Mourning a leader
When a popular leader demised
His fans and admirers amongst the common men lamented grief stricken
They could not forget his help
The ration cards
Emergency ambulance services
Free medical aid
Meager loans on low interest rates
Scholarships to their children
Not able to come out the shock
Hundreds of them died of heart attacks
Tens of them committed suicides
Their deaths found an disinterested inconspicuous mention in media
Their loss of life found scant coverage in remote corners of tabloids space
When a popular leader demised
His pals and followers mourned his loss in the glare of camera lights
They reverently digested his largesse
Coveted cabinet berths
Longed legislature seats
Privileged party posts
Lucrative project contracts
Gainful industry licenses
But not even one of them died of heart attack
None of them even remotely thought of committing suicide
Exhibiting a borrowed grief they issued press statements
Which found prominent coverage in national media
And their crocodile tears dazzled the TV screens all the day
When a tsunami comes
Only the poor and slums on the shore are washed away
But, not the millionaires and mansions facing the shore
When a cyclone occurs
Only cattle, poultry and street dogs die
But, not the pet dogs and thorough-bred stallions
When an old tree falls in forest
Only the squirrels and rabbits get caught and perish
But not the lions and tigers
Poor are the epitome of gratitude
Rich have a bland syndrome of egocentric attitude!
poem by Ch J Satyananda Kumar
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Related quotes
Media
An exposure to media, the press
Is dangerous, an overexposure, worst damaging,
You lose an image, you lose yourself,
And people would not mind, who are you and what is your name,
how did you do it, not what did you do, and that would be the end of you,
I do not talk to media since then, it has always the last say, I shy away from an interviewer from a media coverage, from that writer
Who smiles at me, taking carefully what I am saying
On a certain legal question, only to find out,
The following day, he says what I did not really mean in that proper context,
In what I said to him and which he twisted,
I had that bad experience, and
Had not recovered for years, walking in the city,
Without my head, all to my shame and loss,
I did not mind, my deeds my fingers will speak for me
Eventually, and my conscience shall tell my vocabulary avenging finally that
The better plural form of media, after all,
Is mediocre,
of course, its correct singular form is still
Media. How can I argue with you, medium man?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Know This Poor Bloke
I know this poor bloke in the mood for suicide
And he has felt heavy hearted since the day his wife died
Some five years ago his ache of loss from him not gone
And till the day of his death his grief with him will live on.
I do meet him often though not every day
And for words to him I always feel stuck to say
He always talks of his dead wife and the grief that he feel
And for him I feel sorry since his sorrow is real.
On his sense of loss with him I sympathize
And each time I see him he has tears in his eyes
My condolences to him I already did pay
But the grief that he feels it is with him to stay.
The price of true love it can come at a great cost
And he is left to mourn for what he has lost
One in his late sixties his hair silvery gray
And the clock on his life it is ticking away.
A man due to grief in the mood for suicide
Though he is one now I would rather avoid
Since each time I meet him he talks of his dead wife
And I am one who needs laughter in my life.
poem by Francis Duggan
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When my body arrives at the shore
When the time comes.
And my body washes up on the shore.
Be it not a shock to you please.
I didn't want tohurt you.
When my bloated body arrives at deaths shore.
Washed up and battered I'm dead on the shore.
And have arrived at deaths door.
Yes I was scared kind of.
But I knew it would over and done.
I knew it wouldn't be long to die.
Here lays my body at deaths shore.
I am dead of that you can be sure.
I am sorry of that you are to be sure.
I loved you that's for sure.
I could'nt stay with pains shore.
So Here I am at deaths shore.
I couldn't go on like this.
Here I lay washed up on the shore.
Iam now in deaths door
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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No Greater Loyalty
This will be our family secret don't tell others how he died
Never mention how my darling son took his own life in suicide
Don't want them saying he opted out of life they would never understand
How our beloved teenager he died at his own hand.
Don't tell anyone we found him hanging from the low branch of a tree
Tell them 'twas of a heart attack that he died suddenly
We do not need their judgements my son must rest in peace
It was of his own choosing that from life he choose release.
Of the darkness that surrounded him we never were to know
The mother she has shed her tears for her son who died six months ago
For to save him from the judgements of the living for her dead son she will lie
She will never admit that he was one who choose his own way to die.
