I keep on dying again.
Veins collapse, opening like the
Small fists of sleeping
Children.
Memory of old tombs,
Rotting flesh and worms do
Not convince me against
The challenge. The years
And cold defeat live deep in
Lines along my face.
They dull my eyes, yet
I keep on dying,
Because I love to live.
I Want To Die Poem by Abdul Wahab
Heavenly cursed and heavily sinned I
No more i like to add them, so, I want to die
And I want to become a holy ghost
Whom the people would like the most.
Like the retreating soldiers I like to come back
To my own permanent and eternal home
You may call it a suicide or martyrdom.
In my real home I see the news
Coming from the lipstick coated lips
In the television of my molten death
People are sobbing with a heavy breath.
The atmosphere is heavy and they feel the pain
This thrills me and gives a feeling of gain.
The only son of my father
The only darling of my mother
Fainted repeatedly on the cushion
Peal like tear drops coming from my beloved son,
Friends and relatives express grief in the community hall,
All these excite me and I sought to say” I love you all.”
For the first time in my life in my last ritual I listen
From those men that I was really a very very good man.
In such intense atmosphere of gloom and sad
My heart cheers and I become too much glad.
Maya Angelou’s poem expresses the cycle of life and death through vivid imagery of decay and resilience. Despite confronting defeat and the passage of time, the speaker’s passion for living prevails, embodying the struggle between mortality and the enduring spirit of love for life.
I Want To Die Poem by Abdul Wahab Heavenly cursed and heavily sinned I No more i like to add them, so, I want to die And I want to become a holy ghost Whom the people would like the most. Like the retreating soldiers I like to come back To my own permanent and…
The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens.
Time Moved Quickly ime slipped past us quicker than breath, hours falling away before we knew to hold them.
I will lend you, for a little time, A child of mine, He said. For you to love the while he lives, And mourn for when he’s dead. It may be six or seven years, Or twenty-two or three.
Death is nothing at all By Henry Scott-Holland Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened.
A Poet’s Death Is His Life Iv Poem by Kahlil Gibran
The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens. There in the suburb stood an old hut heavily laden with snow and on the verge of falling. In a dark recess of that hovel was a poor bed in which a dying youth was lying, staring at the dim light of his oil lamp, made to flicker by the entering winds. He a man in the spring of life who foresaw fully that the peaceful hour of freeing himself from the clutches of life was fast nearing. He was awaiting Death’s visit gratefully, and upon his pale face appeared the dawn of hope; and on his lops a sorrowful smile; and in his eyes forgiveness.
He was poet perishing from hunger in the city of living rich. He was placed in the earthly world to enliven the heart of man with his beautiful and profound sayings. He as noble soul, sent by the Goddess of Understanding to soothe and make gentle the human spirit. But alas! He gladly bade the cold earth farewell without receiving a smile from its strange occupants.
He was breathing his last and had no one at his bedside save the oil lamp, his only companion, and some parchments upon which he had inscribed his heart’s feeling. As he salvaged the remnants of his withering strength he lifted his hands heavenward; he moved his eyes hopelessly, as if wanting to penetrate the ceiling in order to see the stars from behind the veil clouds.
And he said, ‘Come, oh beautiful Death; my soul is longing for you. Come close to me and unfasten the irons life, for I am weary of dragging them. Come, oh sweet Death, and deliver me from my neighbors who looked upon me as a stranger because I interpret to them the language of the angels. Hurry, oh peaceful Death, and carry me from these multitudes who left me in the dark corner of oblivion because I do not bleed the weak as they do. Come, oh gentle Death, and enfold me under your white wings, for my fellowmen are not in want of me. Embrace me, oh Death, full of love and mercy; let your lips touch my lips which never tasted a mother’s kiss, not touched a sister’s cheeks, not caresses a sweetheart’s fingertips. Come and take me, by beloved Death.’
