Grief does not argue, and neither does a three-line poem. There is no room in the form for consolation or for the long explanation that usually follows a death, and that turns out to be a mercy. What a poet can do in three lines is put one thing down and stand next to it: an empty bed, a bowl of bananas nobody will eat, a coat still on its hook.
These poems come from across the Three Line Poetry archive. They are quiet, mostly, and specific, and several of them will get you in the last line. Each links back to the issue it appeared in.
35 poems from the archive
Wondrous melancholy shatters
as pure grief escapes
from under my mourning shadow.
Sink into my depths
Life sleeps within my haven
Where you bury death
The autopsy showed
truth died of neglect
many years ago.
Goodbye to the sun,
Autumn is dying slowly;
Dreams we did not keep.
arms stretched out
like oceans—luring
sailors to early graves
The red, white and blue
Beckons me to return home.
They cry at my grave.
Sidewalk narcissi:
Faded, elastic-banded
And slated to die.
Mother, Father, Child come to the old stones
The guide tells them all they need to know,
Fantasies of buried treasure and bones.
grassbound Zamboni
swirls of patterns in the lawn
thousands of dead blades
her funeral
the pale colours
of distant islands
the crunching makes her cringe—
it’s the sudden sound of death
for the crushed snail.
Remnants of the first sad story –
a black bear’s white teeth
& infant buried in a pit.
Mourning dove, do you notice me
as you alight upon the patio?
I wonder, who is in whose space?
When the bomb exploded
Life stood still
Many died years later
There is a place
where seamstress-pin stars
wink and die
A penniless widow, she sleeps alone
in her room, in my house,
and dreams of waking up with him.
Whispering grasses
Singing ballads of solace
To the graves beneath.
Dead embers lie down
Filling up a Charnel house
And men drink fire
The instinct of the rolled potato bug
the mouse playing dead under cat claws
is in you, to withstand and survive
My mother showed me her scrapbook
of Abuelito’s funeral. That night
I dreamt of marigolds.
Dead roses lie on the table,
still bundled as they came from the store.
For want of water, they withered.
when the dust settles
the machines will still hum on
metal does not die
funeral parlor reception line
muted conversations
gentle embraces
at his wife’s funeral
loud memories
silent tears
They say a man must believe in his star and follow it
It is sadly true: by the time the star’s light reaches
Here, the star is long dead
emptying his gym locker after the funeral
the remains of an athletic life
in a narrow rectangle
Mother’s womb was so warm.
Now it grows cold
like the tomb it is.
battered teddy bear
one chewed ear hanging by a thread
on top of the tiny coffin
After she died he continued
buying bananas for her, leaving them
in the bowl until they rotted.
A wolf eats his prey
He dies if he does not kill
This is as life is
Dead soldiers rise
Go for a beer
War games
Who can say what I am but I?
I am not needed... no one is.
If Caesar could die, so can I!
flooding her mouth, under tongue
the dam’s shattered; goodbye peel
broken walls, rushing flavor tainted water
after the light has died
the artist’s shadow remains
larger than life
after the funeral
she sits beside the bed
empty of woe
More poems by theme
From the Three Line Poetry archive