"mournings" poems
You will not see my shadow pass
the gate of mournings eerie dark
Nor hear my voice among the reeds
that grow above my silenced heart
No fondest kiss to furrowed brow
to quell the torment of your making
for you have left me here alone
to sleep the sleep that knows no waking.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
“creamy unto delicious” he marvels and marvelously replies,
when a hazy memory from mournings past asks howz it taste?
this café au lait in a french handleless cup big enough to drown
your bad dreams, just the thing, the A way to start to day, manufacturing schemes to wipe the slate or just add to a long longingly “to never do” list, time frozen, whitened emptily clean, a familiar frenemy
but staying in bed on a beauty of mostly sunny, partly cloudsy day,
is tempting now that he is armed and dangerous with mug gigantic,
doing nothing is so sublime, until a lunchtime of Corona and lime,
reminds you that dinner planning will be needed under the influence of vin rosé, ordering by app so easy, marveling at the choicest array, easy quick under his non-currant existence, wordplay for no-audience
when there is no one there to disagree or temper your eyes appetite,
or bring you café with heart designs in caramel and white, or inquire
howz it taste so you nonetheless reply out loud with tears while wondering how memories live-on, in drinks and catch phrases,
you answer when she no longer, not here to ask, to gentle reprimand,
but answer the answer to everything, with an all encompassing
crémeux à délicieux creamy unto delicious,
reminder to David, you now, king of nothingness, shepherd of no one,
no longer need a real voice to answer unto anything
~for my lover of everything french~
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 9:18 AM UTC
Dreamsicle Mournings:
I mourn your
Warnings.
Early Mornings:
A thorn in my
Rosary-
I’m stuck on the
Same prayer.
I’ve torn my
White wings-
Forever falling.
Forlorn for
Rosemary.
God, get me
There.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC
We sat together.
We drank to our youth
and feasted on the present.
What once wasn't,
rapidly grew to form
a future keen.
We sat together.
We counted each one.
Silently wishing permanence
into a band.
What once brought tomorrow,
now only fades into
the mournings of yesterdays.
We sit together...
But our hearts are wedged far apart.
What once flourished...
Now only ***** weakly in stale winds,
conscious but unalive.
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
Folded into this numb-husk of unknowing,
undeveloped eyes, wrapped by distressed skin,
continue to peer, unseeing, accustomed
as they now are, to a feed of distant
Telegenically Dead. These short lives have been
socially shared and mocked,
as morgues overflow to floor;
impromptu fans recirculating mournings hot air.
There is little chance for grief on Day 13;
rage has to be spent like a brass cartridge
or slung stone, or drowned in red pools
mixed with the water of collective driblets.
Meanwhile a politician says something else.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
My jaw has welded itself shut in an iron grip,
Teeth straining under the load as they are compressed
And ground together,
Aching joint failing to remind me to unclench.
What little sleep I have gotten has also sought to seal my mouth,
Until morning brings with it the sharp pain and popping I am now accustomed to.
Sores line my inner lip,
Pale, stinging pits reminding me how close I am teetering on the edge,
Body clinging to its composure amidst sleepless nights
And adrenaline baths.
A feeling like fire alternately surges up my sternum and over my shoulder,
The taste of stomach acid hot on my burning tongue.
I wonder how long I can keep this up
Until the shoulders , taut with paranoia and effort to keep me safe
Pull my very bones apart with aching muscles.
Perhaps I will be consumed from the inside,
Cracking open the same way my chest already feels.
What am I doing here,
Amongst the memories, the mournings, borrowed time?
I am trying desperately to save her from her certain fate
With love and worry and prayers to her God, the one I don't believe in.
I am also trying to save me, the little girl I used to be,
From the torment I know she will experience anyway,
Wishing fervently I could pull her through time and space
Into a world that isn't trying so hard to **** her for who she is,
The space she occupies unknowingly.
I'm haunted by the mouths of children, the words and hands of grown adults
Who did a thorough job of reducing her to mere mud and human filth.
That girl, young, wide-eyed, desperately lonely and confused,
Burning with self-loathing and pain no one will admit to causing,
Haunts me, climbs into bed and warms her frigid form with my body heat.
I can't save her,
The same way I can't save dying grandmothers or dead friends,
Yet my body is tormented because my mind is tormented.
I am cracking, slowly,
Pieces at a time.
But I'm not so easily bested now.
That little girl built armor and walls and weapons to guard herself,
So I down another cup of coffee,
Pour salt into the sores,
Crack my jaw,
And get back to work.
I have to save myself, too.
Feb 16, 2021
Feb 16, 2021 at 4:21 PM UTC
Cascades of hearts
Entangle these walls
In the early mourning
Their glory calls.
Scarlet red trumpets
That play to the sun.
Singing somber music
Till the mourning is done
They've over grown
My bleeding heart
Destined to die
From the very start
Once surrounded
By forget me knots
But the glory overgrew
And I guess I forgot.
