Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Narrative Mystery Poems | Narrative Poems About Mystery

These Narrative Mystery poems are examples of Narrative poems about Mystery. These are the best examples of Narrative Mystery poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Narrative | |

Past-Life Nightmare

A child of four suffers recurring dreams,
disturbing parents and siblings with screams.
When she awoke, always sore in one knee;
next to a birthmark, it throbbed painfully.

Night after night she feared going to bed.
What caused these nightmares that raged in her head?
Even when grown, the torment persisted,
so a therapist’s aid she enlisted.

“Hypnosis,” said he, “might offer some clues.
Why not try it?  You’ve just bad dreams to lose.”
Once under, he guided her to a room --
here people’s lifetimes in books were entombed.

“Find one that is yours,” her counselor said.
Quickly she did, but before it was read,
she felt an ache, saw just a faint title.
The words, she thought, said “Alister Bridle.”

The hypnotic trance now suddenly broke;  
puzzling questions “Mr. Bridle” evoked.
For many years she thought that was her name;
perhaps a past life had been filled with pain.

Who was this man?  She simply had to know!
Seasons passed, summer suns made way for snow.
In Florida now, 1998,
she thought all the nightmares she had escaped.

But strange dreams always catch us by surprise --
when the lights grow dim, our minds fantasize.
Cloaked in velvet, she left her parents’ farm,
stealing away on a late autumn morn’.

To meet her love, she climbed on the carriage,
knowing her folks would forbid their marriage.
Warm-hued leaves carpeted the hillside road,
and her pulse beat fast; she’d soon join her beau.

She thought only of him; joy cast its smile,
but that’s when he called, “Alice, the bridle!”
The leather band broke and wrapped ‘round her knee.
To the ground she was pulled; her horse ran free.

She met death, but past-life dreams recycle,
and she’d never been “Alister Bridle.”



*Based on real events I experienced.

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

In the Middle of the Universe, I stand

In the middle of the universe, I stand 
My mind seeking comprehension 
The mysteries of life tantalize my tenacious grip on wisdom
I stand
Observing omnipotent organization
The universe expands as I stand in wonder
What does it all mean?
Infinite answers press against my finite mind
Clamoring for recognition
I stand: dazed, amazed, crazed
By all I don’t know and can never fathom
Until there is light
And the light dawns
And the meaning of the universe unravels 

Your celestial body orbits mine
Time after time
Your gravitational force defies logic
Refusing to stay in the paths ordained
The laws of nature are flaunted
and...we collide
My head is crowned with your constellation kisses
I travel in the nebula of your dreams and fantasies 
As you dip into my body the Milky whiteness of your WAY
The universe explodes in the starry heavens of your eyes
Meteorite words of ecstasy
Streak across my sky of consciousness
Blazing...

Time becomes a non-entity
The mystery of love overshadows the mystery of life
And now I see…
The beginning and end of all creation
The sum total of my existence
Of life
Of the universe
Of...EVERYTHING
Is here
It’s eternal

In the middle of the universe, I stand
I understand
The universe is LOVE

In the Middle of the Universe I Stand Contest
Sponsor: Vernela S Walker
February 5, 2015

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative | |

Coiled Spring External

it is in this mural of splashing fuses 
that I am lit with a solemn torch……

I gaze with back deck musing 
but  front porch eyes….

I see the distance beyond this world
                   (my own cosmic existence)
a residence I squandered 
but my feet want to tread there

the green that surrounds me 
suffuses me with lakeside dew
melodies drifting only the quiet can hear
ripples that only valid observers see

the kentucky breeze carries a lonely wind
solitary….
               where has it been?
has it touched the sand I have?
                                (bare toes buried)

somewhere a child cries in the still
shattering  this serenity 
(though some don’t hear it)
along the bank of shoal like tranquility
the birds will wail for broken dreams 
(severed by thoughtless hands)

oh, its only a portrait
                     (an inspiring one though)
as open lashes stumble 
                        a horizons sinking sun
multi hues of reckless red and pink
a blue print  of what life should be
snap shot deftness in the perception
while beneath lay the sorrow

the last lingering tangerine shades
tease and taunt the tops of dogwood trees
oh beauty as far as eyes can see
a few silver shimmers of clouds 
                              in a blue grass sky

flowers bloom sweet pea and peonies
raw carmine kisses in the silence
pretty pansy faces 
                   and grass is verdant
green!! peacock sage and pine
 arrayed in darks and lights
a myriad of different shades 
brilliant in its lush velvet on my feet

to only live life this way (skimming surfaces)
just as the honey suckle does
how blissful that would be
(in all its exquisite ignorance)
branches sway in the song of a blue bird zephyr
as the fingers of it caress my skin

tonight
this expanse is my companion

but still I perceive it
what lies beneath
in stunning cognizance 
bearing a strenuous burden

it is in this mural of splashing fuses
that I am lit with a solemn torch

I gaze with back deck musing
but front porch eyes

Copyright © Christie Moses | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

When Our Poetry Muse Beckons

Poetry is a highly personal endeavor for all who write
And answer the inspiration of Our Eternal Poetry Muse.

Why do we write poetry?
This a very important question for all of us who “spill ink.”

Poetry for me is a most wonderful magical medium and
An art and methodology which bespeaks the realm of the
Mysterious, Arcane, Uncanny, Mystical, Esoteric, and Divine. 

Poetry is my personal endeavor to master the complexity of
Relating my deepest thoughts and connecting with the reader;
Developing a memorable and intriguing theme or subject;
Choosing the right words and composing meaningful verse;
Finding the best metaphors and the proper tone and balance;
Exploring key theme attributes (to name a few):

	Feelings, passions, emotions, light, dark, happiness
	Sadness, humor, good, evil, intelligence, stupidity,
	Right, wrong, ethereal, ignorance, and indifference.

Our Poetry Muse touches each and every one of us at key times
When we least expect it:  morning, noon, evening, after midnight.

Our Muse, for me, captivates my thoughts and illuminates my soul
While compelling me onward to communicate and share with others
What I see and perceive, sense and feel, think and understand about 
A theme as it resonates in the depths of my innermost psyche.

I know that I have much to say now in my life . . .
Verse, meter, rhyme, tone, metaphors, metonymy, allegory, imagination—
All enliven my efforts and make easier my attempts to mirror my
Thoughts and views to the reading public.

I want my thoughts and doubts, as my passion abounds, to connect with
Those deepest elements of my human psyche and my emotions
In making my written message to be something that is: 
Meaningful and significant, resolute and spirited; 
Full of passion or compassion, humor or sadness, courage or fear,
Strength or weakness, Heaven or Hell, bliss or misery—or whatever
Motivates and inspires the Creative Process for me. 

Our Muse is there with all of us, in reality, to inspire us and help us
To bring passion, meaning, certitude, and direction to our thoughts
As we attempt to infuse these very attributes into our poetic narrative.

Our Muse, in the end, leaves it up to each and every one of us
To go one further step beyond Her ethereal influence and inspiration:
To invest and infuse at the end of this process our own “Free Will”
In making the final decision pertaining to what our final verse or
Narrative product will look like To Our Reading Public.

This is my take, my view on what happens when Our Eternal Poetry Muse
Tantalizes us and awakens within each of us that undeniable Spirit of  
Inspiration, and that giddy zest and irrepressible desire to “spill ink.”


Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved, Schoeningen, Germany (October 3, 2014) (Narrative poetic format)

Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative | |

HE KNOWS

As I think back to that dark time in our community I don’t know if I’d ever seen anyone quite 
like that (Cinder Girl). We girls thought she had (Lovely Bones). The last time I saw her alive, 
she was sitting on her porch blowing a (Dandelion Wishing) for a long life.I think she knew 
that (Before Night Falls) her (Worst Fear) would be realized. The beast from the nether 
world, who I think directed everything was that (Dog That Wears a Cone). He sat in her side 
yard staring at her. The locals called him Cujo, he was (By Any Other Name), (The Beast of 
Our Making). Cujo aside, (That Guy Paul) Cujos’ minion, was one (Bloody Bastard). He was 
going to involve Cinder in (A Rural Tragedy) of epic proportions.
 
It went down on a (Heavy Slush)y winters’ eve guaranteed not to be a pastoral (Scene On a 
Road in Winter). I had entered the old abandoned farmhouse on my way home from town. I 
was cold and my feet were wet from the slush. I sat down in a small room out of the draft. I 
heard voices outside. Paul endured (The Wait) for his accomplice in the cold. When she 
arrived he began talking to (The Girl Who Wears the Dragon Tattoo). Then I saw what he 
had done. 

(What was I Thinking) (What If) they found me hiding (Inside This Little Room). Paul and the 
dragon lady were sweaty (Toilers at the Trench), digging frozen dirt in winter is hard work. I 
heard Paul laugh as he said to “TATS,” this time we’re (Cleaning House)… Was I next?

Suddenly, the opportunity for escape from this nightmare arose. Jake the bumbling county 
snow plow driver unknowingly swung the truck onto the farmstead with its’ halogen lights 
probing deep (Into Night). He had (Thwarted) their hiding this heinous crime. The sight he 
illuminated gave me the [That Potent Urge(Gotta Go, Gotta Go Right Now)]. I ran from that 
house into the night. No one ever knew I was there and since Jake was the only witness the 
court needed, I never came forward.

Jake had never been (My Kind of Apple) because (Jake Sure Loved His Beans). Regardless, 
Jake unknowingly saved my life that night. I never thought it would happen but over time I’d 
grown accustomed to the gas. We were married late last fall and as we left the reception I 
saw Cujo on a nearby hill wearing that ominous cone. I thought to myself as he watched us 
leave, he knows…

            Oh God, he knows I was there!

            *This narrative derived from the titles of one poets work here on the Soup.

Copyright © John Trusty | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Ghost Ship Omen

Scientists say it’s just a mirage,
but sailors claim the ghost ship floats
in air, with stormy seas below.
Again he tries to round Cape Hope.

Captain van der Decken angered God
one savage 18th Century night.
Vowed he’d sail till “Judgment Day,”
to cross the Table Bay, he’d fight.

