Sonnet: On Widows
My heart feels truly sorry for widows,
Who're young and lose their husbands suddenly;
What quirk of fate has given them such woes?
-Of solitude, sexlessness forcefully.
My mind is angered yet, when I behold,
A frantic widow searching for a mate!
Her heart is cold, vixen-like, she is bold;
A female-spider-like, she waits to bait.
My God, how pangs of sex affect women,
Who've tasted love's magic potion on bed?
The widows are much worse off than such men,
Their bosom's fire aren't so easily dead.
Yet, how will widows fight their love onslaughts?
-Companionless, for life, on empty cots?
poem by John Celes
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The Opposing Sex
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing:
'No longer the 'masher'
Sees Widows of Ashur!'
So each is a lasher
Of Man's smallest failing.
The Widows of Ashur
Are loud in their wailing.
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling
No wooing can gull 'em
In Cave of Adullam.
No angel can lull 'em
To cease their defiling
The Cave of Adullam,
That home of reviling.
At men they are cursing
The Widows of Ashur;
Themselves, too, for nursing
The men they are cursing.
The praise they're rehearsing
Of every slasher
At men. _They_ are cursing
The Widows of Ashur.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Continuous persecution of widows and orphans is a crime. Even the Bible says there is a specific place in hell for those who oppress widows.
quote by Imelda Marcos
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If I Ever Marry, I'll Marry A Maid
If ever I marry, I'll marry a maid;
To marry a widow, I am sore afraid:
For maids they are simple, and never will grutch,
But widows full oft, as they say, know too much.
A maid is so sweet, and so gentle of kind,
That a maid is the wife I will choose to my mind
A widow is froward, and never will yield;
Or if such there be, you will meet them but seeld.
A maid ne'er complaineth, do what so you will;
But what you mean well, a widow takes ill:
A widow will make you a drudge and a slave,
And, cost ne'er so much, she will ever go brave.
A maid is so modest, she seemeth a rose
When it first beginneth the bud to unclose;
But a widow full-blowen full often deceives,
And the next wind that bloweth shakes down all her leaves.
The widows be lovely, I never gainsay,
But too well all their beauty they know to display;
But a maid hath so great hidden beauty in store,
She can spare to a widow, yet never be poor.
Then, if ever I marry, give me a fresh maid,
If to marry with any I be not afraid;
But to marry with any, it asketh much care;
And some bachelors hold they are best as they are.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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I wonder who was this guy...! ! ! ! !
I wonder why…
Am I denied
A ride on the swing.
I wonder why…
Am I deprived
Of Colours in my life.
I wonder why…
My bangles were broken
And my bindi wiped…
I wonder why…
On my birth, my parents
Cursed their fate.
I wonder why…
Why am I alive
If all wait for me to die.
I wonder why…
I am not allowed
To play like a child.
I wonder why…
When I can speak
I have no voice.
I wonder why…
I was given in marriage
When I had not come of age.
I wonder why…
I have to wear white
And people want me out of sight.
I wonder why…
They call me a widow
And even hate my shadow.
I wonder why...
do I have to mourn and cry
for an unknown guy.
I wonder why…
am condemned
to pretend to live.. am dead
Written after reading an article in a leading Indian magazine, about the plight of child widows, in Desert state of Rajasthan. It’s a long dark tunnel for thousands of child
Widows. Govt. doesn't even have census figures
Mamta Agarwal
12.04.09
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Cold is The Heart
Cold is the heart of the man who lets no one into his life.
Cold is the heart of the woman who has lost her love.
Cold is the heart of the girl who is better than everyone around her.
Cold is the heart of the man who fights only for himself.
Cold is the heart of the Teenager who needs and wants no one in his life.
Cold is the heart of the cocky young man.
Cold is the heart of the Criminal who is not forgiven for what he has done.
Cold is the heart of the Widow who is left alone in this world.
Cold is the heart of the woman angry at love.