Laid to rest
In a desolate hole
Bleeding heart roots,
My lonely soul
Cascades of hearts
Entangle these walls
In the early mournings
I sing with their calls
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
The struggle is real , very real, you know;
When a mother after whole tiring day
Exhausted frustrated,
Still in the mid night,
lonely deep night;
Feed her child,
In hope to see him grow
And take her all sorrows....
When alone
She bears pain of her sick child
Moulding it on the mount of heaviness
Already she piles,
Still with smile
She look at him with all hope for some newday without lies.....
The struggle is real,
When she smiles for him, where she has to cry,
And this amalgamation of emotions
Drown her in an ocean dry,
In hopes still high
In awe of her mournings,
She will see the bright light
For being alive....
Its still real
When u see her with wrinkled face
Thinking about the distant storm
Worrying about bills ,food ,light,
In between feeding ,sleeping ,working,worrying
She hides in books,
Still having some hopes high...
On one day
She will see her son strong
Like a pillar, as her plight,
And her struggle never goes waste.....
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
I’d blend into the rainbows
If I’d come out in flying colours
Fall with the tides
If I’d rise back in soaring torrents
Fade with the wind If it’d lead me right to you Patience, my tempo
If I’d race up to the crown
Am in a race with my own race
In dispute with my generation
As my mind pace into the space of the nearest future
We danced to a dirge of flattery
Wake up, nightmares could also be reality
I’d be your sun
Help you rise through your mournings
Your nightingale
Play up melodies in your garden
I’d be your artist
Draw your attention to all you love
Your Physician
Treat you right as a Queen
Mismatch
The contours map our world. ..
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 5:53 AM UTC
When first light breaks, the drapes
guard themselves
like wounded children,
whispering
*There is no visible end
on which to latch.*
Hatred shares
a wall with me,
shares
a callous countenance,
shares
a small, collapsing tear.
*Much love to the one who wants it least;
they need it more than most.*
Like rosaries
chanted
in an empty church,
I sing an impression of hope.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Love is a Painful risk to take
Happiness and laughters
Frustrations and anger
Excitement and joy..
Depressions and hate
Peace and traquility
sadness and sorrow...
Red, purple, blue, orange, black, white and yellow....
Adds to the many colors of love....
When love blooms..
a thousand more years,
aint enough to live...
When grief is deep
The world stops to move
And you do not want to breathe.
The more you love the more you feel...
The joy of loving...
The pain of missing...
Hopes and wishes..
Dreams and visions..
Love is strange... you cant see it but feeling is real
the sweetness of togetherness..
the mournings of separation....
love is pain..
love is sweet...
love is bitter
love is hot
love is fire
love is tears
love is happiness...
love is joy..
love is smile
love is wounded heart....
love makes the world go round....
only love makes one smiles with tears brimming in the eyes...
Only love makes one cries but in the heart one smiles...
love is strange...only Love knows WHY.
Ohh how strange love is....
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
One's remembered self;
the clash within one's present
self.
Christmas mournings,
childhood memories
of ripped apart years.
Those life pages
full of thorns
that never seem
to burn.
Circulus vitiosus
linked mental inhibitions
inability to construct
current ability to destruct and reconstruct.
The unwritten soul letters
from the heart sent to the brain.
The thoughts that still wake you up
on days of heavy thunder and rain
inside your head.
They will never rest.
The days you hide from the sun's rays.
The days you walk into complete blackness
to the other side of silence
with the only compass your own will to heal.
Your own will to heal.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
in the mornings
your lips taste bittersweet
lubricating my lips with premeditated longing
and cool passionate sorrows
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
...They bled and tasted
blood
Their own and of their
brothers and everybody else who
have called this land
home
They wept on their knees
for the ground has turned red
and the skies bore a hole that
will never forget the
afternoon when
the robed monkeys came
Screaming, preaching
they uttered words... strange words
Divine, it's what they said but
filled their bellies with
flesh and grains and gold and
souls
Sentiments have gone
a long time ago, not forgotten
For tomorrows never brought the yesterdays
nor their brothers, their lands, their
homes
But the sun, in each rising
only gave mornings of
mournings...
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
MOURNINGS
It is always like this:
waking to a sunless
morning, to a silence
pervading
except for the whir
of the fan nearby.
The pen will lie untouched
on the bedside table,
for I had tried forcing
out words
only to stain the page
with lines, shallow
unfelt,
for I do not know
how to feel.
Or so you said
in the night,
while darkness bled
through my window--
and the text message
that just came in
will remain
unopened,
while your voice instead
eats away slowly
at my brain,
echoing:
yes, i am insensitive,
self-centered, i’ll give
you that,
anything you want.
Yes, i am
mourning dreams
tasting your words
of salt water
on my tongue.
It is always like this.
Dec 15, 2010
Dec 15, 2010 at 6:03 AM UTC
I spring to life some mournings,
only to feel a hint of a warning.
In the cool crispness of the air,
life and death are never fair.
With some passion in my pocket
and a sprinkle of time in a locket.