The Flying Dutchman disappeared
sank deep in foggy, wind-swept sea,
but the captain’s doomed to walk the deck
each night in perpetuity.

King George the Fifth, the Prince of Wales
are two who saw the Dutchman.
Although these royal heirs survived,
most meet death -- the captain’s omen.

His curse prevails in Wagner’s Opera
and Washington Irving’s story;
crews tremble, ghost ship emerges
Dutchman floats in frightening glory.

So many sailors and their ships
still meet demise on starless nights,
when demons steer the Dutchman
and a vengeful God reads last rites.

Till this day the Flying Dutchman
looms threatening on a ravaged sea.
For Judgment Day the captain waits,
luring crews to their destiny.


*Entry for the Story Poem contest.

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative | |

You've got the rhythm in you

She once met a man called Noel,
He was a musician of rock and roll,
They sang and played music into the night,
When she is with him she doesn’t get a fright.

Then He turned to her and said...

You’ve got the rhythm in you,
You’ve got it in your shoes,
You’ve got it in your bones,
You’ve got it in your toes,
You’ve got it in your hair,
You’ve got it everywhere,
You’ve had it from the start,
You’ve got it in your heart.

Through the wind they whispered singing softly,
Into the crack of dawn, morning light...

At 6am she fell asleep,
Subconsciously she heard a creep...

She woke up and he wasn’t there,
She called for his name,
It was like he didn’t care,
She was going insane!

She still hears those words at night,
Though unable to see Him through sight.

You’ve got the rhythm in you,
You’ve got it in your shoes,
You’ve got it in your bones,
You’ve got it in your toes,
You’ve got it in your hair,
You’ve got it everywhere,
You’ve had it from the start,
You’ve got it in your heart.

By: Ava Douglass   Age: 12

Copyright © Ava Douglass | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Sleepless Nights

Insomnia, familiar friend,
crawled into bed this summer night
so once again, inflamed with dread
I wander now in pitch of dark 
and touch the places, now by heart, that sprawl unstirred by weary minds

This lonely place, where I used to come
where armless grief, and headless doubt
and worry filled the rooms
I know you cold, my land of oz
So ruthless do you change your face
into a place I once refrained

But,  don't pretend to make me fear, toxic robber of my sleep
I've known you much too long
You masquerade in shades of gray
And now I know that dark of night, is not the blackest thing
And room by room, I'll play the game
until the light of day

The shadows magnify your art
and though they magnify my loss of sleep
and while I've tossed and turned in vain
I've lost the lonely albatross
that pulled against the grain

From hooded thresholds I embark
to find a language of the dark
A liquid language of a mystic night, 
that switches on the light

I've walked the halls of ghosts I knew, and those I hope to meet
I've felt the stares, and shared myself, no secrets left to keep
But not tonight, familiar friend
you bask in myth I understand
I'll fill the tasks that need my hands, until the light of day...
---------------


For Leonora Galinta's Contest

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative | |

BROTHER - BILLY

It started growing in a field
Billy Stover watched it grow

Because the corn was tall
Because Billy Stover was small
No one knew
Now one saw

No one saw how the tiny boy watched by the hour    in summer's heat
Even from the top of high elm trees by the road
    who could have detected that small lad    stretched out
    on his stomach    leaning on his elbows    watching

On stormy days    Billy watched from the closest window
    elbows propped up on the sill
He knew it was growing    though he couldn't see it
He'd be down in the field now    in the mud    watching
    but    his mother forbade it
"What do you do out there    Billy    all by yourself?
What is it you do out there instead of playing?"

On certain days    when the wind swayed the green stalks
    and    nipped Billy's cheeks    his eyes would light up
He fought back a burning desire to run into the white kitchen
    to tug at his mother's apron    to bring her out
    and show her his one spot
He jumped up    once    when the flames leaped high
    started running for the house
"Mother!    Mother!"    he silently shouted
Every part of his small body shook with joy    but
The bleak    white walls of the kitchen
    his mother    her hands dipped in bread dough....................................

It started growing in the field    in the dirt    in the mind of Billy Stover
And    no one could have kept a secret better than Billy

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative | |

Marion's Return

As Marion trod the old familiar path
leading to the river of her childhood,
she viewed the willow tree across the river
and recalled with clarity
the event that changed her life 
half a century ago - that memory
which for all her adult life
she‘d managed to suppress . . . 

She was being chased by Ellie down the path;
Ellie, the fair haired younger sister
favored by their father
and wearing the golden pendant he had given her
when she’d won a spelling bee. 
Yanking the pendant from her sister’s neck,
Marion ran into the river’s icy water,
threatening to throw the pendant in.
Screaming, Ellie followed right behind.
Farther into the river’s center, the two girls moved.
Where the riverbed dipped sharply, 
Ellie had caught up.

Suddenly the wind blew violently,
The chain with its beautiful pendant
slipped from Marion’s hand 
into the swirling water.
Ellie tottered, falling backwards.
Then the river was carrying 
Marion’s little sister to the other side.
Marion called out, but Ellie did not answer.
A strong swimmer, Marion swam 
to her sister’s lifeless body 
on the opposite bank where a nearby willow stood -
witness to her crime.