Cold is the heart of the angry young man.
Cold is the heart of the one who does not laugh, and will not smile.
Cold is the heart of the woman who feels no love, and feels no pain.
Cold is the heart of the Businessman who claws his way to the top.
Cold is the heart of the child who feels left out while the others play.
Cold is the heart of the man who denies his emotions freedom.
Coldness in the heart is an absence of love.
It is the feeling of Loneliness,
The presence of Anger,
The lack of Respect,
And the loss of emotion.
It is found in the joyless,
In the emotionless,
And in the inhospitable.
It is a trait of the passionless,
Of the unconcerned,
Of the unsympathetic,
And in those who deny the truth.
But through love any heart can be warmed.
poem by Trever Barlow
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Worth A Shot
What kind of lottery have we won?
When we are here having fun
War-torn countries at the end of a gun
Where the dying has just begun
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
Contemplate this, it would be a start
With wisdom and effort we may impart
For someone’s existence, a piece of our heart
Making a difference before we depart
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
Corporate America are you hearing this?
Can anyone see how they are so remiss?
Reaping millions where ignorance is bliss
Their dollars filling their own void, an abyss
People dying
Children crying
Widows weeping
Justice sleeping
It’s what we do with what we’ve got
It’s who we help with who knows what
It’s sharing with those who have not
Don’t you think it’s worth a shot?
poem by Rose Falcone
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Bible Stories: Ruth (Part V)
The grief of bereavement is great;
Three women lose their husbands fast;
But one has lost husband and sons!
Oh, what a tragedy for all!
The selfless mother-in-law feels
The daughters-in-law need not share
The cup of woes that life gave her,
But tells them to make their future.
One daughter-in-law goes away;
Ruth’s love for Naomi but stays;
She will not leave her any day;
But follows her in her pathways!
Naomi is more experienced;
Ruth puts her future in her hands;
She has to leave for Bethlehem,
Where she knows not the people there.
Her trust in Naomi is great;
She does whatever she tells her;
Naomi does right things for her
And guides Ruth to new destiny!
What unflinching love both do share!
And God is with them in travail;
They do not curse or lament much;
Their faith in God just cannot fail.
God works a miracle for Ruth;
Though Moabite, she is so good;
A rich man Boaz marries her
In accordance with Israel’s rites.
God’s mercy on two righteous souls-
Two widows without any hope,
Is brought out by the story here:
“Believe the Lord and He will care.”
poem by John Celes
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Widows And Warriors
Widows and Warriors
On the plateau a file of women, all in black,
war widows waiting to be given tea, bread
and rice from two men in a pickup truck.
The men spoke hoarsely, scurrying them on,
found their work shameful, would rather have
been up on the mountain fighting, thought
the women superfluous. They had given birth
to sons who now fought in war and to daughters
married to warriors on the mountain.
The women didn’t look the men in the eyes,
spoke softly and briefly amongst themselves
about the health of their grandchildren. They
had miles to walk, back down to meagre soil
and skinny goats.
Soul to Soul is a literary journal
Editor/Publisher: Joneve McCormick
Written by Jan Oskar Hansen
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Widows
The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
In its long widowhood the world has striven
To find diversion. It has turned away
From the vast awefull silences of Heaven
(Which answer but with silence when we pray)
And sought for something to assuage its grief.
Some surcease and relief
From sorrow, in pursuit of mortal joys.
It drowned God's stillness in a sea of noise;
It lost God's presence in a blur of forms;
Till, bruised and bleeding with life's brutal storms,
Unto immutable and speechless space
The World lifts up its face,
Its haggard, tear-drenched face,
And cries aloud for faith's supreme reward,
The promised Second Coming of its Lord.
So many widows, widows everywhere,
The whole earth teems with widows.
