"consoling" poems
Let me stifled by your scent
And drown in your sweet bitterness;
I'll let my heavy lids lay flat
As you take away my spirit
To where you call tranquil and calm.
As my tired shoulders fall gently,
I am filled with your warm caress
Along with nostalgic portraits
Frame by frame running in my head -
Ever vivid and enthralling.
The consoling embrace you give
Alleviates grief and its pang
Even just for a little while.
As I savor your poignant sting,
I can hear my heart as it sings,
"Sorry, but I just can't grow wings."
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
I took your hand and held your pain
close to my heart whispered your name
and shared your joy while all the while
consoling the sorrow behind your smile
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
Life’s moments and happenings are like little thieves
They don’t want any money
They still take it
Putting salt on cracked lips, stealing the warmth of a heart
Sobs resonate in lonely halls
Everything reeks
Of lifeless dust
Even darkness can’t fight them off
Or push away the pain
The cold, swift figures taste like hatred
Longtime friend with the soul of a sister
Offers a consoling embrace
It bleeds good feelings
Now they want our money
Thieves aren’t fair, nor logical
No rhyme
No reason
Life’s a poorly written song
Bad music *****
The bold melody clashes
With its vague accompaniment
We didn’t want them so we welcomed them
‘There must be some way out of here’
Said the joker to the thief
I don’t think there is any way out
The precious tokens of life should be protected
By an army of mindlessly trained children
Who fall in love with the thieves
Whose forgiving minds omit the fear
Thieves call us easy
We are forever sobbing
Cries heard only by past selves and invisible belongings
When we prove we are great
And pass impassable tests
Everything will return
We aren’t capable of such feats
Our memories sing us haunting songs
We cry out with our salty lips
And empty hearts
Robbed of any motivation
Robbed of any care
Robbed of love
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
Good morning body
I called you in for a meeting
because
you can’t sleep again
and I just wanted to tell you
you don’t already seem to know
and no one can read your writing
you already know what you’re wearing tomorrow and you’ll pay the gallery in the morning
and it's all fine
and you’re very much allowed to yawn sigh or take a
deep breath
I know January keeps trying to go on
and on and on and on
like you’re not already over it
a few weeks ahead of yourself
like we’re not all stuck in Deja-vu
despite the fact that it’s fun to type out
soothing repetition
like a hot tea lavender oil or the last smile on the page
like a consoling yoga chant
it’s time you heard this
where are the words you’re hiding?
when you sit down and say you can’t do this again
I will tell you I think this might be growing
it was you under the pile of clothes the whole time
holding the remote
murmuring prophetically in the corner
it was you you see
you already said
you’re everything you know
you’re everything you need
Good morning body
I called you in to talk to me
for us to meet each other
letters to yourself are the new shopping list
or at least
they’re calming to write when you can’t sleep.
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 12:17 PM UTC
Hospice is the rest stop between heaven and earth
They care for you for all your worth
They are with you in your final days
Taking care of you in so many ways.
Relieving many burdens, and helping family and friends
Consoling them till the end.
The care givers are with them thru their pains
And they don’t do it for fortune or fame.
Finding care at the end of life
For a husband, sister, brother, or wife
Or a family member who may be alone or in pain
When needing help there is no shame.
They are health professionals and volunteers
Who help the dying from their fears!
It takes a special kind of person to help others
In their hours of need, and on their help the dying do feed.
A little smile, a kind word, a gentle hand
Are things that they understand!
Let them leave this world with a mind full of memories
And a heart full of love, given from you as they travel above.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
the problem with dorm rooms
is that there are hundreds of
people
se p ar at ed
by paper-thin
walls
never interacting
only existing simultaneously
(which, is a cosmic interaction if you think about it.)
sometimes I lay in my bed
face against a cold paper wall
and I
think: what are these other people doing?
in this awkward layout of beds and desks
in the earlylate hours of the nightday
are some
sleeping frantically working
drunk in their beds laying frustratingly awake
awkwardly masturbating awkwardly ignoring the awkward ************
having cramped sex sleeping in the lounge to avoid said *** being had
crying and homesick consoling a homesick friend
too high to sleep too exhausted to be awake
or are some just as awake as I, wondering sleepily, what I am doing on the other side of the wall?