Marion now was standing where she once had stood
that fateful day. The river had receded with time,
but its current was still strong. 
She stood recalling her parents’ bitter tears
and how she had escaped their wrath
inventing her own version of the truth -
that Ellie had run into the water by herself
when the sudden wind came up
causing her demise.
She felt bad, but in the end, 
she became her father’s newfound pride and joy.

Something glittered at the water’s edge.
Marion, now heavy and clumsy with age,
moved closer to see. Could it be after all these years?
Yes, it was the pendant, shining in the river’s sludge!
She stooped to pick it up, but lost her balance,
 falling forward toward the slanting floor.
As she struggled, a great gust of wind
moved her out. . .farther and farther to the middle.
Before her head vanished below the water’s surface,
she saw that old willow’s leaves flutter angrily.
She could almost swear she saw the form of Ellie,
fair sweet Ellie, beckoning her from the other side.


For Frank Herrera's POEM ENDING WITH A 'CHILLING TWIST' Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative | |

A Blind Sunset

He glances out the window,
And watches the sunset,
But he doesn’t see the beauty,
Nor the warm rays which, 
Pierces through the glass,
Only the anticipation and, 
Anxiety of a long night,

Carefully, he watches, 
The colors change,
First the bright orange, 
"God I pray this never ends…"
Filling with a deep red,
"Just a little while longer…"
Slowly softening to the, 
Deceptive pinks and purples,
"Please, one more minute…"
Fading into the crimson black,
Which only night can bring,

Reluctantly, he gets ready for sleep,
Yet, knows it will never come,
He tossed and turns,
Half praying, half waiting,
Knowing what will happen,
In the way only a child can,

A light! It peeks through a crack,
In the door as a shadow floods the opening,
Quickly, the figure slips through the door,
And shuts it softly, but not without the,
Empty creak which has become so familiar,
The shadow climbs in beside him,
Touching his trembling leg, whispering,

“Hush little brother, it’ll be alright,
While I’m here, have no fear,
I’ll keep you safe tonight,”

He struggles and writhes,
Sadly knowing he will never,
Break the grip and prays to faint,
To loss all consciousness and,
Memory of that horrible night,
Just for one night without the pain,
Just for one night without, 
The cold empty feeling, 

Several years pass, too many to count, 
A single call, one he had never expected,
He rushes to the hospital to find, 
His tormentor for so many years,
Lying on a cold, hard bed,
Able to move, but only by pushing a button,
Able to speak, but only with a whisper,

He stays by him for weeks, caring for him,
Reading to him, watching over him,
Still suffering, still unable to move, 
He takes his brother home, 

The day goes on, moving slow as all,
The evening comes and he,
Watches once more as the sun sets,
Carefully watching, Orange to red,
Red to purple, and as the purple turns to black,
He walks into the room where his brother lies,
Slowly, he sits next to him, holding a pillow,
Stroking his head whispering,

“Hush big brother, it’ll be alright,
While I’m here, have no fear,
I’ll keep you safe tonight,”

The difference between right and wrong,
Can be hard to find,
But who’s there to see you,
When justice is blind?


Copyright © Ian Sylvester | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative | |

Dance with A Stranger

There I stood in this massive hall, decorated with sophisticated settings, 
White flowing drapes hung freely from an invisible ceiling
Twinkling stars, sparkled against the midnight blue sky
Though I could not see it, an orchestra played a lovely, unfamiliar tune 
Well-dressed, others sat leisurely at circular tables covered in white draping linen
Adorned with colorful centerpieces and white candles in delicate crystal holders

Quite puzzled, I made my way toward the center of the room
I searched for familiar faces in the crowd to no avail
My dress, simple, yet elegant was of the brightest blue 
Then out of nowhere this handsome, young man appeared and took my hand in his
As if on queue, the music stopped. Strangely the color of his suit matched mine 
Unafraid, I stared into the stranger’s face, as the most beautiful melody played

As we danced, we seemed to be floating before the crowd of smiling faces 
The music played on endlessly, as I danced in the stranger’s arms
His leading was perfect, not a word passed between us, but gentle smiles expressed the joy
Lost in wonder, feeling incredibly elated, I wished we would dance forever 
 In an instant I felt a light touch on my face, and I turned away to see
And to my surprise, there stood my little girl, saying, “Mommy, wake up, I’ll be late for 
school!


Note:  True story- A dream I had some years ago and which I will never forget!!   I have no 
idea what that meant,..but who cares. It was one of the best dreams I ever had! One of 
those dreams you hate to be awaken from.  .