Guns that blare-
Winged monsters of the air-
And deep-sea monsters leaping through the water,
Hell bent on slaughter,
All these plough paths for widows. Maids at dawn,
And brides at noon, ere eventide pass on
Into the ranks of widows: but to weep
Just for a little space; then will grief sleep
In their young bosoms, where sweet hope belongs,
New love will sing once more its age-old songs,
And life bloom as a rose-tree blooms again
After a night of rain.
There are complacent widows clothed in crêpe
Who simulate a grief that is not real.
Through paths of seeming sorrow they escape
From disappointed hopes to some ideal,
Or, from the penury of unloved wives
Walk forth to opulent lives.
And there are widows who shed all their tears
Just at the first
In one wild burst,
And then go lilting lightly down the years:
Black butterflies, they flit from flower to flower
And live in the thin pleasures of the hour;
Merging their tender memories of the dead
In tenderer dreams of being once more wed.
But there are others: women who have proved
That loving greatly means so being loved.
Women who through full beauteous years have grown
Into the very body, souls, and heart
Of their dear comrades. When death tears apart
Such close-knit bonds as these, and one alone
Out to the larger freer life is called,
And one is left-
Then God in heaven must sometimes be appalled
At the wild anguish of the soul bereft,
And unto His Son must say, 'I did not know
Mortals could suffer so.'
But Christ, remembering Gethsemane,
Will answer softly, 'It was known to Me.'
God's alchemist, old Time, will merge to calm
That bitter anguish; but there is no balm
Save the sweet certitude that each long day
Is one step in a stair
That circles up to where freed spirits stay.
Widows, so many widows everywhere.
The world was widowed by the death of Christ,
And nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
Hasten, dear Lord, with Thy Millennium,
Hasten and come.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Queen Of Spades
Written by james young/dennis deyoung
Lead vocals by dennis deyoung
Day into night shes with me
How sweet is her warm embrace
Safe in the scent of jasmine
So safe in her gold and lace
Mornings I find, shes left me
So cold so alone, but aware
I try to escape, she finds me
Oh run though I may, shes there, there, there, there, there...
Luck is a lady whose smile is as cold as a stone
Shell bring you things, many things you might never have known
But when your die is cast shell have the final laugh at you
Shell lock you in a duel, where you come out the fool
Beware of the queen of spades
Her black widows curse might find you yet
Beware of a love that you will regret
Her love means only your death
Day into night shes with me
Turn of a card, shes there
The first time is free, you know
But from now on, pay me, me, me, me, me...
Beware of the queen of spades
Her black widows curse might find you yet
Beware of a love that you will regret
Her love means only your death
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reentry of chance
Four women who were in love with me
In my youth have now become widows
In succession after fifty years.
Not a widower as I'm, I am helpless.
23.10.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The beloved turned sisters
Three women about whom he was crazy
About fifty years ago in his youth
Are now free, as widows, for him to renew.
Desire for them dead, they look like sisters.
01.08.2012
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Sexy Ida (Part I)
Don't give your love to sexy Ida
'Cause she's the sister of a black widow spider
Don't try your love on sexy Ida
You might as well try it with some spider
She's got this long black hair, it's a hangin' on down her back
Long black pretty legs and she walks just like a cat
Hypnotic eyes and a stacked up love sack
She not only wants your love
She wants your life after that...don't do it
Don't give your love to sexy Ida
'Cause she's the sister of a black widow spider
Said you better not try it
Don't try your love on sexy Ida
You might as well try it with some spider
She's got a king sized bed with satin sheets of love
And you'll never wanna leave, no
The web of love she weaves...but I'll tell you
Don't give your love to sexy Ida
'Cause she's the sister of a black widow spider
You better not try it
Don't try your love on sexy Ida
You might as well try it with some spider
You gotta beware of sexy Ida
'Cause she tries to look so sweet and kind
But her looks can be deceivin'
'Cause her love is like strychnine
So don't give your love now
So don't give your love to sexy Ida
'Cause she's the sister of a black widow spider
Better not give your love to Ida
Don't try your love on sex Ida
You might as well try it with some spider
No, don't you give your love
Don't give your love to sexy Ida
'Cause she's the sister of a black widow spider...
