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Mark Wanless Sep 5
as time collapses around me
i feel a melancholy dirge

and call upon a master
not ever believed in

to save me save me a hollow sound
that dances across the centuries

from lips of hopeful dreamers of love
felt real
Nat Lipstadt May 18
~for better days for the poet betterdays~

mournful tunes play silently, but still too often,
eyes wet but in corners kept, recurring then the
memories, keepsakes, letters, books, small trinkets,
not dusty, but dusky, resting on in-between ledge of a
mountain-sized twilight of well lit shadowy haziness,
edgy dark brilliance, a comprehensible contrast non-comprehendible

tunes that bless with equal measures of grief,
comforting, by memorable card flashes of good relief,
a dividing line, hazy and frequented crossed, a sort of path,
with no destination signaled, as if the path itself was an end,
to a meaning, a solution, with no clarity divined, a division
of sight and insight, providing an ill fitting reconciliation

mourning is electric, morning is electric,
letters, words bottled up in evaporating perfume bottles,
seeking the comfort of dissipation unto a larger atmosphere,
the scent in everything tangible, stronger still yet, in intangibles
that can erode but never ever fail to return instantly when voked,
by vision, odor, a particular child’s smile, line in a poem volunteered

recovered, uncovered, a post first writ to be written, discovered,
when time and place coincidentally breathe together, at last,
beckoning you to places where memory serves only as a pleasuring,
upright mind marker, decorated in chains perpetual reforging,
absent pain, gleaming dreamings full-replacing longings for pasts,
new verses composed, passing, a grand addition to a child’s legacy
loss can only be tempered, reforged, and ultimately used for our  own betterment when the heart commands, now write!
On Monday, my husband waits until I get home to say the words.
I go to unload the car and carry back tears.
Sitting, stirring, I begin to take out stitches on
a strayed shawl for the third time.

An artist and an adventurer, she sipped Dickle and ate meat
and raised chickens. She slept in a small house to live spaciously.
Erin was tall and never knowing of how she showed me to
express, explore, expand, to exist.

On a long ago Friday, with frayed Carhartt pants, we were
chatting about women, and their depictions in magazines,
Erin says,“Well, they’re not shaped like a real woman.”
For a lasting moment, I see from her wise and lovely eyes.

Erin is a stitch unlooped from our tight knit.
A drafty gratitude, a sudden shiver. She was here, with us, with the world.  
And now we are looping onto each other, tenaciously.
Even so, what are we to do with slipped stitches and this hole?

May we purl pain into artistry. All we have to do is add the t.  
So we will paint. And we will climb mountains.
We will tear and we will cry and live and bleed and die.
Until then, we have no other task than to knit ourselves together.
This sad poem of loss inspired in form and subject by Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Dirge Without  Music" =
We met when you were small
a tiny white puffball
I placed a band blue
round your neck to
show you were my kitty

I knew so exactly
what you should be
good, kind, lovely, sweet
smart, fun, strong, complete
the package with loyal

and you were, so royal
without blemish or soil
upon your pure white fur
heart free of smudge or blur
your name was Snowbell

you grew to know it well
from birth to when you fell
crimson mottled splotch mess
stained your angelic dress
a broken vessel as am I

speaking of how you did die
your life story in my eye
tale of cuddles, head rubbed
rolling joyful in the mud
you spirit confined

by man’s wall defined
freedom’s what you pined
for ever gazing at door
shut stuck wanting outside

Petite Cherie, where now you reside
may sweet freedom fully abide
may you live without doors
fields of grass be your floors
enjoy them, please, it is your right

for this world which held tight
to be lost in pursuit
finally allowed to be you
I let go the band blue
but never my love for you

Petite Cherie, run, be free—
please wait patiently
for the time when we
both have naught but grass floor
no remnants of that shut door.
In memoriam of Snowbell (2005-2019)
She was the best feline companion this fellow has ever been blessed to have.
RequiesCAT In Pace, Petite Cherie
Samuel Canerday Oct 2018
Withering pines, whispering wind
Breaks the night with callous din
What silence speaks in darkest corners
Drowned by forests full of mourners
Another friend fallen, rent and hewed
So spoke the forest, we go to our doom
G Rog Rogers Oct 2017
Now there is nothing left
that's worth the mention
Yet there is so much more
I wanted to say

The years have passed
as a whirlwind
There was nothing left
that together we had

The horses The trailers
The tractor and truck
The saddles and the tack
All then gone for a song

