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Ceyhun Mahi Oct 2021
Today I want to weep, and all day long,
To sing my feelings through a woeful song.
I have some words, hidden within my heart,
They cannot seem to flow from off my tongue.
Zack Ripley Aug 2021
The willow stood tall
Then it watched us from above
And started weeping
Kenneth Gray Jan 2021
The clouds exude tears as a sign of God's sorrow.
For the fate of mankind in the hands of the morrow.
For mankind's heart has grow callused;
With his eyes set on greed.
Forsaking God's goodness
For all his lustful needs.

All the while the earth moans and it groans.
As mankind's heart is compared with the hardness of stone.
Consumed and devoured by the lusts of the flesh.
An expulsion of THE LORD;
A refusal to mesh.

Disease and strife have set in -
A move oh so bold.
As mankind grows more distant,
Isolated and cold.
And the skies continue to weep as man struggles to fight.
Darkness envelops the lands -
Darkness blots out the light.

Will the battle be fought?
Will mankind ever win?
Will the skies clear up
As man conquers his sin?

May he lay down his sin -
Then turn face and run.
Then may THE LORD show him mercy
And unveil THE SUN!

May the harsh weather of sin
Finally be cleared.
So that mankind's unclear future
Have no need to be feared.
I guess you can find inspiration from the least expected places. It was snowing and I got to thinking about clouds and rain. Then a light bulb popped up in my head like they do in cartoons. That was my inspiration for the first couple lines. Just wrote in the rest as I sat there and though about things.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2020

sometimes I weep gratitude:

you send a poem my way
that wrenches this old heart
in ways that believed were
no longer possible. weep.

eyes see your word images in actual physicality,
me, shedding cells and real tears, musing,
easier is good work that originates in all
new things beautiful, freshly created,
repairing old.^

despair for those who know not this sensing,
weep for yourselves, that I cannot
sway and assuage you, with quality words
that harbor both of us, in mutuality.

call in of reinforcements, sharing a single dock,
visions of rocking together in the wakes of others,
if when you should ever think of me,
think this,
your words are my comforter wake,
gentling my rocking quaking.

my weeping is but
the noise of desperation,
being washed away by the sound of
gratitude weeping


Thu Aug 20  2020

precious everything:    awake, morning chores, no worry, won’t bore you, someone else, tv turns on, claptrap commences, plead with myself for music, a poem, any escape from the horrors of reality, the world’s self inflicted  afflictions, the tv talkers accuse me of complicity,  by merely existing, and not sending “them” money to wage their war, and line their pockets, and I passed the weeping point, freely acknowledge this ain’t much of a poem, not even a rant, just an accumulation of worries, mine lesser than most, yet finding breathing hard, harder than the lungs say is necessary, the future  like lead bells around my neck, bent, and I age ten years in precious seconds, when dare I contemplate how the grandchildren will survive, s u r v i v e, much more than how mine will unwind for my own currency is spent, used...then you send me a new poem and I weep with fresh gratitude for this new, one more day. nml.
The depth of winter
In a cold gaze from the sky
Is covered by fog's translucence
Wishing to fly with the yew trees

So, as the night brightly sparkles
Such water cannot compare to
Only be a mere reflection of its beauty
All that is alive is a free miracle

Woodpeckers sit on the clear earth
Ne'er on the floor of moonlight
As they sleep in weeping willows
Who cover them in tears to keep out the night
Dedicated to a recent reader.
onlylovepoetry Apr 2017
Sunday morning lie-in,
she, ny times newspaper reading,
contentedly dress perusing-shopping,
in the bed both, but separated
by the distance of the electronic void

i am raven tapping poe poems on my diminutive IPhone,
twenty four inches distant from her lips

no notice taken of the man so overcome
writing his Sunday morn poems that are
drawn so deep from places
that make him so so so glad
good quality weeping
can be best performed silently

noticing that

- he writes best when writing of others, mostly, you

- he writes when the rented invisibility cloak covers his face
the wellspring offers him a choice;
write weep and tear
write weep and bawl
or just quit everything

whimsy laughs at his slo 'mo nonsense
his choices
this tough guy supporting a mountain of others,
the inversion of his inverted triangle,
him holding up the world

the worrisome grief that wears him down
best released in tears when writing about
you, go figger

and you notice stupid stuff
like why we use 'and' when it just ain't necesssry
how the core of 'believe' is lie
that ** ** ** rhymes with woe woe woe
that 24 inches is quite the distance when you are
** ** ** weeping and she don't notice

and how hard writing

only love poetry can be
even twenty four inches
from your nose
Angelo Iudici May 2020
Such a field yields
What perhaps we expect

The tree may feel
What sun neglects
As it's history echoes
The dread that misery lent

Weeping is the willow
Forever perched its arms

A song of sadness
Forever continues on
For Mom
Clay Face Apr 2020
I’m broken and weeping.
Seeking a shoulder.

You could destroy me in one look.
However fragile your vessel is.

I wither to an affectionate pulp with you.
Because I know you’re with me.

I don’t have secretes and neither do you.
They’re all our secrets.

You don’t have problems and neither do I.
They’re all our problems.

Cling to you like a life preserver.
I’m caught in the undertow.

Lonesome and weary.
Reflection only draws dreary.

Lay my head upon your shoulder.
Please be my boulder.
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