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Chapter 43 of Of Love, Loss & Loneliness
Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Threnody

Arrive, arrive, O Death

I await thee.

Just me, just me, take me

I beseech thee.

Reap me, claim me, free me

I implore thee.

Failed in life

But life failed me first.

I am nothing

But a weight upon this world.

Take me by the hand;

Lead me where I belong.

The final grain of sand-

Let me join your throng,

Arrive, arrive, o Death

My only friend.

Take me, take me, just me

My heaven-sent.

Reap me, claim me, free me

My delightful end.

(Painting:The Death of Romeo, by Diebolt)

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Chapter 43 of Of Love, Loss & Loneliness
Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Threnody
Arrive, arrive, O Death
I await thee.
Just me, just me, take me
I beseech thee.
Reap me, claim me, free me
I implore thee.

Failed in life
But life failed me first.
I am nothing
But a weight upon this world.

Take me by the hand;
Lead me where I belong.
The final grain of sand-
Let me join your throng,

Arrive, arrive, o Death
My only friend.
Take me, take me, just me
My heaven-sent.
Reap me, claim me, free me
My delightful end.

(Painting:The Death of Romeo, by Diebolt)
#romance  #poetry  #death  #LLL 
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Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Dreamer's Will

Taste from my lips the grapes of wrath

And drink their wine in silence.

Plant evil flowers on my grave

And feed upon their violence.

Discard my body by the sea

And let the waves caress me.

Awaken Dreamers from their sleep;

May the depths repossess me.

The ravens that feed on my flesh

Shall sing their sad encore.

The only trace they leave behind--

My bones, littering the shore.

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Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Dreamer's Will
Taste from my lips the grapes of wrath
And drink their wine in silence.
Plant evil flowers on my grave
And feed upon their violence.

Discard my body by the sea
And let the waves caress me.
Awaken Dreamers from their sleep;
May the depths repossess me.

The ravens that feed on my flesh
Shall sing their sad encore.
The only trace they leave behind--
My bones, littering the shore.
#poetry  #death  #homage 
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Written by croissant

confession,

there is a campfire

lit by my brother

and put out by his death

like a shoe pressed down

on an ant

nibbling on a brownie

at a picnic.

i am going to die. this is a truth.

Someday

the round tubes coming out of my body

will vanish

and my veins will speak

a language I have known

since I was a 12-year-old

standing in a waiting room

with a white lab coat

delivering blue news

to a family of glaciers,

slowly melting.

the floor tiles were gray

like the world when you spin really fast

the colors and shapes

mold together

get confused

give up

and become lungs

after smoke or drugs or disease decides to rot them

and oxygen no longer finds a home in them

like I no longer found a home in my body

when my brother snorted up my powdered love

and pieces of my innocence beat away

like the wings of geese flying south for a winter

so snowy and crisp that my warmth

got buried alive

and my emotions grew so quiet

that now I must scamper through

the shallow waters of my mind

with a headlamp

and burnt toast knees

to see if feelings are still there

somewhere

anywhere

are there flowers?

i want a stick instead.

let me poke through my sweater and into my skin,

tuck tightly into a box with beautiful ribbons

and tease you.

open it up again,

I dare you.

fold a flood, neatly,

stuff it into a drawer,

and see how long it takes until you’re

swimming

                     floating

      drowning

                                 dying.

(just like me)

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Written by croissant
confession,
there is a campfire
lit by my brother
and put out by his death
like a shoe pressed down
on an ant
nibbling on a brownie
at a picnic.

i am going to die. this is a truth.
Someday
the round tubes coming out of my body
will vanish
and my veins will speak
a language I have known
since I was a 12-year-old
standing in a waiting room
with a white lab coat
delivering blue news
to a family of glaciers,
slowly melting.

the floor tiles were gray
like the world when you spin really fast
the colors and shapes
mold together
get confused
give up
and become lungs
after smoke or drugs or disease decides to rot them
and oxygen no longer finds a home in them
like I no longer found a home in my body
when my brother snorted up my powdered love
and pieces of my innocence beat away
like the wings of geese flying south for a winter
so snowy and crisp that my warmth
got buried alive

and my emotions grew so quiet
that now I must scamper through
the shallow waters of my mind
with a headlamp
and burnt toast knees
to see if feelings are still there
somewhere
anywhere

are there flowers?
i want a stick instead.
let me poke through my sweater and into my skin,
tuck tightly into a box with beautiful ribbons
and tease you.
open it up again,

I dare you.

fold a flood, neatly,
stuff it into a drawer,
and see how long it takes until you’re
swimming
                     floating
      drowning

                                 dying.
(just like me)
#nonfiction  #poetry  #death  #freeverse  #loss 
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Chapter 37 of Of Love, Loss & Loneliness
Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Vicious Cycle

Stillborn ideas lie scattered--

On the papers,

           the canvases,

                the walls.

