"grieves" poems
If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,
And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.
The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.
No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.
53.9k
music lives
music breathes
music loves
music grieves
music courts
music shouts
music wins
music pouts
music grows
music clings
music clicks
music rings
music sings
music sighs
music weeps
music dies
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 9:26 AM UTC
The nakedness of winter lies heavy upon
the tolling Sunday quietude
Shed leaves perish into yesterday
and the dream of another
dawning someday wanes
The sun ― lay low
the drudging ashen skyline
Barerd emerald moss scaffolds
draw much more distantness
to the pallid shadowed horizon
The evergreens step forth,
roots grasping sacred heart,
soil and rock
In the swelling aloneness
you can feel the grain
of the heartwood
rooted in your soul
There are no hard feelings
but there's an enduring ache,
like a tree with a rotting limb
languishing within
its blackened bark sacrifice
It's not just the grinding time
that slips away begrudgingly;
more of the same takes a toll
as if another unrung belfry hour
in an empty bell tower
without a song rang out in vain,
peeling reflections
of reluctant hours c r a w l by
in the insensible apathy
A so called holiday passes ―
its footprint bears down
hard and deep
as if a paling winter rose
grieves its own passing
A dry wishbone unbroken
lay bare the poignant
truth it holds;
it takes two to make
this wish come true
.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six
feet from the house ...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more
books;
the son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no
more bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a
party, and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls
leaving the church.
It will not come closer
the one inside moves back, and the hands touch
nothing, and are safe.
The father grieves for his son, and will not leave the
room where the coffin stands.
He turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.
And the sea lifts and falls all night, the moon goes on
through the unattached heavens alone.
The toe of the shoe pivots
in the dust ...
And the man in the black coat turns, and goes back
down the hill.
No one knows why he came, or why he turned away,
and did not climb the hill.
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This sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
The day, though bough with bough be over-run.
But with a blessing every glade receives
High salutation; while from hillock-eaves
The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun,
As if, being foresters of old, the sun
Had marked them with the shade of forest-leaves.
Here dawn to-day unveiled her magic glass;
Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew;
Till eve bring rest when other good things pass.
And here the lost hours the lost hours renew
While I still lead my shadow o’er the grass,
Nor know, for longing, that which I should do.
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Falling petals and curling leaves,
Withering decay and a heart that grieves.
From the soil, a new life grows.
Born from all the dreams she sows. 🌿
Jul 18, 2023
Jul 18, 2023 at 1:41 AM UTC
In a white book, writing was done with tears,
And so we cannot figure out a single line;
Memorized and though about since early youth,
It eludes one’s wit even as one has aged and greyed.
When mind seeks it out, love turns up in the heart,
When heart pursues it, love is in the mind, escaping wit.
Regarded at close range, love dissipates,
Leave it aside and love turns sad and grieves.
When loving is intense, love resists the long wait,
Like a lightning bolt, it streaks across the dark.
The kiss that sears is a kiss given only once,
And when the river swell, only once will flooding rise.
Love that is timid is a river still and currentless,
No falls nor torrents, no tears nor unbearable loss!
But when love has dared, the heart is swept away,
Honor, wealth and wisdom, love will drown them out!
When love is yet a bud, it heeds an elder’s counsel,
Such is not yet love, for it still sees the light.
But when it bursts aflame, what matter the universe —
That’s real love, so lose yourself in it with all your heart.
When you balk at the threat of ill fortune and hazard,
Truly your wit is lit and your mind at dull alert;
Your love is cautious yet, you have not
learned to really love,
For once in love, the grave itself is heaven’s gate.
Love has eyes, love is never blind,
having learned to love, one’s wounds turn into blossoms,
Love is selfish and cannot bear to share,
It’s either you get it all, or get nothing at all.
“Mother has been watching me, so I cannot write..”
Friend, that’s a sign you have yet to win her love.
But when she dares write even at her very grave site,
She has come to love you more than her very life.
All you, young people. who are in quest of love,
Moths who are fluttering around the lamplight,
Once in the grip of love, danger you will seek out,
Ready to love your wings to the very flames of love.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
Falling leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another
like a funeral party uncertain where
lies the lost loved one it grieves;;
Time and wind tug on the memory
left in this absent minded cemetery
no one comes visit but weather and me
and the dead lying under the trees
have stories nobody can read.
