Most Liked Loss / Death Poems (1,049)

Football gives joy and satisfaction
in the winning
So depressed in the losing
Cheer up my friends
it is only game
To say there is more to life than football
might sound like blasphemy to some.
Like children we play games
and watch games
It is an endless show time
with elements of chance
The game is uncertain
so is Life
Only Death is certain
“*Yet there is no death
you could not be more dead
than you are now”.
Passed on you will not care
about your remains
so gladly bereft.
In memoriam there is comfort
Visiting tombs with flowers
Keeeping the grave fresh and neat
Or ashes on the mantelpiece
They know you remember
Rejoice in their freedom
They do not forget you
As you feel the loss.

Tonight I can write the saddest poem,
while thoughts of my passed away father keeps me awake at night,
I am silently praying for his soul to rest in peace,
putting candle light
which moving reflection on the wall playfully dances...
and like a fly in the spider net
Memories of childhood awaken to be chew piece by piece;
the very first thought dance of Vienna Waltz with my father,
and smile to happy time and tears of loss
mixes all up in one spirit mingles...
Opening the door for the soul of memories to float,
while wind moves curtens making small and big wave -swell.
One suppress life is hidden in my garden branches
which scratching swings on the window glass cries
and shakes door of my tearful soul
waving with white handkerchief to memories of my father.

Thoughts of past and present
like cold birds tightens up to each other
and under brown blanket dreaming awake
of rowing boat with my father,
Thrown net, court fishes...
and last time seeing hes face in tears
wishing me luck in last fare well,
dreaming of lost daughter in the white world;
hes whispers in the wind,
calling me back...
and I am whispering back to the wind;
Forgive me father,
Your seeds of fruit spread fare from you ...
I am whole Me only in joined parts of old and new world.

The bells of universe,I am ringing with you,
Bells of seances,and chaos deafen,
In me all is rolling.In me all is shaken;
senses,and consciousness,half dreams and half awaken,
Death ringing,
Love in me ringing to dreams of anchor in man soul,
But man falls like star in abyss....
where rope of anchor slides true the wounded hands,
that can not hold on to rope from abyss.

In me all is ringing...
Bells of tenderness;like a little tear.
Bells of innocence and regrets;
from mercy and from enlightening.
Bells of soul,bells for kind heart
that writes you with loving and compassionate line of pen,
Bells to all Life
and loss...
Bells to all Love,dreams and ideals;
Found
and Lost...

Its so hard to say farewell
And overcome this
while feeling slightly frightened
Well now what else could I have felt
As you lay there completely still and silenced
So is there a heaven and is there a hell
Were you able to cast your demons out
Are you relieved from all their weight you felt
Or are they still pulling you down

While I'm surveying you my head hangs low
Did all of our prayers earn you a golden halo
Is there a tunnel of abiding light
I really hope that you now feel alive
Just yesterday we were kids in the fifth grade
Today I lay a warrior down inside of his grave
I want to rejoice in all the good times we've had
Instead a tear rolls down my face when I try to laugh
We're taught to suppress emotions and remove fear
But It's because of you that I am still here
I'm so proud to have served with you my friend
But it's time for you to rest now the battle ends
I will always honor your courage and sacrifice
Until we meet again someday on the other side
~ JJF~

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.Accept the fluster
of lost door keys,the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing father,losing faster:
places,and names,and where it was you meant
to travel.None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch.And look! my last,or
next-to-last,of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two ctties,lovely once.And,vaster,
some realms I owned,two rivers,a continent.
I miss them,but it wasn't a disaster.

-Even losing you(the joking voice,a gesture
I love)I shan't have lied.It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like(Write it!)like disaster.






I will not lose You ; )

What is the widow's draw
Is it the loneliness
These women and men
With their emptiness
A coldness
Trying to work on wholeness
To sway by mirroring the hopelessness
Contacting you with boldness

As if you have some common bond
You’re only being enticed to respond
To a dark scheme spawned
In wicked hearts
Like broken parts
Oh my god we need smarts
Throw back some poison darts

Do they play on brokenness?
What’s the widow's draw
Do we have case law
Hell no!
So here we go . . .
Time to escalate this pen
Then we’ll get back to Zen

It’s a blurred picture of a flaw
Known as Ohm’s law
The equation describes the relationship
Like a sleazy, amateur porno clip!

