Paul Carico Jun 11
A night when the bitter weeping wind sang
In shrills of metallic melody
Of invisible abstractions that clatter and clang

Breaking in a barrage of chaotic ecstasy
Enthralling my mind to find solace
In a realm renounced of sanity.
Simpathi May 28
How can you stand there,
With blood on your hands?
You never confessed,
But here you still stand,

Covered in their remains,
Full of their memories,
But you put that aside,
You made your amenities.

Was their life of no value,
For you to even consider?
Did they not heal you,
Through the harsh freezing winter?

You neglected your feelings,
Not even to think twice,
About what you were doing,
Ending their life.

What did they do to hurt you,
To make you carry this grief?
I assure you it’s not their fault,
They’re not the reason you weep.
Don't let your pain become you...
So many say they are broken hearted
So many caused by forced departures
Many drowned from longed desires
Many more from weeping criers

The faint beats of withered chambers
The hopeless dreams of foolish strangers
Bearing no truth, childish dangers
It's time that we......errr go gain some majors?
Did you like the ending >_<
I Suppose Mar 7
Deer always fascinated me
How agile they were
How adorable they looked
in the harsh winter weather
I always watched Bambi as a child
With my parents.
They usually cried when they saw
The tragic death of Bambi's mother
But I could never call it tragic
For I knew she had moved to a better place
And that granted me catharsis
She would be up in heaven, prancing around in the ethereal snow
And as I sat  
With the doe-eyed deer in my sights
I think back to Bambi's mother
As I softly squeeze the trigger
The bullet does not go through the head as planned
The sights were off.
It tears through the deer's throat
It whimpers in agony on the ground
I run up to it and hold its dying head in my arms
And as I look at the doe-eyed deer
For the first time in my life
I weep
But I can only weep
Until hunger sets in...
The seventh poem in the Untitled series. Our lives are fragile. Protect them.
I used to believe that pain had
some kind of cosmic
threshold

could only go so far then strengthen me
making me
bold

I've been branded with a much deeper, darker,
wider, weeping & gnashing of teeth
type of pain of which I thought was
reserved for an un-earthly
hell

Now I know it can exist
long before death so far as I can
tell
I'm still believing You Lord that we were always only passing thru
Mongi Jan 23
Weeping Tree

Weeping tree
In a place I haven't known
Only known to our forefathers
You've been told in tales
Giants of the land have journeyed
In quest for your warm embrace
While the minute ants from the dust
Have ignorantly grazed
Right under your mysteries
You've been a mystery to the seeker
But a treasure to the holder

Weeping tree
What haven't you been?
You've cast a shade under for the goats to rest
You've sprouted branches for the birds to roost
The nests that host future generations
Are founded and knitted upon you
You've been shelter to the needy
You've shouldered Mother Nature's mistakes
A bearer of comfort and affection
A groomer of the future
A harbour of hope

Weeping tree
But you've showed to me your other shade
You enticed me with your collectedness
Wooed me with your sentimental stance
And lured me with your sweet reverberations
We closed the distance between us
I found my share of the forever told mystery
Your embrace warm over me
But you got a little more harsh on me
Like the broad wings of an angel
Your branches covered me
You brought me close to your stem, roughly  
Your embrace turned into an engulf
Your pats into slaps
You pressed, you smothered
You let me die inside of you
While I died inside of me
I died
I hope you weep
Weeping tree

Mongi C. Nkabindze
Grey love
Seanathon Jan 21
Thin like the willow
Grey as the dove

Quiet as the wind beneath which pesters the cat floats the wings and sweeps the city streets clean of debris

Dark as the asphalt
Soft as the paws

Lean like meat
Old like soil
And slick like oil as it drips from beneath

Shaking like the bedrock
The running water whips

Damp as the corners
And dry as your eyes
It slips

And where asphalt meets the mossgrown bricks
Corners are placed and worlds collide

And the man within is locked away
Within the metaphorical city street

Would the Central Park I know and love, return to me?
In all such glory

The Willow trees
Must go.
Lyn-Purcell Dec 2017
Listen as the willows weep
Silvern rain and wounds are deep
Secrets words are put to bed
Where there are many tears to shed
Poem from my journal.
mrc Dec 2017
sometimes i think that even the flags weep
Destiny sans mine family of origin domicile
   locked in a full nelson,
   and...eventually wrestled
   to the ground as pile of jagged rubble!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Synonymous with fragile hulk
   (pitted against backhoe and wrecking ball)
   incredibly resilient,
   when incessantly whip lashed
   until unanchored off mooring

thence, her frail exterior (rabidly
chomped via humungous steely toothed jaws)
bowed, teetered and collapsed
stern weight accosted, beckoned, and caved, 
spot on dead reckoning,

   non bash full machination yen
suffering being most weather beaten
   since about nineteen ten
embodying painstaking craftsmanship
   from way back when,

effort to build an enduring domicile
   ruled as blueprint for a den
not necessarily of thieves,
but extra ordinary ship shape,
   rich n hard folks (The Leipers)

fancying innovative
   Hercules hue men, and women 
who wrought their family genealogy
   via quilted pen
predecessors of Barbie and their ken
Erected by strong strapping young men.

Since February 28th 1968
   mighty noble domain occupied
by thine now octogenarian widower father
echoing with ghosts,
   who formerly inhabited 324 Level Road
(plus spirit of deceased mother), 

a plethora of past occupants came to life
when’re he visited berth of his lady friend
who lives in the langhorne area
haggled with Gambone builders
   to pocket a wad of cash
resigned immeasurable

   blood, sweat and tears all for naught,
nor without Miley Cyrus astride
   the demolition destroyer
which hundred year old mansion
once a stately summer resort
   (to the upscale who owned 
the Bell & Clapper),

   a respectable haven for well to do Philadelphians
whar English ivy obscured visible slated patio
upon said pseudo pier viewer proffered view
where lily padded fishpond aqua culture bounded

(where froggy went a court'n
   hopping tubby a prince) below decks
which once renown estate
accrued facade as mere dark shadow 
sitting like a charade along,

   the outer limits of the twilight zone 
casting shadowy silhouettes, 
   sans lovely bones the edge of night
versus former vestige of former radiant glory
prompted this prodigal son to be somber and brood
perchance never to set my eyes, whereat 

no artisan gentrified abode of vested gentry 
thus, debilitating, hunkering,
   and landing plain trampled
so much uniqueness expended viz zit by the hands 

of thine extraordinarily dexterous
   hands of me papa,
who spent immeasurable energy
and countless precious blocks of time 
to gentrify, mend and rescue
   from natural degradation

(whence thee bell tolled the hour
   maws gouged gored a gaping hole 
from this fixer upper, 
   the entire complex edifice
Like fate of humpty Dumpty

   did crumble and fall 
vis a vis, our own Roman version
Thence, my father removed a sign
passersby (whether on foot or via auto de fe), 
would never know, nor glance to read

historical indication, viz the original occupants 
i.e. captain Leiper, and listed in registry
steered his shipshape tract titled "Glen Elm",
a vast vibrant 100 + green acres
before dilapidated home
   listlessly lumbered ponderously

with nary hub buyer shaking hands at acceptable price
thus, the sad outcome as indicated above
mine dada did agreed
   on a deal with contractor 
who bought scrappy spit of land

Acres bandied crumbs
   dealt enough finances "bread"
hence (as explained)
   by the end of November 2012 
demolition crews 
   bull dozed childhood crucible
   of memories without fail.
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