Best Mystery Poems
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Mystery
Poem
Indian Ink
“Indian Accent”
Hear the whispers inside.
A chant from long ago,
Echoes come and go,
Losing time in a soft eternal glow,
A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene,
Dry blue eyes a melody and a chant!
Hear the voices falling from the sky.
Rising in a hymn that release ancient demons that cling onto the soul.
The darken dwells under the gentle moonlight.
Ancestors in the Spirit World,
Expose Indian hands weaving native smoke into the air.
Indian spirits taunt deep burrows from the muddy Earth.
Moccasin makers rise from under the feet.
Guardians of the dream catcher,
Smooth thread from the outer edge, bowing heads.
Luminosity gems of ivory,
Weakness grows, chasing a florid kiss.
Through the winds of enchanted drums, voices call out for rain.
The sound of sanctuary chimes,
The ancient rage begins to flare,
Bitter madness,
A chant from my kin,
A spear of the perfumed buffalo skin pierced my eye.
They remove the veils that cover my eyes.
My hands that cover my ears,
They wash my skin that bleeds all over my face.
Collecting tears from the memories of the past.
KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!
Raven silken braids, feathers fall from my hair.
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of acid,
Waking up from the “American Freedom Dream.”
Holding out my arm, I am free, I can fly.
I AM A BIRD!
by;pd
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Mystery
Poem
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.
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Mystery
Poem
Double Phantasy
Mama, did you know the precious amethyst shadow hours
I spent beside you, cuddled cosy-close, nestled in blankets of light,
shawled in your red-gold hair? I kissed each tear you cried;
each one a starlight pearl forged from the depths
of your fragile soul. I rocked seashell-shut to each lullaby note
and silently watched as you rocked my cold, empty cradle.
Sometimes you sensed me coiled at your breast -
a small, balled knot of grief. You felt my tiny fingers plucking at you
as tingling shivers. And sometimes I bounced sunshine-free
on your knee, a giggling orb of light.
Little one, once again I felt you here,
entombed in the womb of this eternal everywhere room,
your spirit sifting through my fingers like hourglass sand.
Pain has blanked my mind wraith-white, but I felt
your lips nip the warm rosebuds of my nipples
as I pressed a lullaby to the delicate shell of your ear
and brief blessed seconds spun out like years.
My sentient heart will always hold you, my grip will never slip
as my earthbound hands, human-warm, reach through time
and heather-shadowed ether to love and care for you.
*'phantasy' is a deliberate misspelling, an amalgamation of 'phantom' and 'fantasy'
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Mystery
Poem
The Conundrums of a Peaceful Warrior
....figured if a woman cut my hair,
if anyone but me, cut my hair,
superstitious doubts could wedge
into my mind as splinters.
In a child-like stupor,
I was stunned, transfixed
by scissors flashing in the light,
as 27 years of my 3 + 7 = 1,
fell to the floor around me in a circle,
something akin to a wreath of protection.
And did this ceremony purge the warrior?
Naye,
the sacred bow and arrows are in my bones,
my wounded knee is merging with an eternal afterglow.
I cannot destroy the warrior -
thought my armour to be disintegrated by insecurities,
but the armour is etched into my skin.
No longer do I want to be a soldier. There's a difference.
My raised fist is not theirs to have.
I will no longer raise my fist for them.
I. Will. Not. Raise. My. Fist. For. Them -
for their intellectual righteousness,
for their right to fight,
their right to be wrong.
I will not partake in their mental Apocalypse,
the battle of evil over good,
good over evil....
....the source is beyond such frailties,
such impure illusions.
The over-thinking is sucking away simple feelings.
Simple, beautiful, pure, emotional mathematics:
1 + 1 = 1
1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1...........still equals 1.
1 sperm + 1 egg = 1 birth, even if twins are born.
1 twin + 1 twin + brothers and sisters + 1 mother + 1 father = 1 family.
1 tree + 1 tree + millions of more trees = 1 forest.
Don't over-think it -- feel it. Equality.
Once good and evil are melted back down,
joined into two sides of the same golden coin,
there is only One.
All in All. The Sacred Forest.