A funeral dirge
of the saddest kind
A song about the
loss of We and Us

Destruction was there
then relentless
Only one single thing
I could keep

Just a wallet I bought
In Our last days together
Holding the picture ID's
of Our Sons

So on I alone
went through
unending destruction
As though all Hell
existed alone against me

Until I again studied
the sunrise and claimed
a new beginning
alone there
beside the sea

So sorry you're not
still here with me
With a beautiful
start-over play
for keeps

I heard for you
it went very badly
And you languish
In doom and sorrow
and grief

I hurt for you
Knowing the very
moment of

You set loose
upon yourself
The worst of all
of your fears

Are you happy
that you succeeded
Did you accomplish
all that you planned?

Didn't you know
I would get up
and go on and do
what we did together
by myself once again?

So on I must go
to restoration absolute
of that which was
Ours then to claim

Knowing you're
gone forever
I am again myself
surely restored

But not now nor ever
would it be possible
To recover
Our once
precious Love
once more

We Shared Love

We Cherished Life.



Samuel Fox Feb 2017
Should wedding bells chime in a dream you have, I pray the man,   miming affection     near the altar is not me. I am ragamuffin; a butcher with no cleaver     in his shadow,
instead a bouquet: Clenched in my silhouetted hand flowers turn into torch. I burn     as a filament in a bulb half-expired. I have smoked through my pocket money    in order
to scatter cremated angels from my throat.    I am cloaked by anguish      my grief    poorly sheathed   a tattered nerve. I have only learned        how to praise darkness.

Light is painful as it shimmers against frost: grass gleams in steady growth    discolored
scars healing. Here I am letting out a blood-letter addressed to you, wondering    if I send   a snip     of my own vein will it remind you how     one missing piece    from a whole            can forfeit the future. All any future is:      a motion into the next moment,  its pending indecision none can envision.      We can’t help but revise malleable pasts. Memories flux     rippling water and enough light changes it’s refraction with each new  ripple.        I cannot be a lover if love is not static    humming at least from its hymnal.  

I   write this letter in calligraphy mourning,    like most poets do – rending heart  rendering  this broken universe – with bone and feathered quill. This feather is from my wing, the pair fallible love clipped         the first chance you took to kiss my darkness.

I’m charting learning a path to winter in an opposite sky:
one only I can fly.
Brother Jimmy Sep 2016
There are flies on your eyeballs
You're no longer there
And they dance in the strands of your wavering hair
Mr. Raccoon, you've a faraway stare

Your countenance tells
You're finally at  peace
Now a home for the others
The flies and the fleas

A small leak from inside
And the forest throng listens
The smile grows wide
Your ventral fur glistens

To beetle and mite
A bountiful feast
A sickening sight
As you bow to the East

**** to the sunset
You've no need for art
Now one with the minuet
In the forever heart
Chris Neilson May 2016
The British national anthem is a dirge
divisive and outdated
unrepresentative of the country
largely derided and hated

When English footballers stay silent
patriots in the media give them grief
maybe the player has republican views
maybe they have no religious belief

Should an anthem focus on a hereditary monarchy?
should an anthem focus on a head of state?
shouldn't an anthem focus on the nation?
it's lifeblood to whom it can relate

God's too busy to save over-privileged monarchs
God's got much worthier causes
His unconditional love is tested by royalty
He may have to introduce clauses

Britain is innovative, modern and multicultural
the current anthem reflects none of that
the words belong to a different century
when wives were beheaded and kings were fat

Let's have an uplifting anthem
a tune it's "subjects" can sing with pride
not one with our chins on the floor
not one that's silly and snide
Kastoori Barua May 2016
Thick glasses till high school,
Long hair done up in a pony tail,
With a lollipop between her lips
Tinted with a strawberry lip balm,
And lemon drops in her pockets,
She graduated and entered grad school.
Lenses replaced those nerdy glasses,
Siren red colored her lips instead--
Lipsticks were here to stay and reign.
Lollipops were childish, but cigarettes thrilled,
Smoked with élan, only to bring bored numbness
Behind those costly sunglasses hiding her eyes,
Set snugly into her neat brown chignon.
Little did they know, though beautiful,
She refused to led down her hair,
For her demons would go on a rampage
And her illness would devour her:
That which was kept at bay,
By anti-depressants in her pockets
A wistful dirge for her golden days.
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