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
~~<@>~~
The tears of a rose
Will soak and stain
They're from her heart
They're stored up rain
They come from heaven
To flow down thorns
They sing in screams
From her lips torn
They can be acid
To burn the bloom
They can be crystal
Reflecting moons
The rose will open
In dead of night
The tears from petals
Refract the light
They cascade down
Drop from the leaves
For her soul
She sits and grieves
For her soul
The drops fall down
They feed her roots
Under the ground
They bring her back
The legend goes
There's healing in
Tears of a rose
SøułSurvivør
(C) 10/3/2017
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 4:35 AM UTC
I’ve been told by a friend to wait here.
As long as I stay here, you’ll be back past five o'clock.
I’ve waited—you came and opened the door.
It’s true; now I will dedicate my nine lives to you.
"She drinks her tea by midnight and lulls herself to sleep. You should waggle your tail and lie beside her. Every day except for Saturday." My friend laughed rigorously when she finished that statement.
“Why can’t I play with her every Saturday?” I asked her, trying to grasp her evading eyes.
"Just because," she shrugged and tried to climb the tree.
"Wait!" I hissed, but she’s nowhere to be found now.
I did everything she told me to do. Eat my food past lunch, play with my worn-out toy, and wait for her to be home.
At the exact moment the cruel sun rose and the light hit my body, I waggled my tail and lied beside her. Unfortunately, I forgot it was Saturday today.
I called her name, distinctively meowing in a weird manner. I cackled slightly; she wouldn’t understand. Biting slowly with her calloused hands and licking the side of her face, she still won’t wake up.
And I meowed until there was no sound left of me. My dear Celia, wake up, for you have to give me food now.
You still need to bathe me and play with me at the park. We’ll still wait for the night to come and watch TV.
Oh, Celia, I’d still spend my nine lives with you. Where have you been since I slept last night?
I’d still wait for you here at the table, near the window. Where the trees dance the delicacy of their sickening leaves. Oh, how we both hated the crispness of those brown leaves.
Oh, how you knew how much I hate autumn and how much I undoubtedly love the breeze of winter. The screeching of the winds and the snow falling onto the ground, where we both scrutinize its unique aspect. We were the same.
How you were covered in snowdrops, and you’d throw me inside the snowpack. I’ll hiss, and you’ll laugh.
"I told you not to play with her every Saturday," my friend whispered, almost with a faint cry. There was a hint of longing in her voice.
"You haven’t told me the answer, Ong."
"She grieves in her dreams, my friend. He visits every Saturday, spends a day with her, and goes home at exactly midnight. She’ll wake up tomorrow, bud," she answered in agony.
Who's he? " I turned to her, but she vanished once again.
Celia, I will love you for the rest of my nine lives. I’ll wait for you tomorrow. It’s okay to grieve for now.
I’d still wait for you here at the table, even though it’s autumn. We both got to accept that winter is already over.
It’s my first life with you in autumn.
Sep 9, 2023
Sep 9, 2023 at 3:10 AM UTC
Thirteen roses in a row
Red rain falls,
Don't you know
Down the window
Pain it goes
In the gutters
Through the nose
Where's the thunder
When it flows...?
*(Chorus)
Wrapped around
The gauze that's stained
What difference snow?
The same as pain
When it melts
It's just rain.*
Withered flowers.
Falling leaves.
It's a howling in the eaves
It's the cult the
Maimed believe
No one cares.
No one grieves.
Cover up.
Long jeans & sleeves.
Razors are a water slide
On track like
A carny ride
Over arms & over thighs
Release all
The pain inside
(Chorus)
It's an ocean
Where we sail
A coin that can be
Heads or tails
A lover's letter,
Or junk mail
A piece of garbage.
Holy grail.
(Chorus)
SøułSurvivør
(C) 7/23/2017
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 12:07 PM UTC
Blandly mother
takes him strolling
by railroad and by river
--he's the son of the absconded
hot rod angel--
and he imagines cars
and rides them in his dreams,
so lonely growing up among
the imaginary automobiles
and dead souls of Tarrytown
to create
out of his own imagination
the beauty of his wild
forebears--a mythology
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate
his gods? Waking
among mysteries with
an insane gleam
of recollection?
The recognition--
something so rare
in his soul,
met only in dreams
--nostalgias
of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured
losing their injury
in their innocence
--a **** a cross,
an excellence of love.
And the father grieves
in flophouse
complexities of memory
a thousand miles
away, unknowing
of the unexpected
youthful stranger
bumming toward his door.
New York, April 13, 1952
3.4k
October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.
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The sky was
cloaked
in gray.
the clouds
were weeping.
As I walked today,
tears began to
fall on me—
and they made
me fertile.
I saw golden leaves
lying crushed,
flattened
by footsteps
that never paused.
