The Mourners
Weeping for ones who in darkness lie,
the ones who in distress have sold their helpless souls;
for ones who have been born only to die...
perhaps for ones they never knew at all.
At times in graveyard they bury their thoughts
as though in there the sentiments hide some sacred notes.
At times they and corpses alike must maintain
the silence of the grave...
I wonder what played beneath their heads
that made them scream a hollow cry
or that if ever in their solemn lips
float the shadows of a lie.
No one has been so desperate to cry as they...
finding reasons to fill their eyes with false tears
or making them real as they recall
the pain of all the years.
They mourn for others and sometimes for themselves;
they mourn perhaps for unwanted fears...
condemning, regretting, yet waiting
for the price after the tears.
I thought that life was different for those
who in silence mourn.
But then life's all the same-
for everything that dies has once been born.
Life is never different for them
who mourn in silence,
for everything that started must come to an end.
Just then, life's all the same-
I watched them from a distance,
pretending as they play the game.
Some think of them as crazy,
for some, ordinary fools.
They, are called THE MOURNERS
and I am one of them.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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Related quotes
Solitude Of Loss
Behold thy sister - on a journey so long
behold she leaves to return no more
behold thy sister - thy only companion
remember your times for there'll never be more
wipe your tears 'cos leave she must
no matter the wail she ne'er return
begin to mourn - for your sister is dead
oh this lad shall wail but the deed is done
silence and seethe have crept in to stay
oh the emptiness of loss and sorrow to bear
to carry the load all - all alone
and pigments of grief his face to smear
his life alone - a thing to learn
his morn of mourn shall be of darkness
the pain of loss shall be his own
and his nights shall be of torment and coldness
oh! the grieving psyche of him
death has failed to complete his work
the spiritual bond is not severed
his life to mourn forever locked
poem by Mbanaso Samuel
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Silence, ssst
Silence
Silence
Silently, ssst, ssssst, please, ssst
Silence
Silence is my guidance.
Through the jungle of lions.
The only way to survive.
My thoughts need hiding
Silence not a word.
Voices where they from?
silence say no more
Don’t open the door
Or the silence will leave us all.
Silence, silence
Silently they are gone.
Silence, I am alone.
Silence is born
Now I am truly torn
Silently I mourn
That I always was alone.
poem by Nadim Lost Soul
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Tears
Mourn that which will not come again,
The joy, the strength of early years.
Bow down thy head, and let thy tears
Water the grave where hope lies slain.
For tears are like a summer rain,
To murmur in a mourner's ears,
To soften all the field of fears,
To moisten valleys parched with pain.
And though thy tears will not awake
What lies beneath of young or fair
And sleeps so sound it draws no breath,
Yet, watered thus, the sod may break
In flowers which sweeten all the air,
And fill with life the place of death.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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And yet, I suppose you mourn the loss or the death of what you thought your life was, even if you find your life is better after. You mourn the future that you thought you'd planned.
quote by Lynn Redgrave
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I Am the Only Being
I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born
In secret pleasure —secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day
There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here
But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were
First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew
'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there
poem by Emily Brontë
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Never Mourn At My Funeral
Never mourn at my funeral
Because i'm not dead but sleeping
And relaxing on Abraham's bossom
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in view to mourning
But within you, you're here to mock
Because my poetry has once expose your secret-deeds
Throw my body where you please
Or let it be dismembered
Never mourn at my funeral
You the insect that bites my daffodils
And you who want my fish to swim on a dry earth
Throw me on a stormy sea
Where Jonah fell
But its a glorious shame
I can never sight the river bank of Joppa
Never mourn at my funeral
You that come in my maker's name
Just to bless my end
Go thy way and search for lust souls
Wear them a garment pure as snow
Before they lie low with me
And journey hell eternal
Never mourn at my funeral
But mourn for we're debtors of death
poem by Adesitimi Taiwo
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I Am the Only Being Whose Doom
I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born
In secret pleasure - secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away
As friendless after eighteen years
As lone as on my natal day
There have been times I cannot hide
There have been times when this was drear
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here
But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were
First melted off the hope of youth
Then Fancy's rainbow fast withdrew
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew
'Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow servile insincere -
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there
poem by Emily Jane Brontë
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As a World Would Have It
ALCESTIS
Shall I never make him look at me again?