Stabbed with angry quills.

Broken by violent brushes.

Etched by bloody fingernails.

Abortive thoughts,

Discarded

In abhorrent heaps.

Put to the blade.

Burned at the stake.

Among those cemeteries

-Those charred remains

Of failed potential-

I trod;

Ruthlessly.

Here,

Finding a diamond

Amidst the coals.

There,

Reviving a Phoenix

Up through the ashes.

Beauty

Found in darkness.

Creation

Born of death.

Rebirth.

Repurpose.

Thus,

Another vicious cycle

Begins

Anew.

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Chapter 37 of Of Love, Loss & Loneliness
Written by Cross in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Vicious Cycle
Stillborn ideas lie scattered--

On the papers,
           the canvases,
                the walls.

Stabbed with angry quills.
Broken by violent brushes.
Etched by bloody fingernails.

Abortive thoughts,
Discarded
In abhorrent heaps.
Put to the blade.
Burned at the stake.

Among those cemeteries
-Those charred remains
Of failed potential-
I trod;
Ruthlessly.

Here,
Finding a diamond
Amidst the coals.

There,
Reviving a Phoenix
Up through the ashes.

Beauty
Found in darkness.

Creation
Born of death.

Rebirth.
Repurpose.

Thus,
Another vicious cycle
Begins
Anew.
#poetry  #death  #creation  #rebirth  #LLL 
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Describe the moment death became real to you. Any style will do. Please tag me for the read.
Written by croissant

the happiest place on earth

I still remember the bright, light blue letters plastered on that old orange juice advertisement: “A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine." I guess that’s why losing my father will always remind me of citrus. He made me fresh orange juice in the morning before taking us all to church every Sunday. Thinking of him tastes like lemon zest that tightens your jaw and makes your teeth cramp. He helped me plant orange-lemon hybrids in our backyard. The first time we tasted one, I cringed. He will always feel like the rinds peeled off of me that left white residue and dried tang on your fingertips. To me, his death is that familiar sticky coating that lingers on your fingers even after you wash your hands. After digging your nails into the bright orange rinds and causing a little juice to spray out, it leaves a thin layer that makes my peeled body seem slightly more protected from the outside world. It separates me and brings me comfort.

I still wear my father’s old jackets even though I know it will sting being covered in his old lining. My mother said it was gross of me to keep some of his clothing, like it was the skin shed from a snake: lived-in. But I like zipping up a layer of him and feeling myself settle into a person who had experienced more life than I. It makes me feel like I can just absorb some of his knowledge; some of him. Maybe he can still help his little girl learn to take on the world, like he used to. Maybe I just want to feel something. Even if it’s pain.

The day he died, my mother was sitting on my bed at 7:35 in the morning. We were going to Disneyland to celebrate my little brother’s birthday a week early and my mother’s birthday a day early. My brother, Aron, was turning nine. She received a call from the hospital he had been in for the past year and half; we thought that maybe he felt a bit better and it would be him on the other end of the phone. My mother and I were victims of hope. Hope is my least favorite word and I am totally its bitch. It makes sure that you will never accept your reality like a knife capable of slicing skin and making juice trickle out. I felt like a tangerine, subjected to the thin blade of longing and dribbling out at the seams.

My mom put the phone call on speaker as the man on the other end relayed to us that this morning my father’s lungs had finally forgotten how to breathe and that his heart had learned to stop beating. That man introduced me to loss: a loss of a past filled with rides at Disneyland and churros on Sunday. And a loss of watching the special tree grow in the front yard and plucking off the ripe oranges. I learned two things that day:

1. Birth smells of citrus spraying out of the freshly peeled orange whose rinds are still pushed underneath your nail beds. An unparalleled attachment between me and my mother was born that day.

2. Death is when you squeeze the pith out. My father died.

The only good thing about knowing you have ALS is that you know that it will kill you. What you must learn is that it will also kill you slowly. I guess I was relieved that he no longer had to struggle to breathe. I found comfort in knowing that his muscles were no longer furiously disobeying him and bruising him from the inside out. It was August 7th, the day before my mother’s birthday. I skipped breakfast that day.