No greater loyalty than the loyalty of a mother when all is said and done
From the judgements of the living she lies to protect her dead son
She takes flowers twice a week to place on the grave where he does lay
And she will grieve for her deceased son till her own dying day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It's not the Economy Stupid!
Ervin Lupoe blamed it all on the economy,
He executed his wife,3 daughters and 2 sons,
Before he committed suicide.
He was obviously a troubled man;
he placed importance on the dollar,
Above all else;
above everybody,
He was troubled beyond what he wrote in his letter,
He was facing a mid-life crisis with his job loss,
His wife had lost her job,
But this murder-suicide is much more than that,
It is about greed,
low self-esteem,
the preponderance of negative news coverage,
It is about the way of American life gone badly.
Endemic for all socio-economic classes,
I hope that this will be an isolated circumstance,
After all did Ervin forget about the ‘Great Depression’?
What would have been to outcome if all people,
who were out a job,
did the same thing?
I wouldn’t be here,
to shed a tear,
for his family.
(1-28-09)
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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The Grieving Mother
The grieving mother litres of tears have shed
Since she found her lone child in the garage dead
From a rope tied to a steel beam by the neck he hung
To die for some it never is too young.
His first anniversary he died this day last year
And why he choose to end his life the reason not even clear
His father left her for another before their boy had reached the age of one
And on her own she had to raise her son.
In his eighteenth year he choose his way to die
That life can be cruel is surely not a lie
He did not live for to cast his first vote
And he did not even leave a suicide note.
From her the grief of loss it has not gone away
Today for her another tearful day
Single in her forty sixth year with her cross of grief to bear
'Tis true indeed that life can be unfair.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Life In Newspaper
Some life stop their life on newspaper.
some life loss their life on newspaper.
loss their life like a photograph.
Loss their life in a column of newspaper.
Loss their life in the lightening photo of star.
Speech of false leader.
Profile of high profile cader.
Photo of dustbin child.
Fulfil the newspaper.
Now life,
Now love,
Addvertisement of peace,
or humanity.
Everything u found here.
Now life loss his life in newspaper.
poem by Imtiaz Emon
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Little Popeet - the Lost Child
Near by the silent waters of the Mediterranean,
And at the door of an old hut stood a coloured man,
Whose dress was oriental in style and poor with wear,
While adown his furrowed cheeks ran many a tear.
And the poor coloured man seemed very discontent,
And his grief overcame him at this moment;
And he wrung his hands in agony wild,
And he cried, "Oh! help me, great God, to find my child."
"And Ada, my dear wife, but now she is dead,
Which fills my poor heart with sorrow and dread;
She was a very loving wife, but of her I'm bereft,
And I and my lost child are only left.
And, alas! I know not where to find my boy,
Who is dear to me and my only joy;
But with the help of God I will find him,
And this day in search of him I will begin."
So Medoo leaves Turkey and goes to France,
Expecting to find his boy there perhaps by chance;
And while there in Paris he was told
His boy by an Arab had been sold
To a company of French players that performed in the street,
Which was sad news to hear about his boy Popeet;
And while searching for him and making great moan,
He was told he was ill and in Madame Mercy's Home.
Then away went Medoo with his heart full of joy,
To gaze upon the face of his long-lost boy;
Who had been treated by the players mercilessly,
But was taken to the home of Madame Celeste.
She was a member of the players and the leader's wife,
And she loved the boy Popeet as dear as her life,
Because she had no children of her own;
And for the poor ill-treated boy often she did moan.
And when Popeet's father visited the Home,
He was shown into a room where Popeet lay alone,
Pale and emaciated, in his little bed;
And when his father saw him he thought he was dead.
And when Popeet saw his father he lept out of bed,
And only that his father caught him he'd been killed dead;
And his father cried, " Popeet, my own darling boy,
Thank God I've found you, and my heart's full of joy."
Then Madame Mercy's tears fell thick and fast,
When she saw that Popeet had found his father at last;
Then poor Popeet was taken home without delay,
And lived happy with his father for many a day.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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For Oil Not For Freedom
My heart goes to those who grieve for their war dead in war torn Iraq
Life when it is taken cannot be given back
Those who started this war from Iraq may live far away
But to Karma they do have a huge price to pay
For thousands of deaths in Iraq the pro war media terrorists do blame
But terrorism absent from Iraq before the invaders came
To excuse the war instigators of their crimes this is their way
Though they had started something brutal and ugly that does seem fair to say
Poor Iraqi mothers for their war dead left to grieve
The stories of a pro war media why should they believe
It does not take courage a life for to take
And the legacy of war is death, grief and heart-break
They cannot be brought back to life the Iraqi war dead
For oil not for freedom their blood has been shed
poem by Francis Duggan
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Beyond the grief.