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
Bare feet
Teared clothes
Eyes with tears
Consoling her fear
She was *****
Broken and burned
Still people taped
Her parents told her
You'll be not married
Nor have kids
It's better to be silent and mild
Her voice being shivered
Shouted! If my words
Will not shout
Rapists voice will be loud
World will make me choose
Tough honor or life
I have nothing to loose
Nothing to loose
People may refuse
May repel my voice
But i being robbed
And justice is what
I wanna eloped ♥️
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 12:36 AM UTC
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,
their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,
while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
3.7k
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was all dreamy, and fabled.
She was brave enough to love you.
She was brave enough to be crumpled to shreds yet fake a smile flawlessly.
She grew on you.
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was graceful and too kind to be true.
She was the daisy of your garden, where flowers weren't just a few.
She loved sunshine as much as the misty moon.
She was ravishingly rhythmic. Forming melodies out of those midnight stars,
adding beats and verses to your mundane mornings.
Your Juliet, your Daisy, your sanguine Sestina
all of them. Yet, nothing better than a reverie.
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was all chirpy and consoling.
Solace was what made her.
Her love was fire, worth burning for.
At times, her eyes form glaciers,
arctic and numb.
At times, she feels worn out and ready to drop.
But, Juliet's audacious to hold on tight yet, taken down by you. Remember, she grew on you.
Juliet, your Juliet.
I grew out of her.
She was delicate but humorous.
Compassion knit her soul together.
You tell her, she is all you ever wanted and is grateful for.
But, the woman lying next to you hears the same.
She was a writer and left you one.
Juliet, your Juliet.
Not anymore.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
FINFIN THE DOLPHIN
Poor Fin Fin, once was Fred's favourite toy dolphin;
But was now sadly rejected; and lying in a dustbin.
Thrown out it was because a drunk servant fed it a little gin.
A small rag-picker boy, picked it up; from the dustbin.
washing it, wiping it; now made it look new and clean.
As he was walking past a river, in it fell poor FinFin.
Sad was the lad, this was really bad; for now drowned FinFin.
A man, consoling him said, "grow n come up one day will, this dolphin".
Come Danny, would daily, our lil boy, to look for his FinFin.
To his astonishment great, one day he saw a big dolphin.
With glee he cried, as he saw it, " look, here's my dear FinFin".
Days went by, with some food, he would daily feed FinFin;
Throw a ball at it, he would n return it back, would the dolphin.
Gathered people now to see this play; giving him money, in a bin.
Happily jump, dance and spin around would, FinFin .
During one such act, along with the ball, fell the lad as he did over-lean.
Promptly picked him up and brought him safely back, our cute FinFin.
Friends for ever they became; lil Danny and our cute FinFin, the dolphin.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 5:18 AM UTC
(Genesis chapter 1:6 and God said: “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water, and let the waters be divided by the water.” I never understood this statement, well not until I wrote this poem).
The ocean.
It’s just a wetter version of the sky
a graveyard' of poetry
that broke into my heart and open my eyes,
and I saw the brightest darkness mirror reading
handwritten dreams cuffing the stars consoling the rain
whom tears laugh
and in that laughter, I hear the words
God hates you
these insulting tears that only once god could hear
now speaks to me with warring tongues
and I had nothing deep to say
just a crushed sentence
a pile of regret
a sky that jumped on my train thought
and we went from an angelic blue to a halo of black.
God, I do apologize if you feel like I have displeased you.
See I have been searching for a weightless god
because the others are too heavy
and too weak like watered down gospel,
Weak like the dark side of poetry
Weak like a religious inside joke no one gets
Forgive me for you know everything I don't
so tell me am I a self-portrait of you and will you promise to
clean ***** lost souls like mine
and will u forgive me for having an enchanted mind
You see I often mistook you for a poem that has never been written
Mistook you for masculine words that became undone
I mistook you for a selfless father that has more than one son
Mistook you for a sky filled with multiple sunsets.
