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Best Stark Hunter Poems

Below are the all-time best Stark Hunter poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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There is Nothing to Say About It

There is Nothing to Say About It

There is nothing to say about it
No words to describe it at all  
There are no words at all to describe 
the mass slaughter of innocents,
the relentless malignant progressions of
the evil black-moving cloud of terminations,
the toxic metastasizing ooze of outright annihilations,
the blood-gurgling regurgitations, and
the blood-spurting decapitations.
There is nothing to say about it.
Nothing to say at all.
No words to describe 
the hopeless piercing cries of the infidels 
the whimpering terrified pleadings of the condemned
the silent gasping inhalations of the dying
There is nothing to say about it.
No words to describe it at all!
My heart at 62 years has not seen anything like this at all!
Never anything like this at all!
I have not seen this outrageous slaughter before at all!
There is nothing to say, except…
These are the days!
The days of this unkind hour; 
the days before the great onslaught!
Before this massive earthly descent to the lowest places,
the smelly dank places, 
the rotting miasma of the dead places.
There are no words to describe it!
There is nothing to say at all!


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Ella Hyde 1857-1898

Ella Hyde

1857- 1898

That cad with the freckle on his forehead,
That rascal man beast,
Handsome as a Greek
But devastatingly insecure,
And so deliciously young!
He was the one who stole my pride,
There, behind the Hadley tombstone in the moonlight,
And who, 
Breathlessly and with trembling hands,
Unlatched the ruby red necklace
From around my naked neck that night.   
It was he.
That cad who swooped down upon my innocence,
Like a maniacal Zeus
In one of his crazy costumes of concupiscence,
And carried me off to nights of brazen episodes,
Splendid spectacles in light and magic,
Of him and me embracing wildly, madly,
In dreamy dances with caresses and kisses. 
Only the truly passionate 
Could understand these mad scenes in the dark!
I met RS on many a night 
In the long concealing shadows of Central Park.
He was my man, but he didn’t know it. 
I lived my life here in this dusty town the best I could.
I believe I left my mark in some small but universal way.
At least I knew when to say no to Roscoe Settle.
Now I’d like to go back to my grave and sleep.
I am tired of this rant about The Man Beast.
At 41 I entered here after my bout with diphtheria.
The trees here are my shadowy friends now.
But I sometimes secretly wish I could meet RS.
Just as it was in 1897,
He and I kissing in the garden Gazebo at Central Park,
His hand on the small of my back.
Me trembling with monstrous want,
My ultimate Prince.
Who lied to me like a rat!

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Melissa Lont 1825 - 1911

Melissa Lont

1825 - 1911

How does one as low and humble as I
Sum up my life of 86 years
In a mere poem as brief and short-lived
As life itself?
And what is the secret to my long life?
What do I know that you, my friend,
Would like to know
About success and survival?
About good health and good luck?
My answer is this:
Do not complain and do not explain! Never!
And as for being married all those years to Doctor Lont?
Well, truth be known, like Hera,
I knew of my husband’s infidelities.
But I also knew to look the other way
And pretend to not see or know!
I admired Ida Kincaid for her sacrifices to maternity.
But I loathed Ida Kincaid for her matrimonial mendacity.
At her funeral in June of 1903
I aloofly stood across the way
There on dusty Broadway Street
Under the bulbous blue jacarandas
Screaming hallelujahs!
As Mr. White lowered her cream-colored coffin into the Netherworld!
And when Doctor Lont, my husband of 41 years, died of the consumption,
I did not cry nary a tear!
Why should I have?
Now I too am resting within this hard ground next to him.
Next to the man, my man in perpetual suspenders from Springfield,
My man who never ceased being a boy.

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Jeremiah Clay 1831 - 1897

Jeremiah Clay

1831 – 1897

To my friends in the faith:
In life, I often observed the ants.
Great profound lessons can be learned
Within the microcosm
Of their silent movements 
And relentless deliberations.
I have seen the sanguinary Argentines
Invade the nests of the weaker ones
Have watched them trespass and kidnap and enslave
The lowly ones,
The vulnerable ones,
The perceived inferior ones.
I have witnessed the regal queen
Taken and murdered by her captors.
I have been appalled and dumbfounded
By their muted acts of savagery and cruelty.
And I have been utterly devastated
By the enforced bondage of the black ones,
The nether ones,
The rejected ones.
Great God in heaven!
Where be thy justice?
Great Jehovah, my Lord!
Let the last now,
Be the first!

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George Washington Cole - 1827 - 1911

George Washington Cole

1827 – 1911

So here I sleep.
Buried in this dirt.
Covered in this earth.
Returning to the dust.
Finding heaven in the whispers of the wind.
And as for all my friends here,
All these stilled silent voices of Clark Cemetery,
We represent just a single sand pebble
Just a minute solitary dust particle
In an ever expanding infinite universe
Of shadows and scant tracings.
Travel to any city or town in the United States,
Or any sovereign country on Terra Firma,
And you will find the endless names of us,
The dead,
Who lived and died since the onset
Of the Gilded Age of Bessemer steel.
And those endless lists of the dead are nothing,
Nothing in comparison to the endless lists
Of the by-gone personages before us,
The past generations,
Who breathed and sighed and spasmed
Since the onset of Eden’s first heartbeat.
My friends, we are all so small,
And so minuscule.
Does it not behoove us to dance
Even while the music plays?
Does it not behoove us to be kind, 
Even when the cruel day
Finally slaps us on the side of our faces?
So here I sleep.
Buried deep in this forgotten grave
Just a whispering shadow of a former man
Awaiting with baited breath
The blare of the last trumpet!