Then, at the bedside of the dying poet appeared an angel who possessed a supernatural and divine beauty, holding in her hand a wreath of lilies. She embraced him and closed his eyes so he could see no more, except with the eye of his spirit. She impressed a deep and long and gently withdrawn kiss that left and eternal smile of fulfillment upon his lips. Then the hovel became empty and nothing was lest save parchments and papers which the poet had strewn with bitter futility.
Hundreds of years later, when the people of the city arose from the diseases slumber of ignorance and saw the dawn of knowledge, they erected a monument in the most beautiful garden of the city and celebrated a feast every year in honor of that poet, whose writings had freed them. Oh, how cruel is man’s ignorance!
Time Moved Quickly
Time slipped past us
quicker than breath,
hours falling away
before we knew to hold them.
I keep replaying the small things—
your laugh, the warm hush
of simply sharing space—
bright sparks in a world too fast.
Our time was brief,
cut short before its season,
but I still carry its echo—
a soft reminder
of what we were
in the rushing dark.
Micron Jan
This famous poem by Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959) has been bringing comfort to grief stricken parents for years. Guest himself suffered the loss of two of his children. A Child of Mine is a popular poem to read at funerals of children. To lose a child is one of life’s most awful experiences. Focusing on the gift of your few years together can bring a measure of comfort.
By Edgar A. Guest
I will lend you, for a little time,
A child of mine, He said.
For you to love the while he lives,
And mourn for when he’s dead.
It may be six or seven years,
Or twenty-two or three.
But will you, till I call him back,
Take care of him for Me?
He’ll bring his charms to gladden you,
And should his stay be brief.
You’ll have his lovely memories,
As solace for your grief.
I cannot promise he will stay,
Since all from earth return.
But there are lessons taught down there,
I want this child to learn.
I’ve looked the wide world over,
In search for teachers true.
And from the throngs that crowd life’s lanes,
I have selected you.
Now will you give him all your love,
Nor think the labour vain.
Nor hate me when I come
To take him home again?
I fancied that I heard them say,
‘Dear Lord, Thy will be done!’
For all the joys Thy child shall bring,
The risk of grief we’ll run.
We’ll shelter him with tenderness,
We’ll love him while we may,
And for the happiness we’ve known,
Forever grateful stay.
But should the angels call for him,
Much sooner than we’ve planned.
We’ll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And try to understand.
Edgar A. Guest. “A Child Of Mine.”
Death is nothing at all By Henry Scott-Holland
Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.
Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
Henry Scott-Holland. “Death Is Nothing At All.”
Holy Sonnets: Batter my heart, three-person’d God by John Donne
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Clare Harner. Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep- I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/do-not-stand-by-my-grave-and-weep-by-clare-harner
Death is nothing at all By Henry Scott-Holland Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened.
My Father and I in The Time of Water
“The Soldier” is a poem written by Rupert Brooke. It is the fifth and final sonnet in the sequence 1914, published posthumously in 1915 in the collection 1914 and Other Poems. The manuscript is located at King’s College, Cambridge
Four War Poems Poem by Sheena Blackhall
Oh, not the loss of the accomplished thing! Not dumb farewells, nor long relinquishment Of beauty had, and golden summer spent, And savage glory of the fluttering Torn banners of the rain, and frosty ring Of moon-white winters, and the imminent Long-lunging seas, and glowing students bent To race on some smooth beach the gull’s…
After reading my obituary folks went to their local bookstores looking for my books. For a few days I was often quoted like Baldwin and people went looking for T-shirts with my image. My books rested on the desks of teachers filled with bookmarks, notes, and underlined words. Someone said a critic once said Ethelbert’s…
love is more thicker than forget By E. E. Cummings love is more thicker than forget more thinner than recall more seldom than a wave is wet more frequent than to fail
A Prayer For You by Lenora McWhorter I lifted you to the Lord today as I spent some time in prayer. I asked God to be near you and your burdens help you bear. I could feel the Father smile each time I called your name because I talk to Him quite often and my…