I rode in the passenger seat of the car with red heart-shaped sunglasses covering my damp eyes. On my phone, I searched “amyotrophic laterals sclerosis, death.” The ALS association website was the first to pop up. The link was already purple from me clicking on it so many times before; I had poked at it so often that the website developed the texture of an overly ripe Valencia orange that fell heavily off of the tree with a thump and gushed out just a little bit. My father did the same thing until his plump body flattened on the dirt soil and all his juice drained out, slowly.

This website explains that ALS is a neurodegenerative disease that literally translates to “No muscle nourishment.” Without nourishment, the muscles degenerate, which leads to the loss of voluntary actions. Voluntary actions include: putting his arms around me, posing for a family photo, and making us breakfast in the morning. It meant he could no longer go to Disneyland with us, sit in the white boats of “It’s a Small World,” and sing that incessant tune over and over again until it grinded my nerves. Who knew that I would ever miss that.

“Don’t let your brother know yet, I don’t wan to ruin his birthday.” Ok mom, I won’t.

We both wore sunglasses while she drove in silence. Today was a celebration.

Nothing reminds me more of my father than Disneyland. He loved that place so much none of my older siblings can even stand to hear the theme song anymore. It still held wonder for my younger brother and I, though. We used to go almost once a month and my father always made us all go on “It’s a Small World” at some point in the day. I always dreaded that. I wanted to go on all the fun and exciting rides, like “Thunder Mountain” or “Indiana Jones,” and I hoped that he forgot or might let us skip it. But he insisted that it was one of the most beautiful creations in this “small world,” apparently there was “an inexplicable presence there.” I always thought the secret “presence” was long, drawn out boredom and I would try to put it off till late in the night so I could nap on my father’s cushiony bicep. Only I ever saw him cry a little underneath the Mexican dancers when the tune started being sung in Spanish. I don’t think he ever suspected that I opened my eyes and saw him weep for his home country and his own deceased father. I kept it my little secret.

On the day he died I rode it twice. My unknowing brother complained while Mom and I cried. Now every time I sit in those white little boats and go through the castle to the unchanging tune of “It’s a Small World,” I can’t help but feel the presence of my father as if I’m 8 years old and he’s buying me pink cotton candy. I feel him put his arm around me and call me his little princess again. The time passes so slowly, and I love it.

It makes me want orange juice for breakfast again.

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Describe the moment death became real to you. Any style will do. Please tag me for the read.
Written by croissant
the happiest place on earth
I still remember the bright, light blue letters plastered on that old orange juice advertisement: “A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine." I guess that’s why losing my father will always remind me of citrus. He made me fresh orange juice in the morning before taking us all to church every Sunday. Thinking of him tastes like lemon zest that tightens your jaw and makes your teeth cramp. He helped me plant orange-lemon hybrids in our backyard. The first time we tasted one, I cringed. He will always feel like the rinds peeled off of me that left white residue and dried tang on your fingertips. To me, his death is that familiar sticky coating that lingers on your fingers even after you wash your hands. After digging your nails into the bright orange rinds and causing a little juice to spray out, it leaves a thin layer that makes my peeled body seem slightly more protected from the outside world. It separates me and brings me comfort.


I still wear my father’s old jackets even though I know it will sting being covered in his old lining. My mother said it was gross of me to keep some of his clothing, like it was the skin shed from a snake: lived-in. But I like zipping up a layer of him and feeling myself settle into a person who had experienced more life than I. It makes me feel like I can just absorb some of his knowledge; some of him. Maybe he can still help his little girl learn to take on the world, like he used to. Maybe I just want to feel something. Even if it’s pain.


The day he died, my mother was sitting on my bed at 7:35 in the morning. We were going to Disneyland to celebrate my little brother’s birthday a week early and my mother’s birthday a day early. My brother, Aron, was turning nine. She received a call from the hospital he had been in for the past year and half; we thought that maybe he felt a bit better and it would be him on the other end of the phone. My mother and I were victims of hope. Hope is my least favorite word and I am totally its bitch. It makes sure that you will never accept your reality like a knife capable of slicing skin and making juice trickle out. I felt like a tangerine, subjected to the thin blade of longing and dribbling out at the seams.

My mom put the phone call on speaker as the man on the other end relayed to us that this morning my father’s lungs had finally forgotten how to breathe and that his heart had learned to stop beating. That man introduced me to loss: a loss of a past filled with rides at Disneyland and churros on Sunday. And a loss of watching the special tree grow in the front yard and plucking off the ripe oranges. I learned two things that day:
1. Birth smells of citrus spraying out of the freshly peeled orange whose rinds are still pushed underneath your nail beds. An unparalleled attachment between me and my mother was born that day.
2. Death is when you squeeze the pith out. My father died.