A suitcase of care, a bag full of fears,
home grown doubt watered by tears.
I spring to life on certain mournings,
only to feel a touch of the warning.
In the cool dampness of the air,
that death and life are never fair...
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Since that day of tear wretched relief
fueled by simple words of release
My mind has been in a fog of self pity.
Pity flamed by the media and doubts hovering so near
That finally broke the surface of my outward self confidence.
Could I be loved again?
Did I deserve love again?
Do I want love again?
Who could love someone else's trash?
Who would want this used and abused body and mind?
Who?
Who?
Who?
The days and weeks and months flew and dragged
In ceaseless toil and endless motion
Despite my frequent protests
My frequent denials
My frequent mournings.
When do these burning doubts extinguish?
When will my mind stop this downward spiral through the rabbit hole?
When will the me I use to know be exhumed?
When?
When?
When?
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
"Hmmm..."
A snipe of thought that sigh my heart
Breaking the cartilage in pieces
Letting the blood drip in torns
Striping me of my smile
Yet I force out one
That stray off in miles
The loose of her suckling child
Throw a hard blow
Right beneath the belt of labor
The look on her face
The ravishing hope
Her smile that lit up hers
All went out dark
Taste of pain saddles
At the right wreath of her teeth
She mourn in silence
Yet,in distress
When she lay to rest
Ewatomi agonizing scream
Tears her bleeding heart
Her dreams took a mare shape
Either night or day
She would yell out of sleep
Searching all corners and nooks
For the dead bear
Her sanity seems flashing out of her
The pain of labor stung too often
Once she murmurs to herself
Twice she gives out a loud sigh
"Ewatomi".. An inscription
That often ends each sigh
And as for me
Who watched her glow away in pain
And fed from her hurt
My heart filled with mournings
I could only repress mine
To help heal ours
For what indeed could be compared
To the agony of labor
And the wrecking pain attached
To not been able to withhold the bear you gave life
Cos the sailing of death's ship
Had visit with a loud bang...
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
The night that twas
thy last of his reign
they seal him off
and more they came
seek his throne replace his name
into the sands of time he lay
with the stars and moons and
the mournings tears become dew
and the stars moon and sun
brought a moment new
he worked so hard
to be sealed in his tomb
inside his mothers silver whom
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
"Good morning", he said, as he kissed me on my cheek.
My eyes fluttered open in a still room.
I smelled the salt of bacon and the sweet of pancakes.
“Jump out of bed”, I say to myself, “for it will be a lovely day.”
"Good morning, honey." I say to him, as he stood in front of the stove.
His beautifully, muscular arms flexed and relaxed while he stirred his morning tea.
He sipped slowly and I embraced him comfortably from the back.
For everything was splendid and positive and peaceful.
18 days have passed and
every morning, that has led up to this one, has been the same.
He wakened me with the comfort of his lips and he cooked me breakfast and he loved me.
But,
on the eighteenth day,
bad news came from his brother.
His mother had died.
He said, "It was too hard to bear."
In the day to come,
I did not receive his soft embrace to get me out of bed.
I received silence, or solitude, or the scorching sting of his slap.
He did not make me breakfast,
nor did he make lunch,
nor did he make dinner.
He yelled and cried and the tea he drank
became *****
then whiskey,
then ***
My mournings became my mornings.
The look of adoration and strength slipped from his eyes,
and from that eighteenth day 'til this one,
his eyes have been cold and violent.
The light never shines in this house,
and it is no longer a home
to me or to him or to our hopes or our dreams.
I love him so and I want to caress him and tell him he can get better from this,
but he has been experimenting with drugs and
hate flows in his veins
and the stench of alcohol consumes his heart.
Help please,
I love him and I can not let him go.
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
Only in the greatest injustice
The greatest martyrs have arisen
To rid the world of the greatest demons
The greatest gods have awoken
The greatest discoveries
Have come after the greatest journies
The greatest joys
Have sometimes come from the greatest mournings
The greatest creations
Came from the greatest toils
The greatest marvels
Have always been the greatest spoils
The greatest war
Has always brought the greatest justice
Only the greatest suffering
Has given the world, the greatest peace
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 10:36 AM UTC
Blended in the quilt were old stains made of mud and painful mournings.
Like chili sauce, caked with tears and mud and storm water.
It was laundry that can only be made
by flowers functions off of sunlight and hate.
A thread made of light, cleared with love.
Love is a solvent, from her lord above.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 9:11 PM UTC
These, my friends, are the beautiful days -
where the dawns consume our mournings,
and the haze which engulfs everything that blooms
beyond this narrow scope of presence,
we will remember never fazed us, facing uncertainty that looms
among our marrow; hopeful tense,
and we will know, sometime, right
now we can't yet grasp for want of knowing
where these paths go, to climb, which height
or which ocean this is we're rowing
We will look back to these moments of obscurity
Filled by pigment as black, today's just gray until maturity,
Until fate took imperfect cracks to fill what's unsure into purity
We will look back and will be proud of who we were in our obscurity.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC