"achingly" poems
(For Eric Killmonger)
A little boy stared in the clouds
Forgotten tales screaming loud
His word small and nothing wrong
It all shattered after too long
Stories of cities that touched the sky
Clans of people untouched by time
Hope soon filled his boyish dreams
But not everything was as it seemed
One night he came home and saw
His father dead, struck down by claw
Weeping over his fathers head
He begged him to stay, not leave him instead
Shattered dreams and shattered hopes
He held the myth achingly close
Alone, no one there to guide
He locked his humanity deep inside
Battling for a way to free them all
Seeking power and in deaths thrall
The world had taken everything away
And all in one single day
So he would take everything away from it
His soul a star no longer lit
Now he lay there quietly dying
His enemy close, no longer fighting
The world it seemed would take him too
His glittering eyes full of rue
There was nothing left for him here
Breathing ragged and full of fear
Finally he took his very last breath
And slipped away as his life left
And as the sun left the sky
The night descended with a sigh
The little boy was dead and gone
His life a sad and weary song.
-Roguesong-
-Esther L. Krenzin-
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
sunflowers lean in the direction of the sun
although this sunflower leaned in the direction
of the warmth that came from the moon
the mysterious light that attracted the flower
not from what it was familiar with
a new experience and a new way to bend
--
although the moon sung with the flower,
pampered its petals with faraway words and
danced through shadows that felt so close
the moon was in the sky
the sunflower danced, lone
in its own lonely patch
the sunflower was the sun of its own
danced to its own tune, smiled, laughed
was so sure of the world and its offerings
but the moon had its own tune
a slow, cautious, steady, unsure
dance.
the sunflower thought to please the moon
whenever it could with its own light
to dance as the moon's stage and to love
but the sunflower could only dance
for so long, until a petal fell
from its yellow petal crown
the sunflower could not evaluate why
it danced for its love. it simply had
to keep dancing
although the sunflower knew that
its petals were falling off
and the sunflower had bent too far
the sunflower had its own frustrations
but the moon hurt wherever it shined
the moon's songs were so achingly
tearful
the sunflower hardly had any petals left
when the moon began to shine its light in another direction
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
She’s known as Riotous Rose.
Never has she wanted for company
in the intimate spaces between sheets.
His voice, it calls to her, guides her
down below to rapturous desire.
A carnal growl achingly echoes
inspiring ravenous teeth and hands
that ravage in the gentlest of ways.
****** roses blossom in her cheeks.
With nimble fingers she picks them
before offering them to her lover.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:49 PM UTC
The Bride Test by Helen Hoang
If tomorrow is a big day with many things to do, here is your warning:
Read this book before bed and you’ll be reading it well into the morning
Esme, or My, is kind and clever, endlessly loyal and terrible at deceit
Khai is a complicated genius, steadfast and achingly, unknowingly sweet
Esme is determined to find a better life for the family she temporarily left behind
Khai is earning future freedom from set ups his mom can’t help but mastermind
A few scenes might make you blush - brilliant and perfect for this story
Bring lots of tissues, no reading on transit - this book is an absolute glory
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 8:52 PM UTC
Can he cry
Knowing the winds won’t stop
Feeling his heart pulse achingly
Listening to the sounds in the other stalls
There are others crying with him
He still can’t cry
Can he cry
Knowing the failures will stick like duck tape
Felling his snot paint his sleeves white
Hugging himself in his time of fright
He still won’t cry
Can he cry
Knowing this is one out of too many
Feeling the burden settle so heavily
Breathing in timing to the tapping on his knee
The tears won’t come out
He can’t cry
Knowing it’ll always be the same
Feeling the drain on his psyche
Listening to the silence in the other stalls
He’s still the only one
And the winds still won’t stop
And the clouds will pass by
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 2:08 AM UTC
It was reflecting—slowly creeping into the small, cracked part of my window. Running his cold, sweaty palm on my forehead and onto the crevasses of my already fragile soul. It is growing like small plants waiting to sprout in dry concrete, blossoming into a wild forest waiting for the blessing of the sun and being showered by the rain.
It creeps softly, masked by the greenery, sometimes vibrant and with a scent of fresh linen sheets and apple slices or newly painted canvases dried out by the cool breeze of the weather, and everyone is smiling, glorious, and incandescent.
But it was also reflecting—slowly creeping into the small crack of my window. Where my room speaks a foreign language and my pillow beats achingly; where breathing morphs into a shadow—eventually walking by your side, so quietly you couldn’t even notice.
