait.. what shading her?
Is that wings, that she folded before leaving school?
Wow…! It's almost rusted, what red shades on it ? 

Oh, my god, I think we caught.
 Hi...…!    "May I fly again?"

Weave

the tempered veil of years with a weave of sweet and sour
can be lavish like the pleasurable return of good deeds
take what you learn from sky high places
                                    that bleed clouds to the hills

weave towards green with its hypnotic continuity
reach for the weightlessness of a dandelion seed
                        in a breeze of somersaults 

weave away if lies spoken with zest 
                                                become believable 
seek a safe place from huff and puff winds
             woven into refuge like design in a quilt
find what's essential like peek-a-boo games
                                     that tickle a child to glee

work strains
whittles at days
the hourglass sighs at what sags away

summer still holds the chatter of birds
young buds still weave upward
                      ungloving hands holding chains and fear
joy still roams to signboards above
nothing desolate
a sanctuary
Elysium 
        in walls that rise
        in stars unnamed

Demolished Childhood

No toys to play with,
she draws dolls on the dry soil
with soft soiled fingers.
The pale face is drenched,
not by joyous summer rain.
Is it dripping tears?
The sad wet eyes graze 
on mother’s wilted body,
age drained before time.
Cute girl of sixteen,
doesn’t see the hues of sunrise,
sleep sags the eyelids.
She drags fragile feet,
goes out with mother to work,
holding her frail hands. 
Are these only hope?
Feels the touch of scant safety,
childhood demolished.
Days in and days out,
she labors with her mother
working as a maid.
In her mangled mind,
ruined by storm of harsh times,
she outgrows her age.
The dreams of the child have died.

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