Not one of us passes through life without being touched by death and grief. Initially, I had only a handful of poems dealing with that topic. I did not feel a specific category on death and grief was necessary for this website. Sadly, after the loss of a child (my youngest son) in 2018, that has changed. This new topic includes 40 poems on death and grief, written as part of my own grieving process. I hope this category helps other bereaved parents find and use them as part of their own healing from the loss of a child.
FINDING THE POEM YOU WANT: As you scroll through this section, simply read each snippet sample (usually the first four lines) to get a feel for the poem. When you find something you like, click “CONTINUE READING” to view the entire poem.
(My poems about death are here for non-commercial purposes only. Please include full copyright information on every copy, emailing a request for permission before using. For internet use, a link back to this site is required. May peace and comfort be yours on this difficult path.)
You said I was your giving tree,
my foliage tendered to your need:
the branches and the greenery,
the trunk sliced deep enough to bleed.
The little book you gave to me
about a lovely giving tree
has rooted on the polished wood
that holds the tomes my heart deems good.
The day his spirit flew,
mine rose to follow.
(Though only a few bits
got clean away.)
today I am remembering
dinners at the olive garden
late-night feasts debriefing
your surgical rotation
you: enthusiastic, exhausted
me: attentive, admiring
A million words would
never bring you back.
I know, for I have said
them all and more.
I call you in my mind,
greet you in dreams,
pen you in poems that leak
from every pore.
They march out the front door,
sneak out the back one,
slip from windows on
bedsheets, deftly tied.
I do not slide the bolts
nor lock the shutters,
wary of stanzas
trapping me inside.
Still, I won’t send words
packing. They are mine.
Imperfect words, and yet
I hold them dear.
Ethereal as stars, they
have not raised you,
just hooked me on their power
to draw you near.
If this poem resonates with you, you may enjoy reading The Summons.
I am the one who knows
you are not present.
And yet, I come to stand
beside your grave.
Hungry for any service
I might render,
hoping to cross a bridge
I cannot pave.
My heart is like a google drive. Streamed memories of you
float through the cloud in my less-sunny mind,
an often-viewed assortment of mixed ages and all stages,
good moods and lengthy broods, a motley find.
She’d waited two years for grief to end.
It wasn’t easy, but she was game.
“Two years should do it,” remarked a friend,
but Anne was still going round the bend
with nothing improving and much the same.