It seems as if we are stalled by our grief,
unable to move away from it – and I wonder
if we will ever get over the loss of you. In time
they say we will, that one day we will finally be free
of the sadness that burdens our hearts, and we will dance
in our remembrance, and there will be no more tears.
But if that's true, I must admit I will miss the tears
when there is an eventual easing of the grief.
I am not as eager to begin the dance
of life without you, for the world has lost its wonder
for me, some of its shine - and being free
seems awfully relative - I suppose just like time.
I can still so clearly recall the last time
we were all together - the tears
we shared, even laughter, when you were set free
of this earthly pain - and even in our grief,
we were filled with such wonder
as we witnessed the end of life's dance.
When I was a little boy you used to let me dance
on the top of your shoes, moving in time
to the music on the radio. Is it any wonder
that music, to this day, brings tears
of joy, mingled with the ever-present grief,
which still has not set me completely free.
I now realize there is a cost to love; it's not free -
for when you love, you buy a ticket to the dance
of life - which comes with joy and pain, celebration and grief.
And if you have lived a long enough time,
as I have, even when the loss brings never ending tears,
with a broken heart, it's worth all of the pain, and it's no wonder
people love so fiercely - so much so that they cease to wonder
about the why, when or where - and now I realize that I am free
to love, and to lose, which will bring with it many tears.
But each tear is worth it - and seems to make the dance
more authentic. In the end, I will measure my time
by how much of it was filled with love, and with grief.
No longer will I wonder whether or not I should dance,
I will just be free, stepping in and out of time,
wearing my tears like a badge of honor as I move beyond the grief.
poem by Mahfooz Ali
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Politician
Can you make and figure it out?
Who it can be and probably what about?
Round face, clumsy body with belly out
We can easily think and make it out
“What is secret of your being in field?
Is it money, fame or power to yield? ”
I parried question to a well-known leader
Who was considered to be a well known cheater
He boosted him self by arrogant words
Good oratory and words was his sword
No respect for ordinary man’s world
Lukewarm response and attitude cold
They may differ and raise the slogans
Threaten with demonstration and attack with gun
I shall stick to the position and never budge
How can they decide my future and judge?
I am not sage or holy saint
People may starve and in street faint
Media may publish and bad figure paint
What it will do……………………
People may starve as prices soar
I will shed tears but lions like roar
There may be hue, cry and uproar
I will curse the luck but blessings shower
What do I know about national honour?
Money and fame is only need of an hour
I shall have domestic as well as foreign tours
It will be at the cost of exchequer and yours
National wealth will be simply siphoned
Unknown wealth amassed and assets owned
No one may dare to raise the question
Everybody is same so out of question
I may last long and nothing to fear
Insult, shame and blame I bear
So many accusations I may come across and hear
I will cry with people but shedding crocodile tears
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Sift And Shift
with grief are black veils of women
trying to filter the gleaming of tears
with grief are the hands trying to
sift and shift the sounds of the cries
with grief are women
mourning for the deaths of men
for the loss of children
for the rape of the earth
the thin crust of morals
dirt of the feet
dusts.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Crystal Heart
My heart is in your hands,
Paper thin crystal ready to break,
My love when will you awake?
My mind drifts to foreign lands,
Tears burst, washing away the desert sand,
Memories lost and found,
Tears wash away the ground,
Your voice, the only sound,
My heart breaks all around,
Life's dream lost but new life found,
This ship will never run aground,
Lights twinkle on a far shore,
Promises of a life to adore,
Please love, don't shut the door,
Memories lost and found,
Tears wash away the ground,
Your voice, the only sound,
My heart breaks all around,
So when you can hurt no more,
Remember to give me a call,
You know I will remember you evermore,
When I reach the shore it is life I shall adore,
Our memories I will treasure,
Let life be a pleasure.