I know nothing of you,
you unseen god
tell me am I of the other god
am I his fleshly creation standing outside my normal heartbeat
and on the footnotes of his story
standing breathing whirlwinds on death ears of soundless music
into the lungs of his bible
The lungs of his heaven that often resembles the blood stains in his hell
blood that flows throughout my veins and into an anthem of sorrow
Sung with broken tongues
sorrow buried in all kind if ancient languages
And I sit in this hell crying with roses
that's been wounded by his thoughts and
his words shoved into each other and I hate this
so much that I stripped down to pain and
I am exposed naked with caution
and I can see that my heart is a jealous god also
an egoistic ghost filled with love I never felt
a love that has no title
a love I am not entitled to feel
and why should I be
When that god knows I am a sleepwalking addict high off of pain
why should I be when that God knows I am as useless as a headless butterfly
When I should be more like the ocean
Yeah just a wetter version of the sky
The human body is made up of 75% water
(So in Genesis chapter 1:6 when God said “Let the water be divided by the water.” Where did that water go? It is in me).
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
medusa can you feel me?
i've become hard of hearing.
medusa can you see me?
or are the slithers interfeering?
medusa i can feel you staring
why is counciousness abandoning me?
daring yet consoling,
this cigarette that i'm holding.
one more hit and im running
one more hit, i'll be glowing.
the fog in my head, medusa , is nothing but healing,
bet you all my ancestors are proud, ever so loving
surprinsed at the vices i'm honing.
medusa our turn always comes, you don't have to worry
we are sentenced allegory
condensed spring scented fury.
medusa spit on me.
i am anything but awake,
anything but aware
kiss my dreams away
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 3:34 PM UTC
A man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps; for there is a companionship of books as well as of men; and one should always live in the best company, whether it be of books or of men.
A good book may be among the best of friends. It is the same today that it always was, and it will never change. It is the most patient and cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness; amusing and instructing us in youth, and comforting and consoling us in age.
Men often discover their affinity to each other by the mutual love they have for a book just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the admiration which both entertain for a third. There is an old proverb, ‘Love me, love my dog.” But there is more wisdom in this:” Love me, love my book.” The book is a truer and higher bond of union. Men can think, feel, and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. They live in him together, and he in them.
A good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out; for the world of a man’s life is, for the most part, but the world of his thoughts. Thus the best books are treasuries of good words, the golden thoughts, which, remembered and cherished, become our constant companions and comforters.
Books possess an essence of immortality. They are by far the most lasting products of human effort. Temples and statues decay, but books survive. Time is of no account with great thoughts, which are as fresh today as when they first passed through their author’s minds, ages ago. What was then said and thought still speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. The only effect of time have been to sift out the bad products; for nothing in literature can long survive e but what is really good.
Books introduce us into the best society; they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what they said and did; we see the as if they were really alive; we sympathize with them, enjoy with them, grieve with them; their experience becomes ours, and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.
The great and good do not die, even in this world. Embalmed in books, their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which on still listens.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
Fading off
into the soft
of the Tangerine Setting Sun
I slipped away
to rest my gun
my battle here
well it is done.
I gotta say
hey girl
you know I love you
so I'll never be lonely
as you are the stars to me
a deep and beautiful mystery
I share you in our history
you are the light I see
the one that I am following.
I am here my dearest...dear,
so do not show them any fear
as I am watching you
as you are consoling the darkened midnight sky
please stop questioning, wondering why
as you look up for a shooting passerby
dry those endless tears
in puddles of sad
I am glad so
I'll just sigh
as this is not goodbye
just farewell my sweetheart
You'll never be alone
my heart it is your home
so take my hand
your life is going to be so grand
I've already planned my love
from up here so very far above
on seeing you again one day
amongst the
showy pink lady slippers we will lay
you will see my eyes of clear blue
and soft grey again.
So you must stay...
go and play
while there's light that shines today
Take up my fishing pole
go back to our favorite swimming hole
I showed you my graceful,
& patient flicking wrists
I gave it one last careful twist
and the fly will softly land and kiss...
the water
There's no maybe
my baby
my crazy
curvy Wildflower girl
as I watch you twirl
as I watch you in the setting Sun
you come undone
in the morning dawn
your tired, sweet and sleepy yawn
as you feel the breeze blow through
your uncombed tangled hair
please take a dare to share
in your beautiful perfection
I know you'll find the direction
live today for me
live today with me.
I can see you
as I stand here at a waiting Heavenly door
in waters clean from Angels shores
you'll know me again
as you did before
you'll know my love
and so much more
I sigh again as the sun is here
as I too am drawing near
..time for me to go so,
make use of today
For you and them, I pray
I am
always
waiting
patiently
forever
and always
with you
...for you. XO
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
On an Ohio vacation, we got the call.