I look at him, I look my life at him,
I tell him all I know the way to tell,
But there he stays the same.
Shall I never make him speak one word to me?
Shall I never make him say enough to show
My heart if he be glad? Be glad? … ah! God,
Why did they bring me back?
I wonder, if I go to him again,
If I take him by those two cold hands again,
Shall I get one look of him at last, or feel
One sign—or anything?
Or will he still sit there in the same way,
Without an answer for me from his lips,
Or from his eyes,—or even with a touch
Of his hand on my hand?…
“Will you look down this once—look down at me?
Speak once—and if you never speak again,
Tell me enough—tell me enough to make
Me know that you are glad!
“You are my King, and once my King would speak:
You were Admetus once, you loved me once:
Life was a dream of heaven for us once—
And has the dream gone by?
“Do I cling to shadows when I call you Life?
Do you love me still, or are the shadows all?
Or is it I that love you in the grave,
And you that mourn for me?
“If it be that, then do not mourn for me;
Be glad that I have loved you, and be King.
But if it be not that—if it be true …
Tell me if it be true!”
Then with a choking answer the King spoke;
But never touched his hand on hers, or fixed
His eyes on hers, or on the face of her:
“Yes, it is true,” he said.
“You are alive, and you are with me now;
And you are reaching up to me that I—
That I may take you—I that am a King—
I that was once a man."
So then she knew. She might have known before;
Truly, she thought, she must have known it long
Before: she must have known it when she came
From that great sleep of hers.
She knew the truth, but not yet all of it:
He loved her, but he would not let his eyes
Prove that he loved her; and he would not hold
His wife there in his arms.
So, like a slave, she waited at his knees,
And waited. She was not unhappy now.
She quivered, but she knew that he would speak
Again—and he did speak.
And while she felt the tremor of his words,
He told her all there was for him to tell;
And then he turned his face to meet her face,
That she might look at him.
She looked; and all her trust was in that look,
And all her faith was in it, and her love;
And when his answer to that look came back,
It flashed back through his tears.
So then she put her arms around his neck,
And kissed him on his forehead and his lips;
And there she clung, fast in his arms again,
Triumphant, with closed eyes.
At last, half whispering, she spoke once more:
“Why was it that you suffered for so long?
Why could you not believe me—trust in me?
Was I so strange as that?
“We suffer when we do not understand;
And you have suffered—you that love me now—
Because you are a man.… There is one thing
No man can understand.
“I would have given everything?—gone down
To Tartarus—to silence? Was it that?
I would have died? I would have let you live?—
And was it very strange?”
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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The Misfortunates
What a prodigy, dear Chatterton?
At your teens, you pioneer'd romance
Alas, poverty be your mighty menace
The silent suicide of arsenic poison.
.
Poverty and tuberculosis in your battles
All in the blush of bitter rejections
A virtuoso bedridden in his afflictions
Norwid, this life unfair - heaven rattles.
.
I mourn the life and death of Crosby
Her poems and hymns her witness
She had journey'd all her days in blindness
I imagine with pity how she prance the lobby.
.
Your lines are great, - though
They were written in distress
Your tears when you mourn your mistress
Your fourty was full of pain, Allan Poe.
.
poem by Joseph Oladehinde Ibikunle
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Feel the dark
Feel the dark, black as coal
and soft as velvet,
beneath your fingertips
Dark is upon the night
Darkness all about me
In my own solemn silence
The silence has substance
As thick as can be
Silence about me
As loud as a scream
In a nightmarish dream
It can terrify me
Silence has a feel
Of darkness in silk cloaked
As a desperate cry being choked
Phantasmic, yet real
As Quiet surrounds me
The silence has substance
The absence of presence
is deafening to me
Those sounds of silence
Cry out to those who seek
The companionship of shadows.