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Quit That Tapping

like the raven 
who taps taps upon 
your chamber door
do not fret my Virginia
for it's my shadow
moving across the floor
this is what I'm telling you my darlin
and nothing more

beneath lattice
I still call your name
come to me virginia
come hear the tap tap 
upon your chamber door
for only you my love 
I surrender and never more

wind howls in blanket snows
here I stand so all alone
broken hearted and misconstrued
my Virginia who lies under stars and moon
just a tap tap upon your chambers door
tis I and nothing more

tales of hidas truth
blackbird sings harps cords
just like the tap tap upon your chambers door
my sweet Virgina whom I adore
for there'll be love waiting and nothing more

as I lay right next to you in this tomb
I counted only seven who have even knew
the times of this raven who 
tapped tapped upon your chambers door
twas only I and will be never more


Tribute To Edgar Allen Poe
And His Young Bride Virginia
Also To His Poem The Raven

Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

The Willows

Tomorrow’s times are in these eyes of mine.
Away and far my world shall part.
The Seas shall rise from their depths of deep.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will weep.
The Sun will rise as my days still come,
The glory, the power, it is the rains with Sun.
Tomorrow’s times are in these days of mine.
Far and gone my world shall bond.
The Mountains will fall from their heights they climb.
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will shine.
Tomorrow’s times are in these thoughts of mine.
Gone and here my world shall fear.
The Lands will separate the world by Sea,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows will be.
Tomorrow’s times I know are mine.
Here it is that I fear I’m near.
My Land, my Seas, my Mountains of plain sight,
And in the glow of the shadows the willows shall shed their light.

®Registered: Ann Rich 1998

Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

THE ART OF MY PAINS


The art of my pains 
is in the blood stain ink of me
while I write day and night 
to give insight of me that bleeds
while the world reads ,
 
this is my own battle cry's 
that are left in my mind 
I see all the dead souls around me
while I dream my darken pains
of the days of rain that hasn't gone away,
 
I was born in a painful storm
the memories stayed with me 
oh how the pains had cut me deep 
the words that hurt made bigger storms 
I hold my breath like I was dead
thinking it would all end ,
 
I now realize as I got older 
you cannot fix anyone 
that don't want the help 
so why in the hell did this life paint me
and put me down into a devastated storm 
the past has away to paint my life gray 
this is the art of me that bleeds .
 
Poetic Judy Emery (c)

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative | |

The Witch Doctor

Face for fading music
Disappearing in the distant
Those that stood still
Were called forth by the mystic
To answer a question
To answer the inquisition
For this was not the path
That they had been thinking

The witch doctor stood fast
His crazy eye twitching
He spoke slow...
"Your path... You will be switching!"
Batting his lashes
His vibes bellowed long
Their initial reactions:
Over looked and over drawn

With a wave of his hand
His visions showed real
Finally their eyes opened
Now looking to deal
The shaman then laughed
And threw up his arms
The skies began spinning
Bringing down the stars

The chosen few looked all around
And before long at each other
Awe lost in disbelief
One right after another
While the mystic's laughs grew hysterical
The rest fell to their knees
For no one knew the awful truth
Behind what the witch doctor sees

Copyright © K.C. Moonshine | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative | |

Alone

No one here. 
I am alone.
Totally,
Completely
And entirely
By myself.
Can you hear my loneliness?
The silence is disturbing…
It creates sound blasts in my eardrum
No spoken word
Laughter is distant
Thoughts of questioning 
Why this is so?
Can I cry a little?
Is that ok?
But then I see a shadow
In the corner of my left eye.
I turn and recognise the face
Through the glints of light
Shone onto their abstract expression.
They lift their arm slowly,
Obscured in the dark shadow, a
Bony finger extends.
They beckon me over
To sit with them.
To cradle them and relate with them.
So they can stroke my hair and tell
Me I’m all theirs.
I know them to be quite the jealous type
As I have sat with them before.
Their name tingles on my lips
In my mind I know
I should avoid them but I
Have been spotted.
I was visible to them.
They saw my need.
Because I was alone.
They saw.
I was open.
Like a deer by a brook. 
I don’t want self-pity 
To come over me.
But I would like company.
I would prefer a friend.
So I get up and leave
And walk away from the face I recognised,
Despite my loneliness.
I walk away, look back and see Depressions face.
He is angry. He wants me to sit and wallow.
But I got away.
I walk.

Copyright © Samantha HAYNES | Year Posted 2006

Details | Narrative | |

And Then

And Then…

My work finished
     I glanced back at the clock
Ah… The Witching Hour
     Hung heavy on the next tock
My thoughts raced back
     To childhood days
          To scary stories
               Round campfires haze
                    To daunting dares
                         In dark woods maze
               And then… It caught my eye

A phantom shape
     That just moments before
Had been shadows tossed
     Twixt the walls and floor
And I admit
     Twas’ dimly lit
          Random shapes
               In chances knit
                    Poorly viewed
                         From where I sit
               And then… I saw it move

Just then I thought
     Tis’ time to trust and pray
And steady my hearts resolve
     Should this be the reckoning day
And then I swear
     The room grew cold
          Events purpose
               Moved to unfold
                    My chest I clutched
                         My soul to hold
               And then… I heard it speak

“Time is at hand”
     And those words comforted it seemed
And my God in a timeless moment
     I became one with all I’d dreamed
Tis’ certain this
     Event of page
          Will visit all
               Upon life’s stage
                    Fully quenching
                         Life’s burning rage
               And then…

Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

This Night

This night is a dancer
In a dark, velvet dress
This night is a singer
With a deep, rich voice
We are sitting, we are silent
And suddenly, we remember 
Something and start talking
The window is opened
We are watching a small cloud
Floating beside the Moon
We are watching the stars
And their light is reflected
In our eyes, the light made of
Many, many millions of years

Copyright © Vesna Kovrlija | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative | |

New Paths

A new path is what we seek.
The surroundings are taking a peek,
Going through, very meek,
Seeing no bleaks,
Getting piqued,
While hearing creaks,
In the new paths that we seek...

