Widows Poems | Examples

Widows Walk Frightens Me

Widow’s walk frightens me
Look outs are not my choice of tea
Come on up to the crow’s nest!
Mom’s idea is not the best

I am frightened to death of tall heights
I give her grief, whining, crying and lots of fights
I well never be caught on a bell tower day or night.
These heights give me a fright, they are not right.

Golf Widows

What is it, this royal and ancient game
  that gets in your blood and under your skin?
That invites in men’s hearts a peaceful aim
  till you shank one and your head starts to spin.
Not just a game for sadists and man-boys
  though it helps if misery becomes you -
new graphite, titanium and steel toys
  vex me slowly but what am I to do?
I am hooked, addicted to the flagged green,
  and no persuasion can my fix deny -
no finer joy (with pants on) has there been
  but take my wife before my clubs or die!
To all you widows who mourn us at play
hear this…it’s the fairway or the highway.


          Written: September 2004

Among Widows

widows speak their jargon
we don’t all speak the same language
they don’t understand me
i don’t understand them

i’m mystified to find
they’re foreign to me
we have in the end
surprisingly little in common

i hate platitudes
i can’t seem to talk to anyone
without getting frustrated

things I guess
are complicated

subtle differences heightened
come to a head

no one it seems
listens with their heart



AP: Honorable Mention 2022

Posted on April 20, 2022

Body Politic

Body Politic
David J Walker 

The shooting never stops 
Until the bullets are all gone and the 
Bombs are all dropped on the city streets 
in the way of a foreign
Body politic

Declaring a breach of its borders
And ironically orders an invasion

So goes the persuasion of 
Defensive strategies and arguments  
Concerning armaments 

Employing the services of accountants 
Keeping death tolls and destruction
And payments to
Widows and orphans 
Veterans with lost limbs

Trying to remember when 
Things were different 
Back then

Echummi's Learnings

Echummi was married 

even before she learnt to

wear a saree

and when she did learn 

she learnt to wear white

only white

and often when she passed a mirror

what she saw would chill her spine..

A shaven head, bare hands 

and bare forehead

Oh! how she would have loved 

to see colors..

A big red bindi, green bangles

a purple saree-

She was taught to drape herself

In a way she could hide her curves

And so Echummi learnt 

to conceal her beauty,

to hide her youth 

and to drown her verves

''Don't look at men ''she was warned,

And Echummi learnt

to curb her senses

and her impulses;

she learnt to stifle her 

dreams and her sobs;

She learnt to sleep on hard floors

not yearn for a caress or a touch;

Echummi learnt to cook every dish

And to abstain from delicious food,

She learnt to be absent

on all auspicious occasions

and not cross the path

of propitious people,

She learnt to go unnoticed

unrecognized

like a shadow on the wall..

Unheard, unseen

sinking into oblivion..

Echummi learnt to die 

even when she was alive!

The Many Widows Have a Lock On They Mouth

The many widows have a lock on they mouth,
The reason for widowhood will be deep hide.
The killer helped ms Smith this position allowed,
And for ms Jones helped just a dose cyanide.

Widows' Club

the widows’ club
seasoned companions 
suitcases full of wit
playmates up for adventure
out for an escapade
consortium of allies
league of septuagenarians
a powerhouse of wisdom
tote travel bags of history



AP:  Honorable Mention 2020

Posted on February 24, 2020

8 Word Contest 9 Widows Mites

The banker didn’t see me,
but I saw.
The bag behind the bush contained
everything.
Clothes. Food. Memories.
Everything that was left of an indigent life.
Forced to part with all their worldly possessions
for a moment,
perhaps to pee, perhaps to eat, perhaps to beg for widow’s mites,
someone had hidden the bag under the bush 
like a broken wren,
delicate, consecrated with the hope it might fly again,
if it survives all the things that crawl in the dust.
The banker must have thought it convenient,
the way that life was stuffed in a 40 gallon bag
ready to be pitched. 
How easily he threw it away.
A chore he enjoyed 
for once.
He had no sudden awakening
to save him from his egregious sin.
No angel tried to mediate his cruel delerium.
The wind just played with his tie
as he returned to work, obtuse. 

Contest sponsor John Hamilton, Eight Word Challenge 9
9/6/2019

Painter of Widows and Orphans

beautiful red headed bucking star
brilliant whorls- green aurora eyed
quick minded sprinting faster than light
thought I could tame it-bring it to the knees
but she's also a teaser, artist supreme
painter of widows and orphan dreams
she bucked me off like all the rest
into a black wall of red star regrets
here we lie broken, gazing at the sky
praying for another chance for a
wild bucking star ride

Uncurtained Widows

Through the uncurtained widows
Of life we see hope rise and fall like
A knife

Through a shrill scream 
Of a darkened dream 
We feel thrills

And hopes rising higher
Like flames of midnight desires 
Only to awaken to the same

As hopes falling 
Tripping down over lifes
Games 
Whips upon my back 
Silence upon my tongue

As my mind whispers in the silence
Of my head
Sleep please hold me upon my bed

For my visel feels strangle
Trapped between
A dream and realty
A dreamer who only feels alive

Within a dream..
Hear the silence whisper's
Within my head..

Of Widows and Hearts

love is to a heart

     as black widow is to mate

          they can be killers

A Widows Love

I gave you my change....
Because that's all I had left.

Widows Weeds

A tree in widow's weeds contrasts the frosty dawn after so wild and wet a storm.

Weeping Widows

Endlessly the widows weep
For their adored lovers lost
To their final, eternal sleep;
This is wars cost.

The reasoning for their loss they can’t dispel,
For in reality there’s no protected to keep;
Of this irrefutable knowledge they can’t quell,
Forever floating in their emotional sea they steep.

The loss of these souls is abundant,
Annually growing dismally deep,
To the point the numbers are redundant;
Endlessly more and more widows will weep.

A Widows Tears

A soldier dies, his widow cries,
His child, mother and father sighs,
And the vile racists spread their lies,
Today it's not only the soldier who died,
But decency,  integrity, humility and pride.

People have gathered together to mourn,
But a small minority pushes forward forlorn,
Trying to capitalize use this as a platform for their lies
However we must remember that a soldier has died
And in her grief the widow cried.

As the child grows up his choice is clear,
He must resist the hatred and confront his fear,
For if he believes the racists lies,
An innocent person will die
And another widow will be the one to cry.

The cycle will continue for time evermore,
With death being the one keeping score,
An eye for an eye until we're all eventually blind,
Unless the child leaves revenge behind,
Maybe then can the widow attain peace of mind.

• Short Widows Poems
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