Short Death Rate Poems

Short Death Rate Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Death Rate by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Death Rate by length and keyword.


Premium Member A poison in Portugal

A small population, familiar situation a testbed with
Health terror
A reason?  the motive of jeering part of instigation.?
No to disscussion 'from the ( eu ) this all comes.' as to
The highest death rate per capita, it appears this nation
Succumbs.?
Form: Rhyme


Renovation

We’re all hurled
Into the midst,
A perfect world
Does not exist.

Taught to hate,
Doomed to die.
Our death rate
Has soared sky-high.  

We can escape,
Begin the climb.
Build to reshape
Free from crime.

Help to offset
Push and shove.
Do not forget
How to love.
Form: Rhyme

Premium Member THREE CUBES OF ICE-COLD LIFE

THREE CUBES OF ICE-COLD LIFE   

           I
Perilous cold life,
Today’s freezing oppression:
Justice all ICED out!

                             II
Injustice’s temperature increases the death rate.
Cold inequality, a frozen, devastating, iceberg:
Equality and justice’s temperatures, melting away.

          III
Icing life daily,
Political injustice,
Ice-blocking freedom:
Here or abroad, equity,
Iced-down or deeply frozen:-

A Mother's Pain

There are to many mother's burying their babies..have you been to a funeral lately..the hurt the pain,it's so insane,the count of deaths and the famlies never rest,the death rate is getting higher,and those thatsay they didn't comited the crime turns out to be a liar,the closing of the casket is the last time you see your babies face,but they will always be in your heart in a special place,I know I walked that road before..my son he is with me  right now, and forever more,
Form: Concrete

In Reverse

Just unbound, the death rate.
Red roses had no qualms. Numbers,
unapologetic, they die or commit suicide.
Death had no tombs. One by one they
cross the stream, sinking half, floating half
in a cynic system, heedless, emaciated,
eyes looking beyond, cavernous.

They kiss the doors, will not comeback,
pilgrims of grapes or hemlock, dead on the toes
of rehearsals, dried milk in breasts and pounding
of metaphors. The mankind stripped of songs
drifting from one forest to another.


SATISH VERMA
Form: ABC


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