The new path is what is found,
Going through forests bound,
Going through the path inbound,
With soothing and raging water sounds.
Walking confound,
Silence profounded,
Sight astounded,
Passed through burial grounds...

Seeking for another way around,
Noises resound,
Spirits surround,
The paths newfounded,
Our instincts compounded,
Followed by the hounds,
Echoes in ultrasounds,
Passed through mysterious breeding grounds...

Going to stamping grounds,
Trying to get off this ground,
With those burial mounds,
Death moving the wheels around,
Silhouettes running aground,
Trying to leave safe and sound,
Passing through some hunting grounds...

Seeking for common grounds,
The mistaken path redounded,
Regretful screams abound.
Plans propounded,
Though some are fouled,
Throughout the paths that were found...

However, most are lost and wounded,
Most tended to walk out,
Some minds and hearts full of doubts.
Hearing salvation shouts,
From all these new paths walked and found...

Copyright © Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative | |

In The Dark

Walking alone in the dark
All is silent
Until theres a snap of a twig
Hands come from behind
Holding my neck
I try to scream
Noone Hears
The hands grow tighter
I give up fighting
I take a final breath
He lays me in the bushes
My body cold and still
Noone knows who did it
They probly never will

Copyright © cara paynter | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative | |

A Naughty Little Girl

I sleep. The hours tick by mercilessly; unfilled, purposeless, full of potential "What to do? What to do???" I mutter, tumbling, like Alice, down the rabbit hole. My hands push down ballooning petticoats, careful not to show or touch anything. I twirl beneath the pile down comforters. The hours tick by crimson red and in the dream, the rose Queen shouts, "Off with HER HEAD!" An eyebrow is plucked whole from my face. It falls matted and to the ground leaving me, brow akimbo, surprised, and horrified. "What to do? What to do? What to do???" Half shorn. Half drawn. Half born? A painter's pallet appears before me. A brow is drawn… for me. Yet, the Rose Queen still screams on. "Off with HER HEAD! Off with HER HEAD!"

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative | |

African Child

" From the debt of my heart"

The African child
Sat behind the bamboo fence
He was sober and tense
Sputtering and wondering.
He forsook the bush meat
And the gathering under the moonlight
For sobriety and the causes of his uncertainties.
His clothes were like dried leaves
His feet like openings in the eaves
He longed to see a brighter tomorrow
He clarified the causes of his sorrow;
Sins of the father,
Fighting not to make things better
Therefore darkening the weather,
Making his destiny falter and bitter.
Tears exuded from the sound of his flute,
His fears enlarged like a parachute
But one thing he never understood,
Watch and pray, oh! African root
For your foundation is stinky, filthy,
Faulty and guilty...... watch and pray.


Copyright © Charles Melody Lightning Ink | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative | |

The Face In The Window

Many years have passed on by since the 'happening' on that night.
Long before huge bigfoot feet were causing such a fright.
A humid eve and very warm, yet simply summer fare. 
I'd left the draperies open to let in late cool night air.

My spouse was in the land of nod with me not far behind.
That feeling one gets just before sleep makes the mind go blind.
But something caused me waken and I did so with a start.
The lump I felt deep in my throat was the pounding of my heart.

For peering through my window and pressed up against the screen,
Was a face of neither man nor beast, but something in between.
And was I fully on my game; I think I might have fled,
But reflex over came my fear, as I lurched from out my bed.

And in that following instant, lacking reason, rhyme or grace;
I grabbed the draperies in my hands and slammed them in its face.
Next I raced from out the room and every light got lit.
Collapsed with heart still pounding to ignite my cigarette.

I used my freshly muddled mind to think about the sight.
This creature need be nine feet tall to peer inside that night.
I reasoned with myself the facts, contained within the scene 
And then convinced my addled brain, it had to be a dream

No way could I describe him, nor for all the years to come.
But when I learned of bigfoot; I surmised it might be one.
I kept the 'happening' to myself, so not to scare my sons,
As summer slowly strolled on by with blaze of fall to come.

Then nearly two weeks later; I was awakened in the night, 
As the screaming of my oldest son, was subjected to my fright.
A face peered in his window, even though his bunk was tall.
The creature was the one I’d seen, same face, great height and all.

My son is now a granddad with slight memory of that time;
The summer of the creature thing, when he was eight or nine.
With all those years behind me; I still wonder what took place? 
In the open bedroom window, with that awful bigfoot face.

© 2015 Diane Lefebvre

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative | |

The Found Phone - A Short Story

I was running some errands and stopped into the little waterfront restaurant for a late lunch.  It was kind of that in-between lunch and dinner time hour, so the place was completely empty.