Dressed in a navy t-shirt, and stiff boating shorts
(plucked fresh off a J. Crew shelf just earlier that morning –
I wanted a darker grey)
My mother and I parked by the open grave.
The visitation was packed with strangers.
Stuffy, suffocating almost – I tugged at the new shorts,
coarse, rough-feeling, no time to break in yet –
fibers still unset –
My back hugs peeling wallpaper.
My mother's tears stain my shirt, the salt stiffening fresh fabric –
Baptism. Each tear carves fresh wrinkles, crossing her face like rivers,
slicing into her like canyons. Her hands are childlike upon my shirt,
grasping blindly for anything, her vision blurred, her breath short,
her heart broken.
I peer at the uncovered casket and look at the woman's face.
Thin halo of white hair, skin pale like alabaster –
She is stiff. Eyes fixed, blood cold. Her hands clasp tightly.
Her black cardigan holds her like a piece of glass,
stiff, hard, yet so fragile, threatening each second to crack,
and the sounds of its breaking my mother's muffled cries,
and my hand's rhythmless consoling pats upon her back.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Drowning out through seeping acrylic
Unconventional canvas on a rickety easel
Not even possessing the power to paint
The broken wing of a broken swan
Despite her weakened frailty
She paints
Using her beak, using her feet
The swan finds it consoling to know
That the littlest, infinitesimal purposes
Are purposes
None the same
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:33 PM UTC
He that had come that morning,
One after the other,
Over seven hills,
Each of a new color,
Came now by the last tree,
By the red-colored valley,
To a gray river
Wide as the sea.
There at the shingle
A listing wherry
Awash with dark water;
What should it carry?
There on the shelving,
Three dark gentlemen.
Might they direct him?
Three gentlemen.
"Cable, friend John, John Cable,"
When they saw him they said,
"Come and be company
As far as the far side."
"Come follow the feet," they said,
"Of your family,
Of your old father
That came already this way."
But Cable said, "First I must go
Once to my sister again;
What will she do come spring
And no man on her garden?
She will say 'Weeds are alive
From here to the Stream of Friday;
I grieve for my brother's plowing,'
Then break and cry."
"Lose no sleep," they said, "for that fallow:
She will say before summer,
'I can get me a daylong man,
Do better than a brother.' "
Cable said, "I think of my wife:
Dearly she needs consoling;
I must go back for a little
For fear she die of grieving."
Ask no such wild favor;
Still, if you fear she die soon,
The boat might wait for her."
But Cable said, "I remember:
Out of charity let me
Go shore up my poorly mother,
Cries all afternoon."
They said, "She is old and far,
Far and rheumy with years,
And, if you like, we shall take
No note of her tears."
But Cable said, "I am neither
Your hired man nor maid,
Nor your ape to be led."
He said, "I must go back:
Once I heard someone say
That the hollow Stream of Friday
Is a rank place to lie;
And this word, now I remember,
Makes me sorry: have you
Thought of my own body
I was always good to?
The frame that was my devotion
And my blessing was,
The straight bole whose limbs
Were long as stories-
Now, poor thing, left in the dirt
By the Stream of Friday
Might not remember me
Half tenderly."
They let him nurse no worry;
They said, "We give you our word:
Poor thing is made of patience;
Will not say a word."
"Cable, friend John, John Cable,"
After this they said,
"Come with no company
To the far side.
To a populous place,
A dense city
That shall not be changed
Before much sorrow dry."
Over shaking water
Toward the feet of his father,
Leaving the hills' color
And his poorly mother
And his wife at grieving
And his sister's fallow
And his body lying
In the rank hollow,
Now Cable is carried
On the dark river;
Nor even a shadow
Followed him over.
On the wide river
Gray as the sea
Flags of white water
Are his company.
2.5k
The strangest of things can save you when your mind takes its metrical dive,
Thank the lord for the consoling and tedious frequency of next door's vacuum cleaner,
And the birds have been calling to my soul these days, and forget-me-nots keep me alive,
The dandelion seeds fly on wind these days,
I am saved by their graceful demeanour.
Aug 30, 2021
Aug 30, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)
yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.