The only good thing about knowing you have ALS is that you know that it will kill you. What you must learn is that it will also kill you slowly. I guess I was relieved that he no longer had to struggle to breathe. I found comfort in knowing that his muscles were no longer furiously disobeying him and bruising him from the inside out. It was August 7th, the day before my mother’s birthday. I skipped breakfast that day.


I rode in the passenger seat of the car with red heart-shaped sunglasses covering my damp eyes. On my phone, I searched “amyotrophic laterals sclerosis, death.” The ALS association website was the first to pop up. The link was already purple from me clicking on it so many times before; I had poked at it so often that the website developed the texture of an overly ripe Valencia orange that fell heavily off of the tree with a thump and gushed out just a little bit. My father did the same thing until his plump body flattened on the dirt soil and all his juice drained out, slowly.

This website explains that ALS is a neurodegenerative disease that literally translates to “No muscle nourishment.” Without nourishment, the muscles degenerate, which leads to the loss of voluntary actions. Voluntary actions include: putting his arms around me, posing for a family photo, and making us breakfast in the morning. It meant he could no longer go to Disneyland with us, sit in the white boats of “It’s a Small World,” and sing that incessant tune over and over again until it grinded my nerves. Who knew that I would ever miss that.


“Don’t let your brother know yet, I don’t wan to ruin his birthday.” Ok mom, I won’t.
We both wore sunglasses while she drove in silence. Today was a celebration.

Nothing reminds me more of my father than Disneyland. He loved that place so much none of my older siblings can even stand to hear the theme song anymore. It still held wonder for my younger brother and I, though. We used to go almost once a month and my father always made us all go on “It’s a Small World” at some point in the day. I always dreaded that. I wanted to go on all the fun and exciting rides, like “Thunder Mountain” or “Indiana Jones,” and I hoped that he forgot or might let us skip it. But he insisted that it was one of the most beautiful creations in this “small world,” apparently there was “an inexplicable presence there.” I always thought the secret “presence” was long, drawn out boredom and I would try to put it off till late in the night so I could nap on my father’s cushiony bicep. Only I ever saw him cry a little underneath the Mexican dancers when the tune started being sung in Spanish. I don’t think he ever suspected that I opened my eyes and saw him weep for his home country and his own deceased father. I kept it my little secret.

On the day he died I rode it twice. My unknowing brother complained while Mom and I cried. Now every time I sit in those white little boats and go through the castle to the unchanging tune of “It’s a Small World,” I can’t help but feel the presence of my father as if I’m 8 years old and he’s buying me pink cotton candy. I feel him put his arm around me and call me his little princess again. The time passes so slowly, and I love it.

It makes me want orange juice for breakfast again.
#nonfiction  #death  #father  #disneyland  #ALS 
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Write something to a person that you wouldn't tell them in person - any form, any way you want to. let it out.
Written by sandflea68

Unbearable

I cherish your being

hold you to my heart

thoughts of losing you

pounding nails of despair

bruised emotional exhaustion

pondering whether your existence

will carry over into the morrow

life threatening to swallow you

leaving me thirsty and bereft

unfinished and suffocating

my flailed spirit will lose

its passion, a violin missing

its strings of resonance

my love gluing you to my soul

Stay a while before you leave

and I will breathe deeply for you

enfolding you in my heart, forever.

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Write something to a person that you wouldn't tell them in person - any form, any way you want to. let it out.
Written by sandflea68
Unbearable
I cherish your being
hold you to my heart
thoughts of losing you
pounding nails of despair
bruised emotional exhaustion
pondering whether your existence
will carry over into the morrow
life threatening to swallow you
leaving me thirsty and bereft
unfinished and suffocating
my flailed spirit will lose
its passion, a violin missing
its strings of resonance
my love gluing you to my soul
Stay a while before you leave
and I will breathe deeply for you
enfolding you in my heart, forever.

#challenge  #death  #painful  #FeelingsAboutYourDying  #CantSayInPerson 
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Written by ElleArra in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Abandoned

he was four years old when

his mother died. we were 

four years together when he

left me– he put me quietly

in the ground next to her. 

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Written by ElleArra in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Abandoned
he was four years old when
his mother died. we were 
four years together when he
left me– he put me quietly
in the ground next to her. 
#death  #love  #abandonment  #buried 
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Written by xeian in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Days With The Dead

Those were the days

of ball bearings rattling

in tin can bodies

and souls that echoed

hopelessly

across oceans wilder

than any we ever shaded

back when shading

was something we did

for marks.