I ordered a bread bowl clam chowder at the counter and took a seat next to the large bay-window looking out over the water in the empty seating area.  As I was lost in a daydream staring out the window, I noticed a cell phone sitting on the window ledge.  I looked around the empty room to see if I might have missed who it belonged to before picking it up and turning it on.

I slid the “slide to unlock” bar and got to the main menu with no password required.  Thinking I was smart, I decided to see who the most recent phone calls were received from and thought I would “call back” that number to see if they might know who the phone belonged to so I could get it back to the rightful owner.

By far, the most phone calls were from “Sally”.  I touched the “Call back” button.

Ring sounds were followed by a quick, hurried and frantic, “I told you not to call me!  I can’t talk now, you need to stay way!”

Flabbergasted and embarrassed, I tried to stammer out that I was simply trying to discover who this phone might belong to, but I could not get the words out as I heard screaming in the nearby background.

“Who is that?  Is that him?”

“No.  No, it’s …”

“Give me that damn phone!”

I could hear sounds of rustling and crying; then, what sounded like a slap and …

“Hey you, << expletive >>, what the << expletive >> are you doing”, shouted a man’s voice into the phone.

This was immediately followed by more rustling and sounds of a struggle.  I could hear the original voice, Sally’s I assume, crying, “Give me my phone you << expletive >>!”

Another slap.  Rustling.  And then a loud: POP!  POP! POP!  And silence.

The phone was still on.  I could hear heavy breathing for what seemed like hours.

Then the man’s voice said, “And, now I am coming to get you”, and the phone went dead.

Sweat was pouring down my forehead.  Oh my God, what had I done?  And, now what do I do?

The waitress brought me my soup and I asked her if she knew who might have left that phone there.  She simply said, “No” and sauntered back to the kitchen area.

I called 9-1-1 and tried to explain what had happened.  They connected me to the police but I had no luck in convincing them that a crime had occurred.  For over 45 minutes I was transferred from department to department; put on hold; and, transferred again before someone finally took down Sally’s number, but I hung up convinced nothing was going to be done.

I looked for other numbers in the phone’s directory to see who I might call to try to identify the phone’s owner and tell them what had taken place.  The second most popular number belonged to a Tony so I pushed the “Call” button.

The phone was answered by a now familiar voice that yelled, “That’s right << expletive >> I am on my way to get you!”  And he hung up before I could explain.

Quickly, I went to the “Messages” icon on the phone, selected “Tony” and tried to type out an explanation of what was going on.  When I touched the “Send” button an error message came up indicating, “You have exceeded your text allotment for this month.  Please visit the App Store to purchase more options.”

Then I heard someone yelling from the kitchen, “Linda, have you seen my cell phone?  I can’t find the stupid thing.”

The waitress yelled back, “Oh hey, that guy out there found a phone on the window sill.  Is that yours?”

I saw the cook come out of the kitchen heading toward my table about the same time a large man burst into the front doors with a gun in his hand.

The cook turned; said, “Tony, what the hell”; and then took three shots into the face.

The waitress started screaming from the back of the restaurant.  Tony turned and stared at me; placed the pistol into his mouth; and, pulled the trigger one last time.

By now, the waitress had fainted.  The metallic smell of spent pistol cartridges hung in the air.

I called 9-1-1 one more time from the found phone and told them there was a shooting at the restaurant.  I wiped down the phone and dropped it by the cook’s lifeless body and walked out of the restaurant glad that I bought my lunch with cash and not my debit card.

Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative | |

Love Fast , Run Far

	Search
Patrick Kail
Long ago I lost a precious thing that used to lift me up as it lifted burdens shouldered with it's way of 
tender holding .How barren now that what has left it's mark to shame us .Just in a role and this acheless 
rage so apt a trick it lies alone as so in many ways reaching each as it denied us. Tertiary paid in knowledge 
first an icon green so paramount.Strip ped barren now and left us naught but naked thoughts of whats 
spilled a path while denying everything but woe to us the wickedness to whats yet still left so easily still 
wanting.
Apr 17 at 3:25am ·  · Like · Share · Remove
Patrick Kail
Love Fast Run Far 

by James P Kail Wednesday April 17th 2013
Like · Edit · Apr 17 at 3:56am

Copyright © jamesp kail | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative | |

