"mourne" poems
a poppy is a flower for rememberance day
to remember those who died who gave there lives away
remembering there courage they gave to make us free
giving us a future that they would never see.
now we have the poppy that we wear with pride
to remember all the soldiers and the reason why they died
just a little flower that we all adorn
remembering the brave as we gently mourne
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
Across the ocean's dome,
Controlled by piercing shouts without a doubt;
On an altar in the distance:
An open book with censored words!
Tear a page,
Observe the rage.
Not what any freedom fighter would.
In a rowboat in the open,
Draw the source of their devotion.
Pencil sketch the jagged beard,
And stretch the nose a thousand years.
What a time to strike some fear!
The terrorists will echo with madness,
The pen is your sword.
The innocent will run to the forests,
And the artists make war.
Across the desert homes,
Contained by giant seas to some degree;
In a planetary orbit:
A crying team with crooked teeth!
See the page,
The winds enrage.
Not what any freedom lover should.
Bullets charge at the comedian's door,
Burning down all the carpenter's lore.
Sculptors mourne over severed stones,
The innocent turn, yearn, learn...
The invasions form, warn, and burn.
As the terrorists echo with madness,
Hold the pen as your sword.
As the innocent run to the forests,
Let the artists make war.
Throw the drawings ashore!
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
I believe… that the night hides abyss of silence,
fleeting butterflies swirls and bends over my eyelashes,
gloomy shadows, shuddering cavalcades of emotions,
the seed of light breaks down the tangled paths of life …
I believe... that nostalgia has the perfume of a rainbow
what strikes the unwritten verse between my lips,
with withered sounds resonating on the alley of life
the noisy clinker wants the world to amuse ...
I believe... that the water's murmur reflects bulbs of light,
the sad dance of the autumn cuts the road to ruins,
the trembling forest, dry, now deeply broken,
wants to mourne in front of heaven, making things right ...
I believe... that springs will mirror in the quiet waters,
the serene sighs will once whisper my name,
to disturb the calm of warm hours with a charming smile,
to turn on the desire with his mouth hungry for love ...
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 12:24 PM UTC
Lineman
You ride the poles of my
electric memory. I feel
your grip on the wires
of my need.
I mourne at last your
absence. The pulse
Is faint now. You will climb
the last time soon
to dry the lines, wipe
the torn wires
and stop the
pulsing
of
your
aching name.
The pounding code
of a life
overturned.
Caroline Shank
Jul 26, 2022
Jul 26, 2022 at 3:53 PM UTC
I like being busy
There's no surprise in that,
It's the only way to survive and make the voices quiet that argue in my head.
I like being busy
It's the only way I've known,
To burry down those feelings
That keep on surfacing on their own.
I like being busy
I enjoy being burnt out
Because that's how I muffle the agony from the bleeding cut.
I don't want a moment of silence
Because that's when
The voices in my head are
The loudest.
They Mourne, they agonize, they miss,
They sympathize.
And then all I have is this burning feeling which is
The darkest.
Dec 20, 2018
Dec 20, 2018 at 3:15 PM UTC
I'm sorry I had to leave you, brother.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not by your side, that November evening when mother took her last breath.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not with you by the side of fathers bed, that April night, when cancer carried him away.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not present to enjoy the beautiful moment you made me an uncle, that sunny day in June.
Brother, I'm sorry I could not be there to give you a hug
when she left you that cold December noon.
Brother, I'm sorry I was somewhere else, and let you mourne alone, that dark January morning
when the fever took your little baby boy.
Brother, I'm sorry I was not there to stop you
that foggy February morning you decided to take to an end.
