Poems on the topic: grief

Poems on the topic “grief” on Poets.by.

SadA.A. George

Broken.

I can't sleep anymore The silence is suffocating me And life moves on Without me Was Daisy that unimportant? How are people still functioning? Am I crazy? They're acting as if nothing happened And Here Am. Just. Broken. Like her bones.
SadA.A. George

Should've Been Me

nightmares plague my thoughts day and night I wish I was the one killed instead of her I wish she didn't stop breathing How unfair is it That I still feel the air and breathe it And Daisy's body has long been cold as ice Buried in the unforgiving ground It's unfair That I have the guts to walk when she never will again
SadAnne Scott Musil

The Widower

left: some clothes and letters chips on dishes memories her sisters neighbours who shared recipes chat memories of her some like yours there was a gap between you you wanted others in yet that deep work-a-day back-porch wordless closeness pulls you to her - you die too now she becomes herself work struggle worry gone her crisp voice, sense fill silent shared rooms
SadJulia Boynton Green

The Return

"Look, dearest, this shall be my flower!" she said, "This starry jasmine." And she thrust a spray For me to smell. "Remember!" Ah, today I see her buoyant loveliness—her red Sweet lips. In one brief twelvemonth she was dead. Last night wind wailed. December's first snow lay Upon the ground. Too unresigned to pray, Too torn with racking grief to sleep, I fed My misery on remembrance. "Love," I cried, "Come back to me—come back! No heaven, no tomb Can keep you from me. Come—my own, my own!" And as I ceased the gloom was glorified— I was aware that I was not alone— A sudden scent of jasmine filled the room.
SadFrank Marshall Davis

South State Street Profile

A great oak brown face, a strange face with inch and a half eyes placed three inches above two mustache guarded lips has Joe, a seller of hotdogs on State Street A seventy year old voice has this man of fifty . . . his eyes seldom see what they gaze upon . . . he appreciates words unspoken better—much better—than those one says Joe swims in a sea of yesterdays . . . memories of better times beat against his mind like a lash . . . his lips tell tales while his hands make a living
SadRisa Bear

Sometimes

this is what you'll come to, picking about in earth, pulling morning glory roots like long white worms and heaping them beside you of a morning: you will become distant and glum, and as your wrists dry up, caked in clay, you'll look around you, and not your small red barn, your irises, your bamboo patch, your oak and ash, your three brave maples rattling in the breeze, your small house bracketed in lilacs, breathing smoke, your woodshed stacked roof-high, your mint and parsley putting on new life, your geese, your ducks, your pear trees in bright bloom will rid you of the thought of what this is that you are digging, bit by troweled bit. Assuming the sun will come out, which now
SadNdrek Gjini

Mourning

On this rainy afternoon while I walk alone the streets the music that my shoes make on the wet asphalt sounds to my ears like a funeral symphony and my walk like a dead march. Casually raising my eyes to the mountain in front me I notice that the white cloud which in the morning was kissing the mountain is there no more. So, I say to myself; ‘these wet drops falling are not the rain drops,
SadHans Ostrom

Sea Monster

I drift beneath a grammar of sharply etched shapes and clear contrasts. Eddies dance as if to mock my dumb back as I pass under a cove’s calm surface. Sometimes a seabird’s shriek thuds through thick water. I feel forever dark weight of water. It’s as present to me as my own body as I push through it with ridiculous flippers. One day I will just stop and drop to ancient mud; clouds of mud will mushroom out about me, swirl, disappear on currents. I'll roll on one side with one eye buried in muck and one still staring at black water mottled with insinuations of light. A sound will grow in me, rise out of my mute years, build into a moaning like a sunken ship’s crushed hull, then race into a scream smothered
ContemplativeRisa Bear

Sixty-Five

I still defend you, still blame myself — I should extend such courtesy to the living.
SadRisa Bear

Sixty

I did not know love had gone; I stood by the stairs a long time, then walked away.
SadRisa Bear

Forty-One

Those waiting at the breakfast table understood — though they had not been told.
SadRisa Bear

99 (Emperor) Gotoba-no-In

For some men I grieve. Some men I hate! And this wretched world To me, weighted down with care, Is a place of misery.

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