Nature often
held me,
gently even when
she grieves,
And I wondered—
If God had told us
That fallen things
were sacred,
Would we
have loved
them better?
Would we
have tread
more lightly?
Seen beauty in
their break?
Found grace
In letting go?
Would we
have stopped
Before the
bruised things—
Not out of pity,
But reverence?
On sharp stones
Lay orange
flowers,
Their sleep
just ending—
As if they were
still dreaming
Of the sun.
And in their quiet,
Something
inside me
softened, too—
A stillness,
A small bloom,
A reminder
That even
broken things
wake beautifully.
🌸🍁
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 2:06 AM UTC
5 years ago
A 13 year old girl awoke
Thinking that everything
Was as it always had been
But still, something didn't feel right
5 years ago
The shock of it all
Numbed the 13 year old girl
She walked around in a daze
Everyday was the same
5 years ago
The flowers piled up
The condolences overwhelmed
The 13 year old girl
Just wanted everything to stop
5 years ago
All the problems started
The selfharm; depression
The 13 year old girl
Turned to thoughts of letting go
5 years ago
On exactly this day
I, a 13 year old girl awoke
But everything was not okay
Nothing felt right
5 years later
An 18 year old girl
Grieves the loss of her mother
A 46 year old woman
Who died suddenly
Exactly 5 years ago
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
There was a poet on HP
Who had alot of ♡
He tried to stay
out of the fights
He kept himself apart
He had a love of poetry
He lived for his art.
Talented, he made "the grade"
As "minded" poets do
But he didn't try
to "people please"
And so mean writes
eschewed.
When he encountered
"lesser lights" he didn't
make them blue
But put ♡s on them as well
For their hearts were true.
Time went by... how it did fly!
As if given wings!
He found he had "The Daily"
(When there was
such a thing)
He tried to READ all poets
but could not, everything...
So he decided just to read
The small group
within his ring.
He would NOT be purchased.
He would NOT be sold.
He was TRUE to his beliefs
Of his Faith quite bold.
Not only did he ♡
He gave "thumbs up" as well!
He reposted and was good
In fact, the man was swell!
He had a grateful following
But, as fate is wont
He couldn't keep up
with the load...
Found his health was shot
But he tried to be a light
He tried to give folks thought.
His readership got smaller
It seemed like every day.
He still tried to be genuine
And true in every way
But nobody wanted
him no more
He began to fade away...
Where the
rubber hits the road
He began to PRAY.
If you don't know
who this is,
Replace the "he" with "she"
She believes
And truly grieves
*That poet would be ME.*
♡ Catherine
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC
Beneath that loved and celebrated breast,
silent, bored really blindly veined,
grieves, maybe lives and lets
live, passes bets,
something moving but invisibly,
and with what clamor why restrained
I cannot fathom even a ripple.
(See the thin flying of nine black hairs
four around one five the other ******
flying almost intolerably on your own breath.)
Equivocal, but what we have in common's bound to be there,
whatever we must own equivalents for,
something that maybe I could bargain with
and make a separate peace beneath
within if never with.
3k
streetlight by my side
sees
streetlight by my side
bleeds
streetlight by my side
grieves
streetlight by my side
cries
streetlight by my side
lies
streetlight by my side
tries
streetlight by my side
leaves
the whites in my eyes die
and I am swallowed by the memories
of that lost streetlight
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 8:10 PM UTC
It is not without remorse that I watch you suffer though I tell myself it is for the greater good.
Help would be delivered with a smile if you had an offering but alas you have none.
We commit to making this world a safer and more prosperous place, it grieves us to watch as systematic ****** takes place.
What's the word? Oh yes genocide!
But as the man says 'if you can't pay then we don't take it away'.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
A lone apple blossom clings inside sticky heat.
She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires.
I press my thigh—her fleeting scent, without mine, incomplete.
The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.
She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires.
I spread for her—hot breath, the mirror’s caress, skin wet as dew.
The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.
Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view.
The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars.
Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves.
Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view.
She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves.
Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves.
I touch—visions of her caress—her sighs fall as stars.
She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves.
Alone, I bloom—my arch of ecstasy, lonely as love’s scars.
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 6:46 PM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
2.7k
Twilight's melody rises
mournfully dressed in lilac hues
she grieves for the glory of the primrose sun.
The rise and fall of waltzing starlings
mirror the final breaths of the day
as with glorious mirth they beckon to the silvered chill of the moon.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 2:13 PM UTC
Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
Or if a later sadder love be born,
Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth--
A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.
2.6k