But brother, ever since you were 6, and I 10
I've been waiting for you here
Here to welcome mother, the day she slept in
Here to greet father, when cancer delivered him
Here to take care of your little boy
Here to give you that hug you need, and to tell you I know, because I've been in your heart, all the way
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 5:38 PM UTC
Pour me another, to recess we go,
Tender the whiskey or beer in my hand
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Hazard as high as perception is low
Don’t tell my mother, she won’t understand
Pour me another, to recess we go
Scars are clothes-covered and flesh wounds don’t show
Hide all my bruises, pretend that I’m grand
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Don’t call my mother, she won’t want to know
More to these feelings than she would have planned
Pour me another, to recess we go
Call the Mourne Mountains, and rosin the bow
Rattle the bog and the black velvet band
Pour me another, to recess we go
Don’t tell my mother, she still doesn't know
Sentiment-soaked more than she could withstand
Pour me another, to recess we go,
Feelingless furlough with barleycorn glow
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:56 PM UTC
i watched the eagles fly on the moutains of mourne
along the mountain side in the early dawn
hovering high above flying wild and free
with there sense of freedom watching over me
with the mountain dew scattered all around
across the mountain side covering the ground
high up in the sky hovering high above
warms my soul inside fills my heart with love
brings a sense of freedom makes you want to smile
takes away your worries if only for a while
floating in the sky as gentle as can be
flying with such grace with a life so free
such a peaceful feeling fills your heart with pride
puts your mind at ease warms you up inside
flying over head high up in the sky
watching over me as they gently fly
all along the mountains in the early dawn
flying wild and free bringing in the morn
with the mountain dew scattered all around
across the moutain side covering the ground
with there sense of freedom flying wild and free
fills your heart with love warms the soul in me
flying over head high up in the sky
watching over me as they gently fly
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
As the terror of night fall tolls,
Waiting with baited breath are the drones of something wicked.
We best lock the doors, cover the women and children.
The sun sets, and at last you flood in as the armies of pure horror.
Your weakness is the incessant beat of slick wings.
No single one of you bares mercy for the light,
It be the first thing slaughtered.
And through the night you find the cracks in houses your grotesquely large bodies can manage.
No head of hair is safe from the wrath.
Yet the worst part comes morning,
When your remains cover street corners and tables,
And we are left to mourne the dead for you.
Must you show no respect, no compassion for mankind?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
Do not fret beautiful one..
You are not alone in your sadness, in your "missing"..
I miss them too. The profound emptiness that I sometimes feel directly inside my chest...Like now, is proof of that.
I often mourne the loss of being able to call them, or to hold them..or laugh with them, or to tell them how much they meant to me..Or,..Or...
"Hey ma..You remember that time you asked me if I would give my bike (my cherished, beloved, midnight blue, big-boy bmx bike ) to the struggling mother you had befriended, so she could give it to her son for Christmas?
I do.
I was six..Or seven, and it was the moment my young mind was first introduced to selflessness..To kindness, to compassion...to love. WHAT...a moment indeed.
Sometimes I play the "I should've game"..or "if only"..."if only"..
If only.
******* hindsight.
I know the missing of them will never go...And I don't want it to.
They..."the missing"..are the gifts of our life. The main characters to every chapter of every story that has made us......"us". The moments we shared with them, were like little seeds..
Seeds Planted by their friendship, by their love.. by our togetherness. And I find, when i nourish those seeds, sometimes with sadness, sometimes with happiness. Sometimes with anger....always with love..
Then those seeds, Those "times"..Those "gifts" they left in us in the form of memories..of moments...
They begin to sprout, and with the sprouting, the sadness, The loss, Starts to turn...into a deeply profound sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the truth.
Because the truth is....
We were so incredibly lucky, to have loved them, and to have been loved by them..in the first place.
Because those moments, well...They Made us.
Every single time I am kind, or make someone laugh..Or think..Or feel. Everytime I struggle, and am beat down, and have no ******* idea how to go on..
In those moments....i remember.
I remember their smile..Their comfort, their strength..
I remember the bike.
I remember everything. And they.."the missing"..give me what I need.
In our memories, in those "seeds", they are alive and well. Within us they're essence thrives, and in that place..They are free. And we, we are grateful. Because to dwell in the sadness, is to dishonor the very gifts they left Within us.
No beautiful one, the truth is...They never really left.
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
Flowers are blooming
a sight to be seen
on the day we were born
Flowers are glooming
with passing of ages
it's time now to mourne
Flowers are crying
in tears of regret
for the words never said
Flowers are dying
down with the coffin
in a dead man's bouquet
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 11:45 AM UTC