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Ode to the Madman

Ode to the Madman

It was heaven in hell, both.
It was 115 degrees and I was in hell.
But heaven was in sweltering Palm Springs.
And I tasted nectar and ambrosia, both,
Under the dauntless palms.
I took in the majesty of the gods
As they bowed to each other,
Like kow-towing Chinamen in white robes.
I took in the flames and the feathers, both.
I took in the shadows and the spotlights of the stabbing sun.
The book was Women by Bukowski.
I lounged by the winking, blue-eyed pool,
Eyeing the half-naked women in bikinis,
Reading the drunken madman,
Sipping daiquiris on ice
Brought to me by the big-breasted beautiful girl
From behind the bar.
The way she walked as she brought me my drinks,
Was a Revelation and a turn-on, both.
It seemed, as I discerned from her big-breasted body language,
That she already knew the answers to life’s unasked questions.
That she had already traveled 
To the farthest star in the galaxy.
That she had already tasted the wine of eternal wisdom.
Yes, it was the way she walked.
Bukowski would’ve smiled and said:
“Comon honey, let’s dance!”
I was in heaven and in hell, both.
It was 115 degrees, and I sweated.
But I saw paradise under the dauntless palms.
Ode to the madman!
“I sip this daiquiri in your name.”
Brought to me by the big-breasted beautiful girl
From behind the bar.

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Chucko is Dead

Chucko Is Dead

It was on Columbus Day, 1962
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Sang in tones most glorious and free.
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko
I’m Chucko the Birthday Clown!”
I was  comfortably ensconced on the couch.
A feigning 10 year old with a pseudo fever,
Sister Mary Daniel was probably making the sign of the cross, 
Up the street at St. Mary’s,
When Chucko the Birthday Clown
Stared into the camera and saw me,
Insignificant me,
Just a freckled punk kid;
Hater of sadistic nuns and boring dry lessons
Of crowded sweaty stinky catholic classrooms
With crucifixes of a dead bloody Jesus.
And the sweet salvation of the universe was not yet apparent.
But Chucko knew all about that.	
He knew the future and the past.
He knew about Kennedy and Kent State
He knew what was coming so imminently,
He looked into that camera at Channel 7
And saw the children of the 50’s
Coming home in body bags from
The jungles of hell,
From the other side of the world,
From the bloody backside 
Where all things are vile and evil.
He saw fear, and an ocean of tears.
He saw ten thousand sunsets
And 50 thousand funerals of the crazy brave.
Even in 1962 
When the country was still a damn good country,
He rode the highways and byways with a pockmarked grin.
But he knew he could never tell of what was coming,
Of the madness and corruption and the greed,
“I’m Chucko, I’m Chucko,
I’m Chucko the birthday clown!”
Mother! Please! Take my hand.
I’m afraid!
Chucko the Birthday Clown is dead.

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The Endless Green Meadows

The Endless Green Meadows

On those long ago sultry days
Out in the endless green meadows
The virgins of the ancient sun would roam.
Roam they would, talcumed and perfumed,
With white lacy sleeves and bare feet,
Hiding like ghosts in the lusty shadows.
Hiding and peeking from behind sweaty branches
With leaves and pears and throbbing flowers.
Out in the endless green meadows
Seeking just a peaceful moment of repose,
A sensuous peaceful moment
In the intoxicating shade of new discovery.
Seeking the virgins of the ancient sun
The lads of stone and metal and rock
With desire as billowing as a relentless storm cloud,
Walk and saunter in the exalted sunshine
Walk like antic heroes with swords prepared and unsheathed,
Finding and embracing and enveloping
The gasping virgins of the ancient sun
With lemons and oranges and red ripe apples,
And a pulsating pink universe of wild overwhelming sensations.
I was there too, 
Running as free as a wild thought,
And as light as an ethereal dream
That had miraculously come true.
I heard harps and violins in the distance
And she and I
Both naked and breathing heavy, 
Stared deeply into the soulful recesses.
Our moist lips met in the shade there,
Out in the endless green meadows.

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Mornings in July

Mornings In July

Mornings in July are oblivious.
They know nothing about the newspaper headlines
Or the relentless crashing of ocean waves
Under a pissed off crescent moon.
They see nothing. They hear nothing. They feel nothing.
Mornings in July are incognizant about everything.
Except for the ever silent bruising rise of the sun.
But they haven’t heard the orgasmic screams of a billion lovers
Seeking mindless sanity on a darkling pillow.
And they haven’t seen the struggling caterpillar
Spin its bloody violent cocoon.
They could care or less if you breathe or sweat.
They ceased to be concerned
When the big wrecking ball of Earthly existence
Came crashing into the big neon Psyche
Six thousand years ago.
Mornings in July know nothing, absolutely nothing.
Except for the ever silent bruising rise of the sun.

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Edwin Van Dusen - 1831-1903

Edwin Van Dusen

1831 - 1903

Come closer my friend
Come closer to my forgotten grave, 
Here in Clark Cemetery.
You’ll find me enclosed beneath the hardened dirt here,
Beneath the grassy terrain.
My soul enveloped in infinite dust,
Remains alive still.
I fondly remember Christmas time
And hunting birds of prey in Turnbull.
But now I sleep in this eternal death world,
In the eye of Orpheus
Staring downward ever downward
My eye lids inside this cushioned casket,
Flutter and wink again and again,
Wanting love
Or the beginning of an amazing thought.
The thought that I lived and loved,
That I experienced every day of my life
With a mad joy.