A vast endless vacuum
Of blackened day,
I am sucked into an existence
summoning the cold from the depths
Where darkness looms over,
It cradles me in comfort,
Blankets me with security.
Released from the mares that haunt the mind
And taken in by them
The shielding shadows of the dark,
I am embellished with life anew
And unleashing the fear the light kept hidden.
Away from the solitude reaped
By the scars of wounds that bite.
In a playground of discontent
with creeping shadows
In an asylum of euphoria,
Under the veil of darkness
Do I smile and frolic,
Soothed by the kiss of night.
poem by Deep Dark Soul Poet
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Life's Garden
We all grow up in this Garden called Life,
There are many inner and outer strifes,
In the silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
There are weeds and pests in this Garden called Life,
They are know as ignorance, greed, and vice.
In the silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life.
Every garden needs sunshine and rain,
In this garden you will find joy and pain.
In this silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
Plant sparsely, your harvest will be a pittance,
Plant bountifully, your harvest will be munificence,
In this silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
Did you plant deeds of joy, love and peace?
Or did you drop seeds of hatred, conflict, and gloom?
The world will know by the plants' bloom.
In the silence, in the silence,
In this beautiful Garden called Life!
poem by Anna B. Kurzweil
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Sleeping
it is alright really to sleep for a while
for a day, or even for the whole week,
if that is what you really want.
do you really like to take the much needed sleep?
just asking you from the bottom of my heart.
you may. you must if you really need it.
you must if you really feel like doing it.
you may finally decide to die.
it is your life. you wear the desired shoes.
you take the color that you intend.
it too, shall be your chosen death.
we may mourn, but you know that we too have our own concerns.
we cannot mourn for that long.
we have our journeys too.
our own battles, and when you lay there, a dead man on the street
as we rush, we may forget to bury you.
it is time that you too must learn to bury yourself.
it goes naturally, as a consequence of your learning how to die.
as others still fight to get their last breath
you take the plunge.
into that darkness, into that emptiness.
meanwhile, this saturday, we are set to go on a picnic.
under the blue clouds, we may talk about you.
i am not sure really. perhaps. maybe.
do not blame us. we have chosen life.
we also know how to forgive and then forget.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rock Bottom
It is
So lonely here
Sometimes I feel
Like I can't breathe
At other times
I simply don't want to
Breathe anymore
When I stand before you
I despise the way
You look at me
Like I am still
Who I used to be
When you of all people
Know that I am not
The distance between us
Full of so many things
Don't think I forgot
It's draining pretending
So I won't
I want to cry
But I refuse
So I don't
I mourn inside instead
For the one that I am
And the one who is no longer
There is so much in life
None of which you can keep
I feel like I'm drowning
In water miles deep
Waiting for someone to acknowledge
my pain
So I can be free
Or waiting to drown
And sink to rock bottom
poem by Erika Wingo
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Blues For The Widow Of The Victim Of A Racist Attck
Mourn, and mourn hard
Your tears shall fall wasted and uncollected
On this damp slab of concrete
Mourn though young widow
Weep because your husband is dead
Cry because the crowd has left and you're alone
And ganged up against by the priests and the
Celebrity pastors who piously tell you
To forgive and forget
Sob because you're surrounded by the officials
Whom the wise state has instructed to order you
To accept reconciliation without justice
Cry the river of your tears because
Your dear departed husband is dead
And your lovely children will know what it's like
To miss the soothing voice of their father
So brutally snatched away from them
And dragged behind a speeding vehicle and fed
To the lions for the sick amusement
Of a deranged and kaffir hating racist
Mourn for yourself mama
Now you'll face the world alone
With the dubious title of a single parent
Hanging on your fragile and emaciated neck
Mourn and cry and weep for the widows
Of the victims of genocide
Mourn and cry and weep for the sisters
Who are cornered and raped by their xenophobic neighbors
Mourn and cry and weep for the victims of the hurricane of
The internecine strife of ethnic cleansing and tribal warfare
Mourn and cry and weep for they
Who die unlamented in the flower of their youth
poem by Ngaka Motaung
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Mosiah 18: 8
I do not share his feelings -
not that I don't care, definitely not.
