Poems about Sadness…

Sadness is unavoidable in life. Writing poems is one of the main ways I have used to help me handle these tough times, certainly throughout most of my adult life. Sometimes these poems help me vent my anger, sometimes pour out my sorrow. Of course, poems cannot solve the problem but, for me, “speaking” these words in this way helps me cope with the sadnesses I encounter  and perhaps may even help me heal.

Maybe you have written poems with similar stories or themes that you might like to share with others who visit my website? If so, please get in touch.

 

Open Casket

No open casket for me, please.
I am not inside –
only the shell of my noble,
lovely body which has housed my soul
for over 70 years
(or however long it is by the time
‘my’ time is ended).

What lies there now, without feeling
is my former ‘home’ – one which did me proud
despite the worries present at my birth
and occasionally beyond –
even when ‘self-destruction’ of the shell
seemed to be the only cure for a broken heart.

It faught back – and ‘I’ survived.

The body’s task is over now
let it rest in peace – like me.
For I will live on because of what it helped me to do –
in words left behind on paper or in the ether
in memories of me in your mind and in your talk.

I will live on as long as these.
I will live on as long as the love you feel for me dwells
in your heart and soul – however fleetingly.

Please look away, just remember me with love
for if you love me now
be sure I loved you then

when the ashes in this casket thrummed with life and joy.
And if my soul lives on now and on and on
be sure I love you still.

 ‘Viewing’ someone who has died before they are ‘laid to rest’ can be reassuring (e.g. they are at peace now) or upsetting ( e.g. it doesn’t look like them ); it can be a chance to say a belated goodbye’ or perhaps ‘I am sorry….’ One of the ‘bad’ things about getting older is that we attend more funerals – and are reminded of our own mortality – coming closer – whatever age we are.  Attending two funerals in one week helped to inspire the above poem – and the one below – but also memories of other funerals of other people I loved when they were living – and love still.

To Sandra

I can’t believe you’re not here any more
that your soul has left our lives
leaving all those who loved you
bereft.

You were supposed to be “out of danger”
the operation smooth
your future care was planned
with love.

Tomorrow, I had hoped to get a text again
as consciousness returned
and fitness increased
with healing.

The weather, food, family news
anything was of value
for all showed your faithful care
and love.

Next week I had planned to visit
(after all I would be half-way there already)
and we would laugh about the fright you gave
and marvel at your strength.

We would, as always, compare our worries
about our family, recall shared memories
good and bad, remember those
who had gone before.

But grief now hugs me close, not you
and sorrow numbs my heart.
As I say farewell, dear sister of my soul,
I hope it’s truly “au revoir”.

 My dear sieter-in-law died on the 2nd July 2015. I wrote this poem the day after. We had sent texts to each other on an almost daily basis and had spoken to each other by phone (we live far apart) most weeks since my father died, several years ago. Little things mean a lot.

Dust of dreams

When past and present intertwine
my heart aches, eyes become red heavy sore
thoughts dull in semi-dumbness
secreting words which evoke worlds
dead and gone, when you loved me.

I watch other couples in my secret mind
with envies deep despairing, crying inside
tears disturbing dust of dreams
laid down in time now so long gone it seems eternal.

Will this hollow of loss never end
will I ever learn to treasure most
what I am and what I have
instead of always looking back, desiring
a love which proved not to be ‘forever’.

 

Star Dust

There is no world beyond our dreams
no universe of souls
dead or alive
no oversoul
no consciousness
no god, no heaven, no hell
no life beyond that which we have today.

Visions of the universe show we are
the dust of stars, no more
dreams mere imagination breeding fantasies
to entertain our minds
minds which live only as long
as bodies destined to return
from whence they came

dust to dust.

No spirits whisper in our ears
no echoes from our past or future
beckon to our souls.

The only love we have is here and now
the only hate the same

heaven exists with love returned
hell when love’s rejected

yet both will end
or change in time

when only star dust
remains.

I went to Greewich Observatory earlier this year to see an exhibition entitled ‘Visions Of The Universe’. I saw some brilliantl photgraphs of our world from outer space, other planets, stars and galaxies. The Planetariun show and these fantastic images, as always for me, generated mixed emotions, strong feelings about  our own ‘insignificence’  vieing with absolute awe at the miracles of ‘existence’ which surround us on earth – and beyond?  ‘Star Dust’  was one result of the experience.

Restless

Unsettled
body should be winding down ready for sleep
instead energy trickles through my veins, ice-like
awakening parts which should already be at rest.

My eyes rebel, lids heavy, aching, wanting
closure of the day.
Brain aches with desire for blankness
longing for the voyage to nothingness,
tries in vain to ignore the as yet hidden thoughts
that threaten peace.

Too many images
filter through my mind, taking turns
to stimulate imagination, tighten heart,
evoke soul response to would be memories
dreams not yet assigned to sleeping.

If the night was not so dark and cold, if I felt safe
to wander the streets, if the sea was near my door
I would walk out under the moon and count the stars
listen to wave song, breathe the evening’s air
till sleep agrees to come at last.

As I said, restles …….

My Love Is Not Enough

My love is not enough
my care insufficient
you choose not to love in return
you choose to travel your own path
without me.

My love is not enough.

 

 

Despair
 
What is that
lying in the shadows?

My broken heart.

How I wish I could sleep
to wake no more

in heaven
or hell
or here on the earth.

All my life
I feel

I have been lonely.

Truly I was despairing when I wrote this poem, almost eight years ago. If you want to see what happened next see ‘Rebirth’.

 

January Anniversaries
 
January has too many anniversaries for me:
a wedding (almost), births (at least 2)
a death (my mother’s) and a leaving (mine)
a full complement of joys taken and sorrows given.
So many hopes now sullied by the slush of time
as blankets of deep snow melt like dreams
of forever love and hope – in a reality
where cowardice is confused with courage
my own and other’s.

No wonder I am tired at this month’s end
no wonder jaded
but I am here, still trying, still living, still dreaming
dreams like snowdrops and crocuses
pushing up through earth
waiting for  the Spring.

February is here!

 

How Sad
 
Huang in China
Cancerous tumour grows in your face 26 years
before surgeon’s knife tries to eradicate.
One eye already lost, speech only possible if you open your mouth with hand.
Elephant man, they call you – surely they speak of your heart, your soul
Your courage amazing
Your love overwhelms.

Aileen in America
Dead now, executed because you executed others
for fear, for hate, for love which could not cure your life.
Driven by dreams with no basis in reality, hopeless hopes
but with the courage to keep on trying – until the myth of love died.
Your courage frightening
Your love despairing.

How wonderful that in one evening
I can touch your lives for a while
cross world and time with the press of a button.
I can cry with a mother in China, empathise with a brother’s love.
Hope against hope for healing  – Huang’s body and Aileen’s soul.
Find courage, in myself, to keep on growing
A love which is rising again.

One night, surfing the internet I read about a badly disfigured man in China waiting to undergo an operation which could possibly end in his death but might help improve his life radically; also  a woman who had been executed after being found guilty of several murders, leaving behind a brother who could not understand why his sister did these things but who hoped she had now found peace at last. Perhaps I should have called this poem ‘Empathy’ – in thankfulness for the ways such stories can affect us, positively.

God bless you Pandora

Restless night
Brain resisting sleep.
Memories heavy in my heart
Damming tears behind my eyes

Losses.

Casting around
For distractions to calm.
Poems and sacred writings
To seduce my soul

Ineffectual.

Tomorrow creeps into light
Every second my heart remembers
Sighs for this day too many years ago
Promises of love and joy everlasting

Unfulfilled.

Wedded choices made
Eventually bring death – catapulted urges
Kill faith in change to come
Dreams of love  –  again – again

Doubtful

Blood-ties diluted
Pledges not kept by both
However close once professed to be
Actions are more trust-full than words

Unworthy

Yet surviving

God bless you, Pandora!

 

If I ever get married again, I won’t do it on New Year’s Eve. I wrote this poem on what would have been my wedding anniversary if the marriage had survived.  Never mind, the marriage might not have survived – but I did – thanks to Pandora’s gift of hope.

In memory of

I sat with you yesterday
and once again
mourned our passing

remembered days when we were all to each
when kisses joined souls as well as bodies
and hearts leaped for joy
comfort lived in touch

but the snows of years killed your passion
the frost of fears murdered your eternal love

and I, still with desire to live
am learning to survive
in a life without you

a life a-mourning.

 

Comparing the break-up of a relationship with death, expressing perhaps the difficulty of letting grief take its course.

Post funeral blues

Rain on the roof and in my heart
blowing       breathing        dripping
various patterns
yet insistent.

Rain pours today
in place of yesterday’s searing sun
shining on false peace in neat crematorium gardens
with half-hearted mourners.

Today – for the first time
I wish I had seen his face before his death
before the ashen goodbye.
Wished we’d met to say farewell or au revoir
to the man himself – not just the image in my mind
the memory of my estranged brother.

No use now “if only”.

The life is done
and funeral blues are sung
by those you’ve left behind.

You, now have peace in nothingness
or perhaps you gaze in amazement
at the start of the next adventure.

If so,
I wish you well
dear brother, and hope we meet again
to forgive
in new born friendship
and familial love.

 

My youngest brother died unexpectedly and in tragic circumstances. At the time a family schism had been in place for some years. This poem was my response to the sadness of such separations, the causes of which can seem less significant when the opportunity to heal such rifts is gone forever.

Seven years later

I came across a letter
full of anger full of pain
the rejected and the rejector
illustrated in hot words.

“You have hurt me badly
again and again
so at last I am going away.”

Instead I stayed

walked the stony path a few years more
oft bare-footed, ill and bleeding
paper en-folding
written protestations
which tongue could not utter.

Wrapped in your own sorrow
you were blind to mine
while age stripped your dignity
away, cruelly.

Now you are gone
dead four years and more
but the love remains, strong

a love that still, far outweighs
molten feelings
dressed in words
in a letter unsent
seven years later

now scattered in the ether.

 

I sometimes vent my feelings in words, in poems, prose, or perhaps in letters written to the person I am angry with, or who has hurt me. These letters often remain unsent and are usually destroyed, as soon as the “storm” has passed. This poem was the result of finding one such letter – found, unsent, seven years later.

Tin man

I used to think you were steel
Forged in the furnaces with which you worked
Family rooted in earth, as one.

I used to think that you loved like steel
Everlasting, flame bright and reliable
Always there, never failing
A good man and my father.

I chose to remember the good times
Stories in bed, wisdom shared
Apples thrown over the wall of a children’s home
Daddy’s little soldiers.

But you were just tin all the time
Just polished brightly
False
You were not steel at all.

Now I see behind the gloss that is no more
Now I taste the rust that is love corroding
Now I face the man of tin

Who never loved
Never cared

Except when it suited him.

 

In the “prime” of his life my father worked in the steel mills, making the moulds used in the process. As children, he told us about the steel works, the reasons for the ‘everlasting’ flames from the chimneys and the life of men working there:  the heat, the noise and fumes. Many years later, when our relationship was very troubled I wrote ‘Tin Man’. Now I know he was just a human being – just like me – and he had at least as much steel in his soul as I have ever had.


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