The beasts feed me, I feed them in return,
lay my weary head upon their fur,
fall asleep to the pounding of an earthy heartbeat,
awaken to the fluttering of wings and song.
And they want me to raise my fist against this!?
And they want me to raise my fist against this!?
I am transmuting into the conundrum of a peaceful warrior,
slaying defilers of the Sacred Forest
with the roots in my blood,
on a board that doesn't have boundaries -
a Kingfisher, a slayer of kings.
When all that's left is to love,
when all that's left is to love,
then Love, I will protect.
July 2nd, 2012
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Mystery
Poem
In Strangler's Wood - tanka version
In forest dark where trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow,
silent shadows waver there,
chilled by gusts of autumn air.
Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
among those stumps the shadows creep
and shroud a form that seems asleep.
Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals
a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
with scarf of death left on his throat.
The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
They cannot speak, but if they could,
they’d tell all travelers of the wood:
"We’re not the foe. It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
Although we loom and cause you fear,
something worse is lurking here."
Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
And silent shadows start to shrink
into a night of blackened ink.
At a dead man’s throat
lies the rain drenched woolen scarf
that stifled his screams.
Cold Wind howls through decayed trees -
witnesses in the shadows.
For Debbie Guzzi's Metamorph Poetry Contest
a rhyming poem changed to a tanka
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Mystery
Poem
Pulse
Inner conflict dissolves under your lunar eclipse
playing across my fingertips and lips
tracing the hoodoo of your hips,
causing me to burn down into cinder-sticks
reborn as a Baton Rouge Phoenix
by the gravitational pull of Jupiter
orbiting in your eyes.
Rising above the ashes,
siphoning-off the swamp,
I collide in a slippery mudslide
of euphoria, until steam blows off
and only spring water remains
raining upon soil sprung apart
by the Trident of Hermes,
exposing for us naked iron
to place into a flame
dancing along liquid-skin language.
The extraction of you being the exception,
leaves behind a hole
to bury our fortresses of tragedy
grappling in our roots;
now broken-apart by our roots,
until the last crumbling stone
sprouts into untainted sheaths -
rigid - yet willing to bend
with the mending currents
of change. Becoming cleaner within,
hanging onto a truth to be found
in the wholesome speck of dirt
longing for my fingertips and lips
to feel the hoodoo in your hips;
a complementary dish of duality
alongside your whispers bleeding
into the blood-waves of my heart
merging with your lunar pulse.
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Mystery
Poem
let sacred delirium flow
(in-between wakefulness and dreaming,
in-between free verse and prose....it flows -
I wouldn't trade it for candy-coated couplets,
nor silky sonnets set in cities of gold,
for my delirium is uninhibited,
unhinged,
freely flowing)
delirious
non-linear shutter-frames
capture us
over there, here
now,
before -
a nuance, a taste on the tip of my tongue
leading me towards need
without a name
nor face.
Prying open other people
to see if you were inside.
Searching for a known desire
with an unknown label,
to find something never actually lost -
to make it more palpable - closer.
Crawling out of my skin,
out of my skull,
slinking through invisible trees,
you appear:
a jungle cat
licking my mind - you always made love to my soul first,
before enticing me
with a liquid growl
off-set by the pitter-patter of paws and purring.
Your purr,
your velvet purr
rumbles for my submission.
Willingly I accept
the invitation of vulnerable humility
bowing towards a fearless trust
lush
with a luminary
borderless meshing,
catching up to right now.
- Right now -
Your black-light curvaceous
muscled trembling
licks my mind, my body,
my hands and mouth glide across your skin,
testing the earth for stability.
The tectonic plates of my belly
quake
resettle within your womb.
Inside-outside,
outside-inside a lotus-soul union,
just as ancients had hinted,
dissolving,
letting you devour me,
before I drink from your salty grail.
Over-stimulation
leads to an un-thinking
deep rhythm,
waves pushing out - in
until the shoreline and tides
become indistinguishable,
a backdrop to a pace
quickening.
Outside-inside of you,
you are outside-inside of me,
there is no longer the need
to fear unknowns,
for the unknown guides us higher,
guides us ever deeper,
until even our release
merges with the flow
of ancient rippling rhythm.
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Mystery
Poem
Mankind's Greatest Mystery (inspired by Chris Higgins)
If 2012 prophesies prove true
And Earth’s life cycles again renew
Mysteries of man will be more than a few
Challenges may await future life forms
With intellects far surpassing our norm
Created to live without doing harm
For if they decipher man’s history
What will they make of our great mystery
The one we refer to as bigotry
Black labs, gold retrievers live side by side
Wild stallions and mustangs on prairies ride
Both red ants and black, free to colonize
Man’s refusal to accept differences
To wiser beings may make no sense
What in man’s makeup can give it credence?
Earth’s subsequent creatures may reproduce
Not needing two sexes to call a truce
So mating rituals may be pursued
A single-sex species might not comprehend
Why women workers were paid less than men
And why “free speech” was not just a given
Questions would most certainly arise
How a believer in God denies
Rights to free worship without compromise
And how could so many wars be waged
Evoking God’s name in death-march crusades
With killing, torturing in every age
Indeed such mysteries in man’s history
Would leave a perplexing legacy
Sure to confound any new species
New cultures may thrive on diversity
Of religion and genealogy
And speak of our inferiority
Note: This is dedicated to Christopher Higgins whose poems about prejudice inspire readers
to do more than just think about one of the greatest ills in our society.
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Mystery
Poem
Midnight...You Are My Sun
In all the earnest buds
that long to open…..
and ambrosial May promises
I tried in the silence
and the rush of the storm
that rages wild and unkempt
to fight this consuming
To cease the feeling….
To halt the sticky sweetness
(berries on your lips)
I can’t stop it…baby
It’s there in every hour
In the breaking of the dawn
painted pink and washed in fire
In the turbulent waves of blue
and salt rain on my face
In the way you speak
and caress me
and the way your eyes just mess me
In the stark speech of branches
and the reawakening of flowers
The breeze that teases my hair
and tosses it carelessly
It’s just always there
stroking and breaking
and rebuilding me
Crashing me to jagged rocks
and yet spreading my wings
to fly your passion sky
In the dream of something
came the reality of you
In the fantasy of a wind’s embrace
came your precious face
and now I am powerless….
just helpless to stop this
My exposed heart blasts out
this eternal hankering……
this infinite crimson crush
A war against the pitching
A battle against this tumble
A railing combat…yet….
Aye! In the night that steals the sun
In the clouds that whisper achromatic hues
and the freesia and lilacs
and violets….. I see you
You are there just waiting
Always……relentlessly….I fall
Oh baby, I just can’t stop this
I fall, hard in a breathless fumble
Into your waiting heart
Like a trembling cat
I curl in your lap
I am so in love with you…
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Mystery
Poem
FIRST CHERUBIC CHANCE
This road is snake-like except
for the crusty scales of an intestinal
late dusk. A boy treaded on the
lane tracks lean and nomadic...
burnt shoulders grilled and toasted by
the sun, as if his coal skin sparked like
burning diamond weeds. In a flash, a tender
sorcery poured in my veins. There and then,
I longed to whisper a tune, play the tambourine or
partake of the loaf in my sack with him.
But he waited for paper clouds to ruffle his hair,
seemingly undisturbed by pilgrims like me
holding unto holy relics and bones of night. The gauze
shirt as his frock winged with the silver winds,
windblown stroking my ebony tresses with a whisper
hushed by his delicate omnipresence.
In a dimly lit bus, sand wheezed tribal notes
moist on my eyelids uprooted by uncontained
temples of longing, now becoming thick
as woolen destiny. If only for a flicker of time,
his eyelids met mine so briefly... parting saline dust
of sacred, smiling gazes. I was inside a cell
of a wombed bus. He was outside enlarged by a
hundred stars exploding dewdrops, inviting eternity.
For a fraction of silence, we met somewhere
between the fluorescent of our twin eyes. He, the angel
first fondly encountered ; I, the dreamer ever bewildered…
I remember...I was five.
---oooo----oooo---
(( P.D.'s " your Own Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud))
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