I sit alone where the gravestones moan
And wicked winds wail wild
Where willows weep and shifting shadows creep
And the dark is deep and defiled
Ghostly sighs where the lantern light dies
Death spoke my name in a sable rain
With a voice both grave and grim
Tapped his bone on the cold gravestone
As a pale cold hand pulled me in
For the grave is wide where the dreamers hide
And the dead are buried deep
There’s a place for me in the Stygian sea
Where the restless spirits roam
And the night is kind to the weary mind
When the Reaper calls you home
"The earth has music for those who listen."
- George Santayana.
....................................................
The rhythm on tree backs from woodpeckers' knocks,
With rustling of leaves as the trees moan in winds,
The roar of the falls down the hills thrills the flocks,
The whistling of gusts through the space in our minds...
Nature conducts its melody soft yet grand.
Written for the contest: Write Five Beautiful Lines
Contest Judged: 3/14/2025 9:53:00 PM
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Placement: 2nd
No highlights today
My family's away
I miss them more than I can say
So, why do I moan ...
When they are home
~ I've no time for a poem
Poetic mornings
loose verses whisper in moans
broken hearts voices
I
As some on God's good Earth
Arise at a new dawn, I'm grateful
Even to talk with friends I haven't met
Joe called them "myself," & on the internet
II
I say God Morning, for so many reasons
One: God adds another 'o' to make GOOD
I say Our Father (Holy is Thy name) prayer
Two: Start positive! Prefer mood of gratitude
III
In ones sixties, one oft gets up in pain
I thank my Savior, its but a little cross
I bear nothing compared to His! I gain
What Adam lost: If I pray, I won't complain
(Maybe just one of each, later, a moan & a groan!)
I hate what I see
I hate what we’ve become
Squeeze the poorest on poor street
So the rich have more fun.
Seeing homeless soldiers on the street
The cash that I have I give
What the hell have we become
When a veteran needs this to live?
I hate the power and I hate it’s greed
I have no words for Johnson
He’s brought the poor and the weak to their knees
I hate what we are
Me, me, me,me,me,me!
People who are suffering right now. No money, no hope. A broken society.
We grieve for our lost ones.
We should not have to grieve for the lives we live!
Our ancestors fought and died for their beliefs.
We just change channels when we don’t like what see.
I hate what we’ve become.
For God’s sake, what the fu#k are we?
From the moment my fingers traced my skin
Til the second I moaned,
It was your face on my mind
For 'Be Mine' Contest by Regina McIntosh
The tired moan
I’m tired of being tired
I’m tired of all the pain
I’m tired of all the lies and hate
And crying in the rain
I’m tired of acting happy
When deep inside I’m sad
And other people telling me
Be thankful for what you have
I’m tired of the TV telling me
You must try this or that
This will make you beautiful
And this stops you getting fat
I’m tired of all the bad news
Of wars, famine and disease
It seems like half this universe
Has fallen too it’s knees
I guess the other option is
I could be six feet under
And given these two choices
Do you even have to wonder?
Happy birthday, Sister Hazel,
The beacon appears in the sky;
Let this moment be fine and well,
Without tears of moan from your cry.
Topic: Birthday of Hazel Rondolo(March 07)
If a drop of tear drops when he’s alone, that’s love,
And a sigh sighs and softly does bemoan, that’s love.
A lover carves his statue in beloved’s heart;
If that statue breathes in a lovely zone, that’s love.
A lover may let his heart make a sigh-tempest,
Yet if he can tame gently that cyclone, that’s love.
A dark cloud labours with vapors yet with no whines;
If she rains like a cascade with no groan, that’s love.
I saw a doe drive a deer from a grassy zone;
If he can sing, letting her own that lawn, that’s love.
Sky sobs slow at dawn when stars sing their farewell song;
If stars kindle a moonless night alone, that's love.
A teardrop grieves, bewails and moans in poet's heart;
If he breathes and makes it a poem - known, that’s love.
Syllabic count: 12 syllables in each line (Ref: www.howmanysyllables.com)
*A 3rd Place*in the following contest (judged on Oct. 3, 2020)
Sept. 12, 2020
Ghazal Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
Tried and tested by a virus, novel
I sit by the hearth of my lowly hovel
Taxed some more, without relief
Our kings, of their infallibility, grow in belief
Stimulus packages to the Lords
Home based care for the lowly sods
Dynastic games they play
The masses can only moan and pray
Umbilical moan trance
Craves a moonlight transcendence
Aurora prisms
You are gagged and bound, seated
In a hot seat among the hard of hearing
Harrowing tales from the trenches
At the deep end of a ravenous beast
A narrowing outlook, hope fading
Shape shifting fiends on the cliffs of sleep
Captured drifts shaping up to squeeze
Harassed by the wail of the haunt
You cry within reach of eardrums
Albeit all wearing earplugs
Wallowing, itching skin turning sallow
You are reminded of the sordid detail
The devil in it too hard to swallow
You reckon it's the lunch in your throat
That crouching shifting restless toad
You are not alone but on your own
Roasting in the heat of your moaning
Voice within a crowd of voices making noises
Choir of soloists, yet never about choices
You were placed where you were placed
In a furnace of dreams from dusk till dawn
Never warned that you were in for the duration
This bed’s supporting limbs
do not sleep like the log
they were cut from.
Dreaming of that splintering
they mourn when I move,
remembering leaves
and caressing breeze.
Now down for the count
and holding a heaviness
of flesh and bone,
they can only moan.
aah…
you say
a tensed note
almost unheard
but in that one moan
time comes to a standstill
for rapture forgets the past
needs no future to give it hope
it simply is, expands, fills, abducts
takes us to an edgeless place and beyond
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