I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!
for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...
so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.
that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
I really dont know how much time you have
Your bags are getting lower and I'm loving you a little too late
You're getting skinnier
You've lossed 30 lbs in 1 one month and I think this is your last year standing on earth
I think these are the months to pray
It's a little too late
Don't deny your sickness, when even you know you're ill
You once told my mom you dont pay the consequences here on earth, you pay them in the afterlife
You're paying them now
It must be horrible to live what you were planning to live in the afterlife
You're 25 x2 and I'm the mistake you love the most
Everytime I listen to Guilt Trip by Kanye West I shiver when Kid Cudi comes in
The line "If you loved me so much then why'd you let me go" hurts me so much
I remember you calling me a good for nothing
I think those words have become permanent to my thoughts
I think that's why I saw my self standing in a place for the hopeless a month and a half ago
I dont think I'll ever tell you that I love you face to face with pride in those words
Your figure is starting to become weak, and I'm beginning to worry
It's too late for that, I've come so far with a rope pulling me back
I think I've been walking backwards these passed 5 years
I didn't realize it before then
I don't think I know you well enough
I wish I knew who you truly are, soon to be were
What I do know is that you always pointed at my mother and yelled negativity
Now you're pointing at what grave you want to get buried in
You're paying death in my world you caused hell in
Consequences come in unexpected ways
I guess thats why death is catching you offguard
8 straight years hearing yells I hated
I was tired of it, but used to it as well
I'll always be your son.... dad
I wish things turned out differently
I wish you knew that deep down, I love you
The love you didn't show is slowly tying a rope around your neck
You'll always be my dad, you'll always be the monster I was scared of when I was little
You'll always be the screams of negativity in my ears that keep me awake some nights
You'll always be the July 29th I remember, always
You'll always be what made me who I am now
A suicidal passionate artist
And my friends will always try to defeat my inner war with their consoling words
What they don't know is that you'll always be with me
Even when I'm experiencing success
You'll always be there, to bring me down
And I love you for that..... dad
You'll always be my dad
And I'll always be your son you never showed love to
I love you
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
A group show in a city church.
Nothing religious,
but selections from an evening class
occupying otherwise vacant space:
only a tomb here, an extravagant memorial there.
These are 'advanced' painters,
and decoding their statements,
examining their work,
it's possible to imagine daily lives
where art lives in the spare room.
Lewis paints you know.
After Laura died, and with the children distant,
he did this course in Norfolk - oils I think.
That large landscape in the sitting room is his,
all sky and salt marsh.
Jayne is studying the disorder of ******* dumps,
the contents of skips, what's left after a fire.
Her photographs she prints herself you know.
She says she loves to control the image,
chemically, and you can tell.
And more and others,
their 'work' holding stories,
other worlds of imagination and
depths of looking;
the silent collecting of things,
photograph after photograph,
the tidy sketchbook
(with last week's life class experiments).
And yet and yet
at the group show the finished pieces glow
in this badly-lit corner of a city church
where few visitors venture - but you must see this.
It's good, arresting in conviction and purpose.
This is art without artifice, reticent with meaning,
intense with intention, good, affecting, good
well-chosen tutor-curated;
good enough to come back to.
Consoling? Yes, consoling.
I needed consoling.
It consoled me.
I was consoled.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Well !
To justify the word
"Perfect"
All great artists
Have invested
Some more ink
Some more color
Some more truth
Some more sense
Some more time
Some more endorphin
Some more emotion
To detail
Their perception
Honoring the spirit
With passion to prime
Their enthusiasm
And insight to give
Eternal life endlessly
Consoling their soul
They invest
Nothing more
Aug 19, 2022
Aug 19, 2022 at 9:58 AM UTC
You came into ma life when sm1 else was I dating,
We became friends and it kept on rocking,
But we end up working on unwanted fighting...
U shake ma desk when I was sleeping,
U tease me with ma book when I was reading,
U make me smile when u were annoying...
U call me on ma phone when u were leaving,
U promised to stay touched, abroad u r living,
As u promised..!! Friends we kept on staying..
My feeling grew, on phone we were talking,
U talked abt ur gf's and that's troubling,
I borrowed ma ear n started consoling....
Later got tired and felt ma time wasting,
I end up loosing u and friendship breaking,
I was left alone and kept on regretting...
Some how in life again we started texting,
Ma heart felt it again and starts opening,
I wanted to show ma love and finally proposing...
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 2:15 PM UTC