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poisoned Gift
Forever young in a ground so cold
The splendor of your death still fresh to behold
In your neck an open wound
To spawn life into your Love
And to feed the creatures of our world
We have tasted from the poisoned gift of love
Which condemned us to forever fly alone
We have experienced an aged potion
The wine of life which stole us light
May we gather again and be as one
And to forever relish in the twin joys
As we taste from the poisoned gift of love
Forever young in a ground so cold
The splendour of your dance still there to behold
Our legend is a sin in tongues
To eternal sleep
song performed by by Moonspell from Irreligious
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Needlewoman
I see the fading light of my neighboring Seamstress's room.
The poor widow does embroidery of the mysterious life pattern.
I too have some darn work of my patchy clothes
And I want to borrow a needle and a thread from you.
Is it too late if I knock at your door in the midnight?
And I am sure the evildoers definitely chatter a gossip
When a bachelor meets a widow.
* I dedicate this poem to all the widows of this oblique world.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Women Weep
Behind a banner men unite
arrayed in armour shining bright.
Each warrior prepared to die,
ready to fight but knows not why.
It has been so since time began,
each yearns to prove he is a man.
The widows weep and wail and mourn.
Was it for this our sons were born?
To die upon some battlefield
be carried home upon his shield.
Because his chieftain would not yield.
That’s how it was in days of yore
when tribal chieftains went to war
Still human nature does not change
and foolish men see nothing strange.
Enlisting in some obscure cause
to fight and die in useless wars
Their women folk are left to cry
the price they pay is far too high.
The burning question must be why.
We do not learn from history.
There really is no mystery,
young men are still fooled easily
by politicians who they see
As learned men who are just and wise
and foolishly believe their lies
The women folk are not so blind
but head strong men pay little mind
to well found fears of womenkind
Though womenfolk have always known
that once men hear the trumpets blown
The men folk lose their common sense
and rush to fight in the defence
of what they’re told is liberty
by those placed in authority.
So children are left fatherless
and womenfolk in deep distress.
Men's foolishness is limitless.
19-Jun-07
Cyhydd naw ban
Welsh bardic form
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Dove
Within his office, smiling.
Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN,
But all the screws of Birmingham
Were working in his brain.
The heart within his bosom
Was as a millstone hard;
His eye was cold and cruel,
His face was frozen lard.
He had the map of Africa
Upon his table spread:
He took a brush, and with the same
He painted it blood-red.
He heard no moan of widows,
But only the hurrah
Of charging lines and squadrons
And 'Rule Britannia.'
A white dove to his window
With branch of olive sped -
He took a ruler in his hand,
And struck the white dove dead.
poem by Victor James Daley
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The Dove
Within his office, smiling.
Sat JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN,
But all the screws of Birmingham
Were working in his brain.
The heart within his bosom
Was as a millstone hard;
His eye was cold and cruel,
His face was frozen lard.
He had the map of Africa
Upon his table spread:
He took a brush, and with the same
He painted it blood-red.
He heard no moan of widows,
But only the hurrah
Of charging lines and squadrons
And 'Rule Britannia.'
A white dove to his window
With branch of olive sped -
He took a ruler in his hand,
And struck the white dove dead.
poem by Victor James Daley
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A person may rightfully be happy if in this life he could do a great favor for widows and orphans, could assist support than, and facilitate fate of people.
quote by Islom Karimov
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Magic Potion
Magic potion it’s not
in your
closet or an ocean…
some people
May see what you
mean to me…
My love is like a magic
potion can you believe
It’s a strong emotion…
Magic potion really
isn’t just a
Strong emotion it posses
Your mind in just a matter of time..
Oh how I wonder
will you be mine? ...
It’s not just my love thing or some
Old fling…magic potion? ? ? ! !
poem by Andrenea Washington
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