08 May 2012
poem by David Andre' Klopper
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The Barren Shore
Full many sing to me and thee
Their riches gather'd by the sea;
But I will sing, for I'm footsore,
The burthen of the barren shore.
The hue of love how lively shown
In this sole found cerulean stone
By twenty leagues of ocean roar.
O, burthen of the barren shore!
And these few crystal fragments bright,
As clear as truth, as strong as right,
I found in footing twenty more.
O, burthen of the barren shore!
And how far did I go for this
Small, precious piece of ambergris?
Of weary leagues I went threescore.
O, burthen of the barren shore!
The sand is poor, the sea is rich,
And I, I am I know not which;
And well it were to know no more
The burthen of the barren shore!
poem by Coventry Patmore
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On Mrs. Johanna Lupton
Her soul, unsetter'd from the bands of clay,
With swift-wing'd haste to heaven takes its way;
She tow'rs the æriel space on wings divine,
While weeping friends surround the bloodless shrine:
The soften'd heart there breathes a tender sigh,
And grief sits pensive in each moisten'd eye:
Suppress the rising tear, and with her sing,
'Death, where's thy vict'ry? Grave, where is thy sting?'
Sing how with God she rests in endless day,
All tears of sorrow ever wip'd away;
'Sing how by tortures heav'n her faith has try'd;
'The saint endur'd it, tho' the woman dy'd!'
Ah, nature will prevail! 'tis all in vain:
Say, sacred muse, what loss do we sustain?
She wip'd the eye of grief---it ceas'd to flow;
Her pitying heart still felt another's woe;
Indigent virtue shar'd her earthly store;
She call'd herself God's steward for the poor:
A duteous child; a faithful, loving wife;
Serene in death, as tranquil was her life:
A pious mother---mother now no more;
Her soft solicitude and cares are o'er:
Sister and friend, each tender name in one.
And is she gone? but heav'n's great will be done!
Like Noah's dove, the wand'rer found no rest,
Till in his ark her Saviour took the guest.
Oh may we meet her on the eternal shore,
Where death shall never separate us more!
poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Damet world
Poor dog
Walking
On the street...
Rich dog
In side
The home
Sounded
Waa...wa...waa...
poor street dog
Also
Sounded...
Dog also
poor or rich...?
The damet world...!
waa waa
waaaa
Rich and poor dogs...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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That Fountain That Is Full Of Tears
That fountain that is full of tears
I saw it in
Saint Peter's square
While I visited Moskow
It wasn't a pretty sight
Let me tell you
The tears that are inside of that fountain
Are the tears from the people who had committed suicide
And also the people who had died from drug overdose
So many people come here to grieve their loss
This I know because while I was there I saw another man
That stood by my side
He never talked to me
And I never talked to him
He was probably a
Russian man
And beside the fountain that is full of tears there is a wall
That lists all the people that had committed suicide and died of
Drug overdose
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Softly, O! dropp mine eyes
Softly, O! dropp mine eyes, lest you be dry,
And make my heart with grief to melt and die.
Now pour out tears apace,
Now stay, O heavy case!
O sour sweet woe!
Alas! O grief! O joy! Why strive you so?
Can griefs and joys at once in one poor heart consent?
Then sigh and sing, rejoice, lament.
Ah me! O passions strange and violent!
Was never poor wretch so tormented:
Nor joy, nor grief can make my heart contented.
For while with joy I look on high,
Down, down I fall with grief, and die.
poem by John Wilbye
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A Bronte Legend
They say she was a creature of the moor,
A lover of the angels, silence bound.
She sought no friendships. She was too remote,
Her sister Charlotte found.
I know she nursed her brother till he died,
Although she didn't like him; that she had
Housework and all the ironing to do,
Because her maids were bad.
And in the midst of it she wrote a book.
There could have been small leisure for the moor
Or wandering! She used to mend and sew,
The family was so poor.
Her brother died. But she died just as soon
As she had nursed dear Charlotte through the shock
Of Patrick's death. Contemplative? Well, well!
No Simeon of the Rock!
poem by Lesbia Harford
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A Grief Message!
When grief stricken
And the heart is full of pain
Of loss of dear one
All beautiful things of Nature
And sweet things of life
Become a matter of no concern
However delightful
They all might have been once
And cannot be enjoyed again so!
Message of grief
Written in nice verse
Moves heart much indeed!
poem by Ramesh T A
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