"widowhood" poems
The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.
I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.
Ring the bells that still can ring ...
You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
That's how the light gets in.
6.3k
Widowhood is not a curse, ladies
Widowhood is ordained by God
Bible and Qur’an teaches about widows
Tamar in the Bible married twice.
Tamar was widowed twice.
God had a plan for Tamar.
Khadija was a widow married twice.
Her second husband was young Mohammed
Allah had a plan for Khadija.
Zainab and Zubaida two sisters
Two sisters bound by widowhood.
God had a plan for Zainab and Zubaida.
Leah Rabin and Jehane el-Sadat widows
Their husband sought peace, they were killed.
Jehane and Leah had no fear, God had a plan.
Widowhood is not a curse.
Widowhood is ordained by God
God has a plan for all widows, have faith.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC
She kept her songs, they kept so little space,
The covers pleased her:
One bleached from lying in a sunny place,
One marked in circles by a vase of water,
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her,
And coloured, by her daughter -
So they had waited, till, in widowhood
She found them, looking for something else, and stood
Relearning how each frank submissive chord
Had ushered in
Word after sprawling hyphenated word,
And the unfailing sense of being young
Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein
That hidden freshness sung,
That certainty of time laid up in store
As when she played them first. But, even more,
The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love,
Broke out, to show
Its bright incipience sailing above,
Still promising to solve, and satisfy,
And set unchangeably in order. So
To pile them back, to cry,
Was hard, without lamely admitting how
It had not done so then, and could not now.
3.2k
In the prologue to her Alexiad,
Anna Comnena laments her widowhood.
Her soul is dizzy. "And with rivers
of tears," she tells us "I wet
my eyes... Alas for the waves" in her life,
"alas for the revolts." Pain burns her
"to the the bones and the marrow and the cleaving of the soul."
But it seems the truth is, that this ambitious woman
knew only one great sorrow;
she only had one deep longing
(though she does not admit it) this haughty Greek woman,
that she was never able, despite all her dexterity,
to acquire the Kingship; but it was taken
almost out of her hands by the insolent John.
1.7k
proud buck
frozen, close
heart in my
cross hairs
I squeeze
the trigger.
nothing
happens
except birdsong
as if
they know
some doe was saved
from widowhood
by a
mystic
misfire
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 4:24 PM UTC
Tribute to Eva Wafford
For all who lost heroes
She entered the dark uncharted waters of widowhood
her son was spared in the semi truck wreck that killed
Her husband through him she was saved and I had a replacement mother
And a guiding light that she was able to provide in spite
of her pain
In your soul freshly the wind of death did blow.
Cold eerie shadows marched against your tender broken heart.
What defense could this onslaught repel agony’s volcanic flow.
Ominous well filled with grief from this weight no relief.
The child the grim reaper did spare.
Only after leaving the body bruised and in despair.
From this broken body drops of mercy started to make the mother well.
I held your trembling frame today this memory rings sweet as a bell.
Streets and houses without number fill the land.
I can’t help when I look to recall memories grand.
Now they are but dreams that ache in the night.
Images that over ride the present in their glory I take flight.
Brush aside caution raise your voice as a trumpet.
They live only in yesterdays even so indelibly they wrote their stories.
We hold our children we cling only a moment as mist on the summit.
Your life Eva continues to build the next generation.
Your voice is heard in the breath of your grandchildren.
Wonders they spin from golden thread, now that you have gone ahead.
Your spirit glows in the fire that warms the house against winter.
Summer’s cool breeze not sent by chance she doe’s tenderly incite.
Death silently said what I already knew.
To me you were always immortal you were bigger than life
Many were the days when the wind of storms blew
Those who know us feel the calm; this is only your life on review
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
Widow
The word itself is dreadful
It has no synonym, only a definition
It has a color, black
It has words
Grief, tears, loneliness, poverty, panic, guilt and anger
Experts abound
Describing feelings
Reciting the most recent stages of grief like a rosary
With the promise that time will heal
Only she feels ignorant, confused and incompetent
Widowhood a club that no one elects to join
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
In widowhood, Mom lived alone
in the house that was her pride.
Though a faded glory to others 'eyes
it still held her dreams inside.
Still, Mom was growing feeble
in terms of strength and mind.
Assisted living loomed ahead,
just past that Christmastide.
So all us children reconvened
to bide our home farewell.
We decked her halls with garlands,
Her doors with Christmas bells.
For years she'd had a tiny tree
placed on a table stand.
This Christmas saw a Douglas fir
which made her home look grand.
We gathered round the Christmas Tree
and raised our voice in song
After a cup (or two) of cheer
not a single note seemed wrong.
Evening came and that tree shone bright-
lights twinkling in the dim.
There were hugs and kisses all around
to Margaret, Clare and Jim.
That was our last Christmas in her home
The last that we would share.
In Memory it is evergreen-
so let me linger there.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 9:38 AM UTC
When people asked
my dear friend,
early in her widowhood,
"How are you doing?"
she would wryly reply
"Waiting to die... and you?"
After all these years alone,
I am not asked that question
anymore, in the same way--
The assumption being
that my grief is a thing of the past.
Most people, I have noticed
Just want to talk about themselves, anyway.
But if asked, I might just say
(with relish at their astonished look),
"Waiting to die... and you?"
Eileen Auger
7/28/14
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
In widowhood, Mom lived alone
in the house that was her pride.
Though a faded glory to others 'eyes
it still held her dreams inside.
Still, Mom was growing feeble
in terms of strength and mind.
Assisted living loomed ahead,
just past that Christmastide.
So all us children reconvened
to bide our home farewell.
We decked her halls with garlands,
Her doors with Christmas bells.
For years she'd had a tiny tree
placed on a table stand.
This Christmas saw a Douglas fir
which made her home look grand.
We gathered round the Christmas Tree
and raised our voice in song
After a cup (or two) of cheer
not a single note seemed wrong.
Evening came and that tree shone bright-
lights twinkling in the dim.
There were hugs and kisses all around
to all my next of kin..
That was our last Christmas in her home
The last that we would share.
In Memory it is evergreen-
so let me linger there.
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
*i'll be bevis, but mind your **** to be butt-head.*
as i say to most girls:
depressed in the teens
eager thailand
for a quckie after...
girl your libido is morbid
enough to sprech greek ******
of the noose:
and i'm hanging, sure i am...
hanging limp...
there's you with a better biology
statistic living into widowhood;
i'll **** you rolling in the grave
like mozart with one of his symphonies
turned into advert / muzak for
a fridge door opening and counting
your calorie intake... or an elevator going
up without aerosmith.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
Light thieves transparently
upon these windows now:
Now clouds migrate
and birches bow into the bowing fields of night
where night and dearth conspire
to fulminate this widowhood,
wild as the smouldering eyes
of the angry child, surprised by the fertile god
that taints the shoot
before the seed has travelled from the root.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
proud buck
froze, close,
heart in my
cross hairs
I squeeze
the trigger
nothing
happens
except birdsong
as if
they know,
a doe was saved
from widowhood
by a mystic
misfire
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 2:16 PM UTC