Short Ward Poems
Short Ward Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Ward by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Ward by length and keyword.
firm by your side
my heart is shattered
where will I find the strength
AP: 2nd place 2021, Honorable Mention 2021
Eden-ward
God points his loving finger Eden-ward
where Adam reaches beyond knowledge.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 22, 2010
Poetic form: Crysalline
Why to the hospital did I go?
Seemed to be under 6' of snow!
Why were others desperate so much
When I seemed out of human touch?
God is love; so I see
In tune with reality!
Form:
The nights are usually short, but the days are so long,
As I loaf in this room wanting to go back to where I belong.
The best I can do in this mental ward is pretend to be strong.
Pain
gloomy
in their eyes
i saw and felt.
Bed one, two and more
men, women in white gowns
coming to and fro, caring.
In bed seven i saw, Daisy
gorgeous and alive, you can't expect
she'd be here needing a neurosurgeon.
As I reminisce of the
Stars' above
I can not require His
Demeanor
Nor beseech HIs Love
Fore it is bountiful
An exponentially sound
-That-
Is the making of his
Beginnning
For which I am bound
In order to make
All things' anew
GF
wholly state
gentrified
holey spate
sanctified
holy stake
genocide
What he did to simple Mark
With a sword
Left him with a complex mark
In a ward …
Endless cries of “Oh! My lord “
“I’ve broken somebody’s spinal cord.”
Before then, parading a rifle4
But from his Dad getting eyeful,
Who would a begged laughter stifle
As blood-letting isn’t a trifle.
. for public domain
Way Ward
We will bury our sighs and sorrows,
debts and owes, and all our borrows,
our scarlet letters all have seen.
We shall cross the bridge,
hand in hand, beyond the ridge,
leave angry tears behind.
If no one welcomes you and me,
we start afresh, clean and free,
and try again, and try again.
Trotter's words are his deeds
girding the Earth
in great magnetic lines
of universal intent.
In Ward's ritually upraised palm
we see the symbol Coriolis
south draining left
north draining right
Into the realm of Neptune
via the cisterns of Rome
down the ancient river Po
to wicked storms at sea
Into vortices the poet's passport
falls as a man overboard
all its pages torn
one by one.
scuffs in the pearl white floor
when she leaves the room,
for empty hospital hallway memories,
haze of sterile gloom
like snails, the chronic men
each slowly wear away,
their minds left to trail behind them,
their faces falling into decay
the grey walls with snake green stripes
always constricting them,
the dim fluorescent flicker of the fate
to which they have been condemned.
Hideous cancer chisels away
With strange tragic sculpturing
And exposes dark flaws
heavy and black:
Inoperable, they say.
Ever present cigarette
Tenaciously supported
By shaking hand
and unfaltering need
Moved toward fried death
As wrenching cough spewed
Fire in weakened lungs.
A machine by the bed
Connected to tubes,
She wavers between
Sleep and reality
Fighting to hear
The voices around her.
You are an enigma
handcuffed to the claims of stagnant love.
Why do you not respond
to baffled me?
I stare oft into your eyes...
Am offered a light-filtering screen
across a well!
Your ways are stifling me...
I am not a mind reader.
Or yet you tease a tease.
Come Jennifer,
show me your lilting dreams.
-----------------------------------------------
Co-written ~ Paul Callus & Julia Ward
The neighbourhood was very rough;
My gran was sweet but, oh, so tough.
Most people didn’t go to work -
My mother said they’d rather shirk.
Some disappeared and then returned
(They’d been in jail, I later learned).
The local toughs respected Gran
And came to call for buns or flan.
Next door, there lived a dozen boys -
They dressed in rags and had no toys.
Although my family moved away,
I dream of Ward Place to this day.
The roadside IED was a major insult.
Third degree covers 93 percent.
He’s not the same as before.
Skin leathery, dry, waxy,
Pearly gray and charred.
Underlying fat and muscle exposed.
Ears gone.
Fingers gone.
Manhood gone.
If he still had lips,
He might pronounce the words,
“Please pray for me,”
But he’d never complain or lay blame.
I’ll be the one to do that.
Let the shame be on you, America.
He deserved better than this.
stigma shadows the word
crown ward
foster care
billions made every year
with stolen children
profits are near
prejudice blinds your eyes
children taken every day
here
and near
parents love them
fight to keep
children lost
taken in your sleep
courts take them
one foster home
becomes the tenth
love is lost
business grows
money is made
on broken homes
eighteenth birthday
comes
child tossed
new ones
to find
and take away
Form: