Last Commented Loss / Death Poems (1,049)

There on side of road
Splattered far and wide
Lays a poor gingery cat
Not going home tonight
And there in a house somewhere
Tonight a child will sob
Gone is their beloved pet
No more to return

Cordoba.
Distant and alone.

Black pony, big moon,
and olives in my saddlebag.
Even if I know the roads
I’ll never reach Cordoba.

On the flat, by the wind,
black pony, red moon.
Death is watching me
from the towers of Cordoba.

Oh, what a long road!
Oh my brave pony!
Oh that death awaits me,
before arriving in Cordoba!

Cordoba.
Distant and alone.

no sleep my mind spinning
so much evil cross my vision
got to change the way im living
seems the worlds in ill condition

i look at my daughter
pray im a good father
swimming in deep water
thats gettin hotter an hotter

at times its so lonely
so many fruadulant phonys
i keep faith in the one an only
an pray one day He will show me

show me its not what i fear
keep my vision crystal clear
my heart full of chear
an love always near

Dedicated To: Uncle John
I used to have a cool uncle
He never took life for granted
When the world handed him a lemon he made lemonade
You see he got drunk at a party
His friends tried everything to stop him from driving
He just was too drunk to focus
He ran his motorcycle into a wall
He left a grieving family
and dogs
Please don't get in a car with someone who is drunk
If you are drunk don't drive
And save a life

Their belongings were buried side by side
In a shallow bureau drawer. There was her
Crocodile handbag, letters, a brooch,
All that was in the bedside cupboard
And a small green jar she’d had for flowers.

My father’s were in an envelope:
A khaki lanyard, crushed handkerchief,
Twelve cigarettes, a copying-pencil,
All he had on him when he was killed
Or all my mother wanted to keep.

I put them together seven years ago.
Now that we’ve moved , my wife and I,
To a house of our own, I’ve taken them out.
Until we can find another spare drawer
They’re packed in a cardboard box in the hall.

So this dead, middle-aged, middle-class man
Killed by a misfired shell, and his wife
Dead of cirrhosis, have left one son,
Aged nine, aged nineteen, aged twenty-six,
Who keeps things they used in a cardboard box.

In the black moon
of the bandits
spurs sing.

Black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?

The hard spurs
of the stationary bandit
that lost the reins.

Cold horse.
What perfume of fine knife!

In the black moon
bleeding side
of Sierra Morena.

Black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?

The night spurs
its black flanks
digging stars.

Cold horse.
What perfume of fine knife!

In the black moon
A shout! and the long horn
of the fire.

Black horse.
Where do you carry your dead rider?

It is not my tears I shed
For you children of Norway
For my grief
Lies far beyond that pain
I am not so innocent
As so many of you were
Comprehension has left my mind
For numbness has overtaken me
And I can only mingle, as one
Of the so many heavy hearts
That does not understand
But can only plead
Why! Oh why

Hope has been replaced
By despair
And compassion
Lies bereft at the waters edge
I shed no tears
For I am far beyond that sorrow
And the parents of the innocents
Can only cry
Why! Oh why

I can hear a man downstairs
Whistling a happy tune
I so wish today
I had the will to whistle
But hope lies fallen in despair
As humanity takes one further step
Backwards into the dark
The world mourns
With Norway
For the innocents it has lost
And the parents of the children
Can only cry
Why! Oh why

I hurt so badly as I write.
Because I was lied to this very night.
I found out that all women are the same.
They hurt people with their spiteful game.
They care only about themselves and their own gain.
They hurt for fun, I guess, and their lives are purely vain.
An honest woman I have never met.
As to whether there is one I would not bet.
For, fear that I would loose everything; yet who would win?
It is like playing a losing game and then playing again.
You cannot conquer, and they hurt even their friends.
Thus my sorrow can never end.
For there is no right way to go; when,
Every woman wants to bring you sorrow.
They don’t need friends they need tools.
They use people and show themselves fools.
So why even try to be nice.
The trying is not worth, by far, the miserable price.

So here I am once again. The only parent to share. Share that pain of knowing that things aren't going to be ok. Your daughter needs you.Where are you? Her world is falling apart at midnight.Her whole life lies there on that bed. Dying. Her soft feet dying. Where the hell is he? She id dying and her friend is 13. I don't want to do this alone. I am tired of being the one to hold them and lie and say that things are ok. They aren't ok! She is theirs. But she is mine. My best friend. Dying. If he would be a man and give us what he is suppose too this wouln't be happening. She is in pain and I can't fix it. My daughter wants too, but how? The others sleep. They are dreaming of good things. He is there with that other woman. Having the time of his life. She must be perfect. To leave us like this. He is happy and in paradise. While we sit and hold her and try to remember that she too has a maker and that HE is good and won't let her suffer needlessly.my daughter and I look at 15 years dying and alone we weep.

Fooling No-one





You who come to Centennial Park
To visit your dead and buried
You weep and moan over tombstone so proud
Is it because you're remembering

You spend your thousands on monuments grand
And strut around in pretence
See how much I cared for them
This shrine I built according

And yet when lived your loved one
You abused and neglected
Left too late to make amends
Your conscience to be salving

So shed your tears and beat your breast
And show the world you're mourning
Deep inside you know I know
You're really fooling no-one





Centennial Park Revisited


Humble stone at head does stand
And simple is inscription
Beloved father and husband of
And there followed descriptions

This humble grave so loving kept
By this woman and her children
One could see by a single glance
That this was a happy family

A single tear slid down my cheek
The cynic was abated
Not all is lost, there is hope yet
That love might somehow triumph