Tear Drops part II

The poetry that I have been reviewing has the themes that I have been looking for. Each little poem expresses the idea that I want readers to understand. Tear Drops are more than specks of water falling down from people’s faces. Tear Drops is what we let go and have a past of us that grows stronger. Tear Drops then creates individuals to ponder about life and whether or not it was good or bad. One of the authors in Tear Drops is Edgar Allan Poe. He is one of my favorite poetry writers because he expresses what we feel and how the words can fool with our emotions. It's seems that every end of a sentence words rhyme but not for the joy however but for the deeper meaning. Other poems that I have entered are ones that I wrote and is available online as well in books. These poems however is actually pieces of memories fading away just like parts of the body.

The Valley of the Unrest

Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless- Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye- Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:- from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:- from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems. Edgar Allan Poe http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/valley-of-unrest-the/ To-- The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds, Are lips- and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words- Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined, Then desolately fall, O God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall- Thy heart- thy heart!- I wake and sigh, And sleep to dream till day Of the truth that gold can never buy- Of the baubles that it may. Edgar Allan Poe http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to/ Spirits of the Dead Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone; Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness- for then The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee; be still. The night, though clear, shall frown, And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the Heaven With light like hope to mortals given, But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee for ever. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish, Now are visions ne'er to vanish; From thy spirit shall they pass No more, like dew-drop from the grass. The breeze, the breath of God, is still, And the mist upon the hill Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token. How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries! Edgar Allan Poe http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spirits-of-the-dead/

Fighting Flames

by Luisa Sanluis

It has been 10 years since that awful day.
My family couldn't pay this kind of price.
I could still see the images of my nightmare.
If only my mother would care.
Each day and night my siblings would always fight.
So it is hard to go to bed.
Now before I pray,
I see the future of mine up in flames.
I might not be alive anymore.
So why can't I just lay and wait for death.
My heart is wealth but the rest is just
dirt. http://www.poetry.com/poems/fighting-flames/1278983/

Forgotten Soul

by Luisa Sanluis

Each mourning I wake up with stabs on my back.
Each one falling to my broken heart.
I think "Why am I still Here?!"
Havent I suffered enough already?
Am I being tested for a task? or
Am I being watch for amusement for others?
As I look in the mirror of my bathroom,
I see a shadow fading toward the light.
A new chapter is being written and yet
I do not understand why I havent read it yet.
The shadow is my soul and now it is being forgotten
by those who used to care about me.
Will I be remembered?
Or will I be another Book on the sheleves of an abandon library?

http://www.poetry.com/poems/forgotten-soul/6621769/

Anthology Plan

Theme Tear drops by the cemetery

Introduction

Hello. The Anthology of time is sections of poetry that come together in our modern society. These pieces of poetry describe life situations and how many have overcome it. Many authors write how they feel and use their writing as a way to deal with the pain. In these poems readers should understand that they are not alone.

These poems come from the heart of the writers and writing their work displays their view upon society as well as what their eyes can see.

When writing these poems a reader might not understand what is going on. However, when they close their eyes images begin to appear. Those images may bring good memories or tearful ones. In the end we do tend to cry just to overcome our obstacles.

Each section is split up between the stages of grief and a lost piece of their heart. Cemetery represents a place to move on and let go of what is hurting them from the inside. Tear drops are the theme of these collections. It reflects upon what we cry about and how we then begin to wipe away the tears. However inside all of us the tear drops are locked away in a tomb deep inside our hearts. Walking by a cemetery it will display how we all come and go but our tears will never fade away.

Poems

The Cry

Don’t think it was all hate

That grew there; love grew there, too,

Climbing by small tendrils where

The warmth fell from the eyes’ blue

Flame. Don’t think even the dirt

And the brute ugliness reigned

Unchallenged. Among fields

Sometimes the spirit, enchained

So long by the gross flesh, raised

Suddenly there it wild note of praise.

By R.S Thomas * no link*

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Mary E. Frye http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/do-not-stand-at-my-grave-and-weep/

She

I think the dead are tender. Shall we kiss? --

My lady laughs, delighting in what is.

If she but sighs, a bird puts out its tongue.

She makes space lonely with a lovely song.

She lilts a low soft language, and I hear

Down long sea-chambers of the inner ear.

We sing together; we sing mouth to mouth.

The garden is a river flowing south.

She cries out loud the soul's own secret joy;

She dances, and the ground bears her away.

She knows the speech of light, and makes it plain

A lively thing can come to life again.

I feel her presence in the common day,

In that slow dark that widens every eye.

She moves as water moves, and comes to me,

Stayed by what was, and pulled by what would be.

Theodore Roethke http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she/

Advice to a Discarded Lover

Think, now: if you have found a dead bird,

not only dead, not only fallen,

but full of maggots: what do you feel -

more pity or more revulsion?

Pity is for the moment of death,

and the moments after. It changes

when decay comes, with the creeping stench

and the wriggling, munching scavengers.

Returning later, though, you will see

a shape of clean bone, a few feathers,

an inoffensive symbol of what

once lived. Nothing to make you shudder.

It is clear then. But perhaps you find

the analogy I have chosen

for our dead affair rather gruesome -

too unpleasant a comparison.

It is not accidental. In you

I see maggots close to the surface.

You are eaten up by self-pity,

crawling with unlovable pathos.

If I were to touch you I should feel

against my fingers fat, moist worm-skin.

Do not ask me for charity now:

go away until your bones are clean.

FLEUR ADCOCK

http://www.arlindo-correia.com/080305.html

It's Good To Be Here

I'm in trouble, she said

to him. That was the first

time in history that anyone

had ever spoken of me.

It was 1932 when she

was just fourteen years old

and men like him

worked all day for

one stinking dollar.

There's quinine, she said.

That's bullshit, he told her.

Then she cried and then

for a long time neither of them

said anything at all and then

their voices kept rising until

they were screaming at each other

and then there was a another long silence and then

they began to talk very quietly and at last he said

well, I guess we'll just have to make the best of it.

While I lay curled up,

my heart beating,

in the darkness inside her.

Alden Nowlan

http://www.everypoet.org/pffa//showthread.php?