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 2:09 PM UTC
the whisper of failure hangs in the sky
her frantically beating chest pounds her breast achingly erratic & raw
they urge the girl on
but life crashed & crushes as she screams her head barely above water
woman why should you feel this way they ask
this is your dream
a cry echoes through the cold languid air
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 10:49 PM UTC
I fell in love with a ghost
Upon whose grave I have committed great travesties
She was silent and seemed lost
And my feeble heart could not sustain her futile tragedies
The tragedies of millennia past, gasping in in-articulation
The suffocation of a future already always lost, without observation
I fell in love with loving a ghost
Who saw past my eyes into a formless ocean
Limitlessly there, she sunk and she rose
But alas was not of my wanting nor creation
She who is of minimal infinity
Taught me nought about nothing, nobody
I only recognize that it was her that never wants me
And I who longs achingly to be in her vicinity
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 7:11 PM UTC
You hit me like a wave. I drifted away, coming into the shore, and lied there with nothing but my naked eyes; the sun covered my cold, barren body. Radiating sunshine and weakness as the sea called over me, you traipsed and towered over my sight, blinding me with your ivory skin lit as the match fired the sky.
The waves in the sea squished me in like a soft linen blanket, wrapping me all over like the comfort of a mother. My hands were trembling as you stood there unmoving, and the melodies and blasphemous beats almost dug me out of my ears; I couldn’t even do anything. You were there like an angel lost in his epiphany. It was as if a goddess were in front of you; your eyes spoke as you became a slave to your own wrath, worshipping what was in front of you. You laid your eyes on me like I was some kind of song you could not decipher.
You stood there, solving the creeps and mysteries and finishing the last verse of a poem you will never read again. You hit me like a wave, and I drifted away, hoarding memories left astray. You were there, godlike and lost, and even the sun loathed your fire. You burn like a match, your skin a stain of crimson—of sunshine and weakness. You called me, but I did not answer.
It was cold, and I loathed it. Perhaps it was the month of October where the enigmas of night lay open, and achingly, my flesh was found in humiliation. I continued to bleed, on and on.
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 9:44 AM UTC
1.
A star-shaped
patch of snow,
achingly white,
rests against the base
of the little white
pine, wrapped
in glittering
golds and reds, gifts
for the Christ Child.
No claw or paw
or beak or wing
has touched the snow.
Only a hidden pitch
of grass pushes
it skyward.
It shirks
its shrinkage
north
of the pine.
It will not
winnow until
the bright star burns.
*I pass the snow
and think of nothing*.
2.
Lightning split
the hide
of the 80-year-old
oak that shaded
our little tan house
each summer.
Its bark ripped
apart like
wallpaper,
life leeching out
of its crooked limbs
in sap-soaked
streams of sorrow,
making room
for the little white pine
to thrive
in the dead of winter.
*Nature is not
our friend*.
3.
The pine prays to preserve
some piece of the oak
I used to love. Its needles,
like shark’s teeth,
fend off friend and foe
alike, granting it
the right to grow
wherever it likes,
even here,
at the foot of giants.
Dead, the pin oak loans
its beauty to no one,
boasts only of its hard,
straight wood,
an abiding abode
for birds and squirrels
and barking boys.
I climb to its top
each Christmas,
straining toward
the Epiphany star.
*The tree sways, and
I think of nothing*.
4.
The burgeoning pine
pines for such power.
You cannot cut it
without exposing
its darkened knots,
like aging spots
on my hands
and face.
It rises bright with
anemone-like cones
dappled on its coat
of single color:
evergreen,
ever young.
Ever gone,
my pilgrim oak.
I stretch toward the star
of Bethlehem,
dreaming my way
to Heaven, saying No
to the punishing
star of snow below.
Hanging high
above the Earth,
I sense the Christ Child
in my branches.
*Wet, wild grasses
brush His cradle,
push me skyward,
His star my home*.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
I wrote a poem you'll never see –
a masterpiece; it took me weeks.
I love you and I wanted you to know.
I achingly described your lips
with tender, breathless craftsmanship;
it was a soulful, sinful epic wracked with lust.
Poetry herself, intrigued,
shook her head in disbelief;
no mortal girl could ever love so much –
and so, enamored by my words,
she decided to ****** you first.
I'm sorry, lover, but she had to go.
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Tensions high,
like broken kite strings,
reaching further away,
escaping the empty earth
in your arms.
Creeping chatter,
pouring inky letters,
in runny messes
all over my hands,
feeling bruised by you;
the sting, the slap
as leaking words
drip drip drip
from your mouth,
the broken tap.
I’m tired.
I’m so tired of hearing
soft
whispered yearnings
scratching the back of your throat.
Desperation, loneliness?