What am I

Back in roman times I was called a stylus
I wrote messages and stories on papyrus Writing since Before Christ, 
Don't matter what the time is 
Even wrote for the great poets known as the vikings 
I translated Roman-to-English with just hyphens
I can go back and forth on the timeline 
Used by the dude who even wrote "Mein Kampf" 
But before that used for maps to draw islands 
I even wrote that rap and I screamed "BYE STAN!!" 
I've seen everybody’s diaries, but I don't speak 
I write the dreams they have seen, it's punishing... 
I'm their best friend at quiet times 
For poets,and rappers that write rhymes 
Or artists, that compose the lights eyes 
Oops I mean the end of night, it's the "sunrise" 
I cry when they draw their mental picture 
I miss it easy, like the ancient Egyptian scriptures 
Last week I wrote a broken heartfelt letter of a boys dead sister 
His tears made me smear, smudge and bitter as well
 I mean i'm supposed to be emotionless, but this feels like hell 
I guess literature is the only way I help 
This is how I'd explain it, if someone asked how I felt 
I'm literally consumed in everybody’s literacy 
Different languages, but I still know their history.... 
I’m the victim see, every word written composes verbal imagery 
Even carved Mozarts spirit in every symphony 
I take everyones thoughts and write it down lyrically 
Have you solved my mystery? I need some sympathy 
One second i’m drawing so skillfully, then destroying paper so viciously 
So if you’re crazy just like me, take my spot and fight off this infantry 
Then you will see, all these sad letters of these casualties 
Of when France defended against the great Italy 
I’ll riddle more, I was even there when the bible was born 
I was even used for the art of the Tribal of course 
I even wrote of the tale of the Trojan horse 
I even seen the great GRA fight 
GRA meaning arts and culture 
I’m running out of graphite.

Copyright © Trent Billy | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative | |

Untitled #300 / Thermopylae and King Leonidas

Thermopylae, Thermopylae
King Leonidas at
Thermopylae

Copyright © Jesse Jones | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative | |

The Mystery Of The Bells


In an old Victorian building live two cats and a lady,
The girl cat is Patches and the boy cat is called Peanut;
And the lady is called mother, they all live in harmony.
One day, mother decided the cats needed to have collars,
So, she bought a pink one for Patches and a blue one for Peanut;
Each collar had a little bell that tinkled and tinkled as the cats walked.

Now, Patches loved her collar but Peanut twisted about,
He flopped on his back, putting his paws inside the blue collar; 
Finally, the bell fell off and he pounced after it across the room.
As Patches walked around her little bell went tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
Peanut was determined to get that bell and became quite the pest;
Mother talked to Peanut telling him to STOP and leave the bell alone.

When mother came home from work the cats came,
She reached to stroke Patches and noticed the pink collar;
The bell was MISSING, she looked at Peanut, bad cat she said.
Where the bells went is still a MYSTERY that will stay unsolved,
Patches always wore her pink collar, she really loved to show it off;
Peanut totalled destroyed his within days and was very proud of that.

Mother pulled out furniture to look for those bells,
She looked in every corner, in every cupboard and drawer;
The bells were too big to eat, where did Peanut put those bells.
Well in time Peanut, although young went to heaven, God decides,
Patches followed not long after and mother was left so heartbroken;
One night, she was awoken to the sound of two tinkling, tinkling bells.

And still years after . . . she often hears those mysterious tinkling bells. 

____________________
October 27, 2012

Narrative

In Memory of Peanut the Cat and Patches the Cat
(and the bells have never been found)

Submitted to the contest, Mystery
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron

Third Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative | |

Beyond Reasonable Doubt

 Bang! Bang! Who shot and killed
   Jeanette and Harvey Crewe?
 By whose hand was their blood spilled?
   The cops, they surely knew!
 Two fatal shots rang out that day
   and to a grisly murder led.
 Alas no clue or trail to point and say
   who shot them cold and dead.

 Dumped in the Waikato River mire,
   Jeanette would first be found:
 trussed in a duvet tied with copper wire,
   her body wrapped and bound.
 And Harvey upriver of Devil's Elbow
   given up by the murky tide,
 weighed down by an axle beam below
   far from where he fell and died.

 Yes, the coppers they had their man
   in one Arthur Allan Thomas.
 They fitted him up and so it all began...
   but for the grace of God go us!
 They searched his Pukekawa farm
   and took his rifle from inside,
 but said Arthur "I did them no harm,
   I swear I have nothing to hide!"

 Search my home and land he granted
   for all evidence and trace:
 and on the third search they planted
   the damning cartridge case.
 Exhibit 350 would magically appear
   for the coppers at their behest:
 now they had their prey in their snare
   and issued a warrant for arrest.

"Were you rabbit shooting that night
   and return before the risen sun?
 Did you have them both in your sight
   and kill them with your gun?
 Did you their bloodied corpses carry
   to the river after the fatal shot?
 Was it you whose conscience took pity
   and spared the baby in the cot?"

 Arthur Allan Thomas was put on trial
   and for double murder blamed,
 but the cartridge case refuted his denial
   and was well and truly framed.
 Twelve of his peers did the law mock
   with a heart of bias to convict,
 and the accused sat fearful in the dock
   as the jury returned its verdict.

 Thus twice tried for murder was he
   in the highest court in the land;
 yes, and twice a scapegoat found guilty
   by the lies on the witness stand.
 Forty five years on and yet unsolved
   still suspicions upon him fall!
 Yet no charge was laid to those involved
   who falsify proof and stonewall.

 By Royal Pardon his injustice spared
   and after nine long years let out.
 His marriage over but his name cleared
  "beyond reasonable doubt!"
 Bang! Bang! Who shot and killed
   Jeanette and Harvey Crewe?
 By whose hand was their blood spilled?
   The cops, they surely knew!


             December 2015


     

Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2015