The current through a conductor
Holding on like a f*cking abductor
Two points directly proportional
In the greedy, evil, insidious arsenal
Potential difference equals resistance
Play along with the insistence

Do they think we’re so damn easy
The ones that play on the widows
With their clever blows
Like their pros
Oh you’re a widow too
Really? Can I identify with you?

Their ego must need flattery
The emotions that are motionless
Running on a tiny itty bitty AAA battery
I cannot fathom the depth of their hopelessness

As they pretend they have lost
The love of their life
“Hello beautiful I want to get to know you”
Marital status: Widow, yeah me too!
Right! You’re my White Knight!

What’s your game?
What do you hope to gain?
From the deception inside
Pumping up your pitiful pride

The widow’s draw, so many dead
Now everyone is unwed
Looking for something to hold onto
I’m supposed to believe that’s you

Time to find our center
Return to Zen, we use our pen
To enter, as the presenter
Telling what everyone knows

About all of those
Which move us to prose
The ones that play the widow games
Under assumed pictures and names

The cover of the journal
is astral violet,
& within it
are poems,
most of them
earthbound,
but for one
to the poet's
daughter
which soars
into
the heavens
on umbilical wings.

Oh we poets
are so afraid
of making babies--
& yet
of all
the fleshly chains
that bind us,
our children
are the chains
that bind
most closely
to heaven.

How can that be?

Poetry
is an astral
affliction.

Poets are always
saving themselves
for their poems.
Yet in that saving
there is no grace,
while in the child
there is distraction,
chaos, disorder

& through that fleshly chaos

peace


~SAS~

Giant hearts
Pull on strings
Movement
Gained
Small steps

Balance on tip toes
She strides with unsteady feet
Aged old granny sleeps
Tommorow
She wakes

A story she will tell
Of first world war destruction
Her story she will tell
Of war and destructinon

Of peace that all want
To her story her story to tell
Her only daughter her story she tell
Of her sons to war they went

To fight the somme to die a pal
All lives given in lost in un marked grave
Granny weeps for her husband lost
Her sons now gone to war

Her daughter her future her only loving dog
She adore for they will tell her story of the somme

While watching sunset
Drowning in sea
Every breath of fresh ear
Sun reflections
In blue sea
Collars
Sink inside me
Awakening hope
Waves as handkerchief
In distance

Is that beloved waving ?
Is it my mother?
Or brother?
Or sister?

I am feeling as passing
Image
Caught
In immortal circle of mortal pain

I sow so many handkerchief in distance
Each one soaked with tears
Promised of waiting
But wind of time took them away
Stacked in branches
They live they're own life
Whistling wind blow them
Roll them
Twist them in ear as dancing ballerina
Makes them remember laughter of past
With tears of present
In wind of dreams
Past endeavours
They cry as neglected children
Waiting to be picked up
And find they're way
To be kept close to chest
As treasure of heart
For someone to cherish

Each handkerchief has it's own dreams
Some to dress a wound
Some to hold the candlelight
Burning on heart as Faith
Some dream
To grow bigger on mainmast
Withstanding storm
To stand proud waving - against time
While life destiny that our nature shapes
In this or that room
Waiting
With handkerchief

Giants of liverpool
With heads high
Tower
People
Granny rises from her bed

On tip toes
She step on the street
Slow paces tiny steps
Men on strings

They control are marionette
Granny telles her story of war that was
Pals dead millions lost
She tells her story to the people of liverpool

With joy they listen to what she tells
Of the great war
Millions dead
The struggle she faced her sons dead and husband dead

Her story her daughter she tells
Stroking her dog her compainion
She tells of death
The
Lost souls world war 1

Dawn tugs playfully pulling down nights blanket.
A single rising belly takes shape upon the mat, then another,another.
Impossibly thin arms, legs, taunt leather faces ... emerge.
Teeth, curly hair, pinned beneath mountainous bellies.

One bone thin arm hinged to bone splayed fingers lifts,
Reaching in dawns glow, casting ...
Serpent shadows, slither upon the wall.
Slow moving serpents of the dawn, here linger.

Eyes of starvation stare out.
Eyes of yesterdays desperation focus.
Eyes laying, blinking in the dust, watch, lost.
Eyes that have seen such sights now...

She has been forgotten, now she forgets.
Becomes the small child she is, was born to be.
Casting shadow animals upon an empty wall.
These serpents are all she knows.

Sunlight in its failing pulls up nights blanket.
A single un-moving belly fades upon the mat, then another, another.
Impossibly thin arms, legs, taunt leather faces, fade, disappear.
Eyes that have seen such sights, are ... forgotten


~SAS