It's just that he's crying for something
I'm happy about.
How in the world could I feel sorrow
for something I rejoice of...
How can I conceal the smiles
in the midst of his pain-
and mourn, yet deep inside I just but feign?
Surely, I feel sorry for him
but I don't share his feelings.
I want to give him comfort
but how, I know not.
I'm afraid that in this moment of his life,
my face would fail me...I hope not.
Tell me, is it really that easy
to mourn with those that mourn?
23 October 2010
San Nicolas
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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In the silence of my mind
In the silence of my mind my perception is my reality
So life can be whatever I desire it to be
In the silence of my mind when fright fills my eyes with tears
I can search my soul to see if they are any reasons for my fears
In the silence of my mind I’m protected from the dangers of sin
And sheltered from the storm of trials and its thunderous winds
In the silence of my mind I’m relieved from pain
And even in the valleys of my situation I can smile without shame
In the silence of my mind my predestined path is revealed
And my short-comings and scars are forgiven and healed
In the silence of my mind there’s restitution
And the tolerance that encourages perfection
So when depressed and there is no help of any kind
Don’t stress, just retreat to the silence of your mind.
poem by Astell Collins
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All Of Heavens Mine
Please don't mourn
My body on earth
Cause I wouldn't trade
For all the wealth and worth
My body was a capsule
That held my soul
For now I'm brand new
And completely whole
If you should cry
Cry tears of joy
For I'm like a kid
With a brand new toy
All of Heavens mine
At my feet
So don't mourn for me
Or what you've seen
All I ask
All my friends
Please find Jesus
So you can enter in
This great big Heaven
Made for all
With fields forever
To play football
It's like a place
You've never been
And on God's team
You always win
*This is in memory of: Jessie Johnson 5/21/04
He was 16, played football with my son for their
high school. He drowned. He was a good kid, but
best of all he knew the Lord! *
poem by Lagaya Evans
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A Good Man
I
A good man never dies--
In worthy deed and prayer
And helpful hands, and honest eyes,
If smiles or tears be there:
Who lives for you and me--
Lives for the world he tries
To help--he lives eternally.
A good man never dies.
II
Who lives to bravely take
His share of toil and stress,
And, for his weaker fellows' sake,
Makes every burden less,--
He may, at last, seem worn--
Lie fallen--hands and eyes
Folded--yet, though we mourn and mourn,
A good man never dies.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Out Of The Ashes
Tears in my eyes
But there's no time for rain.
My heart is like a window:
Nothing but pain.
Shattered and broken,
Just leave me with a token
Of what was
But never will be,
No matter how hard we've been hoping.
Life for me ain't no crystal stair,
Langston Hughes never lied,
But I no longer care.
I don't need the world's pity,
Life is not supposed to be fair.
Problem is,
I'm still torn,
It's all up in flames.
Dead.
So I mourn.
Yet out of the ashes of the dead,
My strength is born.
poem by Denice Robinson
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Unstitching
Do not take a vow of silence.
Death will find its home.
The circus has taken over
the needles.Who will stitch
the wounds of earth. A man
walks into sunset carrying
a bowl of tears. The sit-in
was going to resist a poem
of life. Would you unrobe
your identity in public one day?
Always I am punctuated at night
by a yellow moon standing
in my window. A nude goddess
is going to mourn the death of a thought.
poem by Satish Verma
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