Two aged men, that had been foes for life, Met by a grave, and wept - and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.
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Regret
He sobbed. She wept.
They cried so many tears.
They'd held them in
for too many years.
It was good to feel
the tears all flow.
It lightened their hearts
and let them know
that foolish pride
had held tears back.
It created a wall
and no contact.
What caused the fight?
the memory of it gone.
They faced bitterness
on each new dawn.
He sobbed. She wept.
They dried their tears
and forgave each other
for the rest of their years.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Love lost matters nil.
I had lost my wealth in a gamble; I wept.
I had lost my son in a battle; I wept.
Out of love or out of loss had I wept?
Out of fear or out of need had I wept?
No one ever for the love lost had wept.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Comfort In Tears
How happens it that thou art sad,
While happy all appear?
Thine eye proclaims too well that thou
Hast wept full many a tear.
"If I have wept in solitude,
None other shares my grief,
And tears to me sweet balsam are,
And give my heart relief."
Thy happy friends invite thee now,--
Oh come, then, to our breast!
And let the loss thou hast sustain'd
Be there to us confess'd!
"Ye shout, torment me, knowing not
What 'tis afflicteth me;
Ah no! I have sustained no loss,
Whate'er may wanting be."
If so it is, arise in haste!
Thou'rt young and full of life.
At years like thine, man's blest with strength.
And courage for the strife.
"Ah no! in vain 'twould be to strive,
The thing I seek is far;
It dwells as high, it gleams as fair
As yonder glitt'ring star."
The stars we never long to clasp,
We revel in their light,
And with enchantment upward gaze,
Each clear and radiant night.
"And I with rapture upward gaze,
On many a blissful day;
Then let me pass the night in tears,
Till tears are wip'd away!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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A painful passage
I wept and wept, endlessly wept,
Like of which I have never wept
Save at the time of my mother’s death,
While some sequences I read
Off the book ‘The Blind Assassin’
Of Ms Margaret Atwild, wherein
A little girl, by name, Griffen
Watches speechless the gaze of the mother,
Who is in sick bed, the little sister
Being away at play, quite unaware,
And the mother in her feeble voice
Beseeching her to take care of her sister,
To which she assuredly nods and weeps
At the impending end of her mother,
Without thinking who is there to take
Her own care or that what is in store.
I wept and wept, endlessly wept
As the two little sisters resembled
My two granddaughters, me their mother,
As though their mother is in death bed,
With fear of death looming over my head.
I wept and wept, recurrently wept
When I read, wrote and rewrote
The above passage many a time.
27.03.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Pious Ones
I saw a man so pious that he wept for me
And this meaning was written in those languages;
Nothing of medicine and surgery was committed
On me, for I bleed and am wounded like any man.
I saw a piety in me that wept for him,
On seas of ice we skated to be wise and learned
Throughout our stay on Earth.
The wisdom of a man is superior to his audience,
And so we wept for the One who created us,
Tears of brine destroyed the flames of Hell,
And entered the gardens to fill the pools
That were so much sweeter than they were before.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Loss
The loss of a child
is sadness within.
How do we recover?
How do we begin?
No one can comfort you.
No one can console.
The loss is devasting.
You feel your not whole.
Part of you has gone
to where you can't see.
And the memory it leaves
clings to thee.
The loss is hard,
hard to accept.
Each tear that has fallen,
each tear you have wept
is a chasm of emptiness
that you can't fill.
Nothing can fill it,
not even God's will.
And so we take a step each day.
We move a little slower
and try to make our way
and come to terms with loss.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: LVI
Who has not wept with Manon? Of all tales
That thrill youth's fancy or to tears or mirth
None other is there where such grief prevails,
Such passionate pity for the loves of Earth.
Who has not wept with Manon in her sin,
Wept in her punishment? What angry heart
Has been unmoved in youth to see her win
With those sad archers to the inhuman cart?
Who has not followed her beyond the seas,
And sold his life for her, and bowed his pride,
And sinned all sins to buy her back to ease,
And died all deaths to venge her when she died?
And I, blest boy, who each new happy night
When all was done still lived in her delight!
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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Agony of the old
Had I died as a lad, my parents would have wept.
Had I died as a man, my children and wife would have wept.
Had I died ere my wife, my wife would have wept.
A widower, an invalid, a cumbersome,
When I die who will have wept?
28.11.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Tears not the scale
As a teenage boy I wept most
When my grandmother died.
As an old man I wept least
When my own mother died.
Do tears tell the depth the grief?
Tear glands dry with the aging.
23.10.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Song III
She sat and sang alway
By the green margin of a stream,
Watching the fishes leap and play
Beneath the glad sunbeam.
I sat and wept alway
Beneath the moon's most shadowy beam,
Watching the blossoms of the May
Weep leaves into the stream.
I wept for memory;
She sang for hope that is so fair:
My tears were swallowed by the sea;
Her songs died on the air.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Making Love With Memories
You poked my blurring eye,
Let me lift your mushy breast.
We aged onwards
While you stroked flaccidity –
Recalling decades of
Blood-gorged coming, shuddering to boot.
I kissed a venerable mouth
Crammed with falsities –
Once brilliant keys
Guarded by crimson lips
Washed by a sensual tongue.
And so we writhed in wrinkles,
Tiring effort, and
Memories.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
Memory memory memory memory memory
Memory memory memory memory memory
Memory memory memory memory memory
Memory memory memory memory memory
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Aged tree
Under the aged tree
Where we use to sing
Who is in the garden
The tree of my forefather
The unforgettable aged tree
Under the aged tree
Where we listen
To the story of our land
The dove and the jackal
An unforgettable story
Under the aged tree
Where my forefathers
Wept for freedom till death
May there soul rest in peace
And may the story of the aged tree lives in me
poem by Towobola pelumi miktobz
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I Prayed For Rain...
i prayed for rain,
now i am wet with desire.
the tears that god wept for me,
washed away the dirt of my struggle.
and again the silence,
returns as a friend,
wrapped in the sounds
of the living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Secret love
He gloomily sat by the wall,
As gaily she danced with them all.
Her laughter's light spell
On every one fell;
His heartstrings were near unto rending,
But this there was none comprehending.
She fled from the house, when at eve
He came there to take his last leave.
To hide her she crept,
She wept and she wept;
Her life-hope was shattered past mending,
But this there was none comprehending.
Long years dragged but heavily o'er,
And then he came back there once more.
-Her lot was the best,
In peace and at rest;
Her thought was of him at life's ending,
But this there was none comprehending.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Constancy
Dull were the days and sober,
The mountains were brown and bare,
For the season was sad October
And a dirge was in the air.
The mated starlings flew over
To the isles of the southern sea.
She wept for her warrior lover
Wept and exclaimed: 'Ah, me!
'Long years have I mourned my darling
In his battle-bed at rest;
And it's O, to be a starling,
With a mate to share my nest!'
The angels pitied her sorrow,
Restoring her warrior's life;
And he came to her arms on the morrow
To claim her and take her to wife.
An aged lover-a portly,
Bald lover, a trifle too stiff,
With manners that would have been courtly,
And would have been graceful, if
If the angels had only restored him
Without the additional years
That had passed since the enemy bored him
To death with their long, sharp spears.
As it was, he bored her, and she rambled
Away with her father's young groom,
And the old lover smiled as he ambled
Contentedly back to the tomb.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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I had a cat and my lovely cat was ill
I had a cat and my lovely cat was ill
It was admitted in hospital for treatment,
Previous day it fought with a cobra to kill,
The cobra suddenly escaped to save but died,
It moves around my house to kill the snakes,
And it is just like a tiger and guards my house,
My children always play with it and feed it cakes,
Alas! why is it not recovered but died?
Dead body of my cat is put on sofa and all wept,
Why, pretty thing! could you not live with us all?
One by one all kissed it and sadly said it has slept,
If it is not seen at home tiger, tiger we used to call,
Alas1 with a bur-i-al ceremony in a grave it is kept,
All wept and wept and said, what a sweet fall!
poem by INDIA Mazid S Kazi
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Passion And Love
A MAIDEN wept and, as a comforter,
Came one who cried, 'I love thee,' and he seized
Her in his arms and kissed her with hot breath,
That dried the tears upon her flaming cheeks.
While evermore his boldly blazing eye
Burned into hers; but she uncomforted
Shrank from his arms and only wept the more.
Then one came and gazed mutely in her face
With wide and wistful eyes; but still aloof
He held himself; as with a reverent fear,
As one who knows some sacred presence nigh.
And as she wept he mingled tear with tear,
That cheered her soul like dew a dusty flower, —
Until she smiled, approached, and touched his hand!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Savage Tears
He cried tears to tear the heart.
Not the silent tears of aching sorrow.
But those of unimaginable loss.
Vast exhaling sobs that shook the earth
And silent screams that vibrated the air.
That grieved in utter stillness, soundless.
For he had wept the well of tears dry.
The irreparable loss, hard edged,
Had left him hollowed, paper thin.
A howling dissonance of pain too great.
The pit belly loneliness of deprivation.
It is the rendering down of that most deep
An unconscious dissonant of wailing.
But then as surly as the sun rises
He learned to live again, a half life,
Its true, but thankful to come to rest
And lay his head on sunnier shores.
poem by Paul Brookes
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Song.—The transient time
The transient time, for ever past,
How shall I dare review!—
The fatal day we parted last,
And wept out last adieu!
Alas! that day has swell'd to years—
That sorrow to a sea of tears!
I would the mournful thoughts would fly,
Regretted, loved in vain,
Among the dreams of memory
That never come again!—
Would their remembrance might decay,
Swept like the autumn leaves away!
poem by Louisa Stuart Costello
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Children's Playground In The City
THIS is a place where men laid their dead,
Each with his life-tale of good or ill;
Here prayers were murmured and hot tears shed,
And passionate anguish moaned its fill.
Silent now is each voice that cried,
And the tears that were wept have all been dried
In the dust; and dust are the hearts that bled
With hopeless longing for hearts grown still.
Dead and forgotten! for Death, requiter
Of love, taught Memory how to forget!
The love that remembered them died. Grow brighter,
Oh, dim grave-garden, with dead hearts set!
Room for the small flying feet to pass,
The feet of the children over the grass!
The dead, if they knew it, would feel them lighter
Than the weight of a stone that no tears make wet.
We must die too, and the grief that will live
Must die as surely--death comes to all;
But you who come after--let Nature give
To our graves her tears, to our dust her pall:
Let her hide us away in her cold broad breast,
Let us be forgotten, and be at rest,
And over our heads let the great world strive,
And the children's voices carol and call.
If your heart on the flower of remembrance is set,
There is one way to pluck it--and only one:
Dare you ask your country not to forget
A name that needs to be graved on stone?
By grief, strife, sacrifice, scorn of fame,
You may grave on the people's hearts your name,
Or your name may die, and your soul live yet
In the cause you died for--the work you have done.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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