You beg with the croon in your tone,
you play along like the gentle little
sweetling,
a songful, humming love,
all warm in cupped hands.
In all this time,
this achingly long time
I’ve played as your neat little trick;
the showman’s trusty pet,
small dove flying
as soon and only when you release me.
String caught up around my waist,
I’ll never fly too far.
As I walked away,
that night with the moon trailing my form,
and pooling in pillows cradled in my soft footsteps,
you watched my back
stretch lean and tall and
stand
away from you.
You looked back,
it was the moon shifting through my hair,
when I turned to notice
a head shake,
a blink in the empty settling air you left behind.
….Drip….drip….drip,
you leak all those notions I wished you
would one day say,
those heart-melting flatteries,
desirable admissions,
I’m the only one you want,
to keep you satisfied,
keep you going and touching and loving
and exploring and breaking,
until your other girl comes home.
You ask and plead and return,
lapping and licking in my arms,
wanting my form so bad again;
you cry for all the fun in the world,
but this time, it just can’t.
You’re just my broken tap.
You’d need to stop dripping ***** water one day.
You’d need to stop echoing around me at night,
cradling myself to keep my strength enough
to say no to what I wanted and got for so long.
But you’re just my delicate and lovely broken tap.
I’ll always love you somehow, and feel so dangerous,
intoxicating and breathtaking
as you made me so.
You showed me so.
But I can’t wait for you to cease on your own.
Pull me round with you, wait for you,
tossed like an empty drink because of you.
Maybe
I just need to let you
let me go.
Like I cried to let you go first.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
•
Your love is as sweet as the sugar,
That I've been addictively indulging,
For so many years.
*Every piece of you,
Is just the most gratifying that I have tasted!*
But when together we've been drowned with tribulations,
You just gave up rapidly...
And dissolved!
*Integrating and going with the flow,
Of those torments and allurements,*
Now where are you?
You are now a part of those afflictions that drowned you,
I can still taste your sweetness,
*Every time I sip through the trials,
That we've face,
Resulting to weaken your knees,
And been defeated,*
I was totally in great pain,
To know that your love,
Can be just greatly surmounted,
By miseries in life,
But what can I do?
I fight, you relinquish,
And until then,
You just become a memory,
Of an achingly baleful chronicles of my life.
© Earl Jane
♥ E.J.C.S.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
My heart achingly yearns for a time which never was.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
Falling,
Falling into the black.
I am encompassed by this darkeness.
It has dimmed the depths of my soul.
I have run,
and the further and further I go
I realize how I am achingly alone.
Fading away
Into the haze of bleakness.
Someone catch me!
I’m falling too fast.
I’m so afraid
That I’m not going to last.
Nov 1, 2022
Nov 1, 2022 at 8:56 PM UTC
.
*Pain should be written beautifully,
achingly displayed upon a page.*
© Pagan Paul (20/06/19)
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 3:42 AM UTC
Dear Maggie Grace,
I find you to be a phenomenal poet. I want to recognize, acknowledge, and express my admiration, for all of your marvelous work, you are a beautiful part of this site and I have selected some of my favorite lines from your work. It is all really spectacular, and I have put my interpretations and thoughts below each poetic phrase you wrote:
Drinking my cold chai tea,
Tears falling endlessly.
-Maggie Grace
This is so vivid and genuine. The reality and physicality captured by these lines is fascinating and incredible. The description of the sensory so simply yet brilliantly put. I love your style of poetry. Also, chai tea is amazing. ;P
“Yes, I’m fine,”
And people believe me,
-Maggie Grace
You bring to focus such an achingly relatable topic. To be so indescribably not fine, but to say it anyway and to have people believe you, it is a unique and unpretty type of pain.
Weaving their web of lies,
Their pain they hide.
Don’t say hurtful things,
-Maggie Grace
I love, love LOVE these lines “weaving their web of lies” such magnificent imagery WOW! And the message you convey is such a vital one. To fight against hurtful words.
Save the teenage girl,
she needs her life,
she needs her everything,
stop bullying.
-Maggie Grace
Bullying is such a global, agonizing problem and you have truly snared the essence of the anguish of being bullied. You are an excellent poet.
I like to wander in the snow, and think about things, like you.
-Maggie Grace
You paint a picture with words here, and so many of us can really connect with that sort of feeling, a pensive mood, pondering another soul in this world. The setting you provide is lovely. “To wander in the snow” how delicate and beautiful.
Maggie Grace,
Thank you for blessing Hello Poetry with your presence. I am proud to call you a fellow poet, I could really feel your soul in the poetic pieces you compose and you have a beautiful soul from what I can tell. Keep writing, because you are a credit to the art of writing. :)
Love Ember Evanescent
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
With my windows tenderly open,
the moonlight, a pale marble phantom I admire
The dark light rests beside me,
unveiling a vivid urban gleam
A jet black silhouette transpires
He whispers in the dark
Porcelain lies, radiant yet feeble.