Those were the days

of speaking over string

pulled not quite taut

enough to hear

clearly

when communication

was something we felt

rather than did

and all the shouting

was silent.

Oh, those were the days

of dying in sunlight

brighter than the hopes

we used to hold

tenderly

over the fire of youth

as we burned like cats

in the heat of our

first lust.

And those were the days

of Hamelin's best piping us

to the knowledge

that we could fight

endlessly

for the things we thought

we wanted as much

as the breaths we owed

to machines now

shut down.

Those were the days,

he says in the murk

of an afterlife cold

and filling up

slowly

with the sound of no

and please and I wasn't

ready to leave them

and he sighs as he rows

back across.

---

"Days With The Dead" © 2016-2017 xeian

theprose.com/xeian (161215)

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Written by xeian in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Days With The Dead
Those were the days
of ball bearings rattling
in tin can bodies
and souls that echoed
hopelessly
across oceans wilder
than any we ever shaded
back when shading
was something we did
for marks.

Those were the days
of speaking over string
pulled not quite taut
enough to hear
clearly
when communication
was something we felt
rather than did
and all the shouting
was silent.

Oh, those were the days
of dying in sunlight
brighter than the hopes
we used to hold
tenderly
over the fire of youth
as we burned like cats
in the heat of our
first lust.

And those were the days
of Hamelin's best piping us
to the knowledge
that we could fight
endlessly
for the things we thought
we wanted as much
as the breaths we owed
to machines now
shut down.

Those were the days,
he says in the murk
of an afterlife cold
and filling up
slowly
with the sound of no
and please and I wasn't
ready to leave them
and he sighs as he rows
back across.

---

"Days With The Dead" © 2016-2017 xeian
theprose.com/xeian (161215)
#poetry  #death  #nostalgia  #regrets 
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Write a poem using the words "remember" and "forget" at least once, with one at the beginning and one near the end.
Written by Keggruel in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Death

You live on through us everyday,

No matter what we will remember you,

We wish we could have created more memories with you,

We wish you were still here,

We wish we could have gotten there sooner,

And tell you how much we loved you,

We wish we could go back,

Because we realize how much we depended on you

And how much we took for granted,

Because we have seen how easy it is to leave the ones you love

And the ones who love you,

We try to live our days like they may be our last,

We try to fill it,

The hole in our hearts,

But no matter what we can’t help but feel like something is missing,

We learned to walk and talk about you without crying,

Without you,

We slowly learned how to live our lives

But the truth is, we never stop grieving,

We cried, we grieved,

You were no longer with us,

And it was hard to process,

We were told it was going to be okay,

We were told to remember the good things

That you left behind,

We were not ready for the pain and heartbreak

We were not ready,

When you left us.

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Write a poem using the words "remember" and "forget" at least once, with one at the beginning and one near the end.
Written by Keggruel in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Death
You live on through us everyday,
No matter what we will remember you,
We wish we could have created more memories with you,
We wish you were still here,
We wish we could have gotten there sooner,
And tell you how much we loved you,
We wish we could go back,
Because we realize how much we depended on you
And how much we took for granted,
Because we have seen how easy it is to leave the ones you love
And the ones who love you,
We try to live our days like they may be our last,
We try to fill it,
The hole in our hearts,
But no matter what we can’t help but feel like something is missing,
We learned to walk and talk about you without crying,
Without you,
We slowly learned how to live our lives
But the truth is, we never stop grieving,
We cried, we grieved,
You were no longer with us,
And it was hard to process,
We were told it was going to be okay,
We were told to remember the good things
That you left behind,
We were not ready for the pain and heartbreak
We were not ready,
When you left us.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #challenge  #death  #sad 
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Written by solipsist in portal Poetry & Free Verse

[considerations]

seven years ago,

i was a boy holding roses

in the backseat of my father's buick

and hoping for my first kiss.

the sunlight cut

through the tinted glass

like it was july, but it was only

december, when i loved you.

i wonder if my sister

was cold when she drowned

in the creek that still runs

through your backyard.

she is with god now.

so your mother opened the door

and saw me blossoming

like pomegranates —

she is with god now.

she is with god now.

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Written by solipsist in portal Poetry & Free Verse
[considerations]
seven years ago,
i was a boy holding roses
in the backseat of my father's buick
and hoping for my first kiss.

the sunlight cut
through the tinted glass
like it was july, but it was only
december, when i loved you.

i wonder if my sister
was cold when she drowned
in the creek that still runs
through your backyard.

she is with god now.
so your mother opened the door
and saw me blossoming
like pomegranates —

she is with god now.
she is with god now.
#death 
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5
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Juice
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