His words achingly deceive
the lights that disdain me;
belittling my affectionate delusion
Pitch dark silence, I weep as I grieve
My tears filling in everlasting secrecy of
this tragical devotion blurring out the stars
You speak with a passionless passion
Yet my world doesn't fall apart-
It makes the whole universe perish.
That night, the stars seemed to blemish.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC
Allegiance
Hot biscuit of cheesy pleasure
come hither
I shall greet you with parted lips,
lust apparent in every cell.
don't shy away-
for you are mine alone
to savor ,
this achingly empty basket
soon awaits my
lonely countenance.
***************************************************************
Laine G and I shared a common love of Red Lobster cheese biscuits , after a visit to the doctor , my friend was told her cholesterol was too high, and she would have to cut way back - I wrote this for her :
*******************************************************************************
Sworn Enemy
Cheese- riddled biscuit denial
discs from Hell
demand my unwavering allegiance
no more
for only in my dreams
are you innocent.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
And over the specks of dust and rose-colored evenings,
in the melancholic fate of soliloquy;
yet as wretched as her soul be, her very first breath was, “Have mercy.”
The pale, starry-eyed of April’s sky ends, and it’s pouring; the trees are swaying in their places; the sun is impressed by the rising of the lilies.
Daunted by the ray of light, quietly caressing its innocence.
She looked over the moon, as if it were painted by someone she knew.
In hope, she clenched her fist and whispered again and again and again.
Like the petals of dried daisies fallen from the moon.
She knew it’s written on the stars; someone knows her name.
The airy summer between spring and March’s language, an imprecise grief of longing,
a desert of bones starved on
an ethereal ghost of past summers and the sickening void of the night sky,
she needed to endure
something in her holler with violence—some rage kept on the other side of her old pillow.
And yet it’s still written on the stars—someone knows her name.
Where the river flows, she follows.
In hopes she’d be directed to the one who wrote her;
achingly believing she’s the muse this time.
Who else could have written her the way she is?
With her eyes the same as the earthly sand,
her lips alive in light gray, with the way she lit up when the moon reveals himself to her,
the sea pushes upon the land as if it were longing to kiss her weary feet.
With the way her hips dance when she walks, when she closes her eyes, only she can hear her author’s note at the back of her heart. Slowly yet surely whispering, “It’s written on the stars. I wrote your name, my love.”
And so she follows the flow of the river, faithfully locking her eyes in the waters' steepness. She gently brushes the cold river, and so it quietly blushes at the thought of her.
That someone like her was cared for enough by her own artist.
Apr 27, 2024
Apr 27, 2024 at 8:57 AM UTC
Flawless frequency
How can you conceive thee?
Dripping into each piece
Sweet moonlight cry
Fluid honeycomb high
Sensational pulsating glow
Genuine in each
Subtle divine reach
Each way unknowingly perfect
Unexpectedly urgent
Long lost and forever found
Soulfully free and heart achingly bound
Blissful blues
I found you
Flawless frequency
You move thee
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Hundreds, no thousands
Regardless, a crowd
Pulsating, flowing
So achingly loud
Ripples against me
So close to my skin
Coming apart now
I’m screaming within
Obviously many
I’m never alone
So very lonely
It chills to the bone
Speak, hearing echoes
Reflect from white walls
Stretch to forever
Like long empty halls
Mouth may be moving
I know I’ve made sound
Nobody hears me
There’s no one around.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
I’m not me anymore. I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do, can’t be. I am still, and silent, and sad. So achingly, horrifyingly sad. Everything hurts, but nothing hurts at all, because I’m absolutely numb. I curl up and try to keep all of everything inside of me from falling apart. I don’t even want to open my eyes.
Why is winter my kryptonite?
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
The temporal beauty which fades and falls,
vigor of body that to vale gives way—
dissolutions of bloom—have much to say,
as life’s costly sermon achingly calls:
“Put not your heart’s hope in gifts eyes now see
nor set store by charms easily broken.
Vibrant buds o’er which praises are spoken,
erstwhile by Fall, forgotten shall be.
But in Christ waits sure glory eternal
and by loss here that beauty there’s gaining
its resplendent weight, e’en now attaining
through Jesus intimate gem troves internal.”
God’s wisdom turns decay and frailty’s gruel
into a Homeward driving kind of fuel.
May 24, 2022
May 24, 2022 at 5:39 PM UTC