Enough Angelina, drop the bouquet of harebells.
The flowers wilt as your graying hands stiffen. See, how grave
is our newborn son. We gift him a black crêpe layette.
Say Darling Edward, say, Golubushka, make me come alive.
Leave this chapel, return to his cradle, quicken your deadwood.
Come, rock his sweet little boat, croon, sladkiy bairdark.
Your shade sighs as the mourners trudge into the dark
of All Hallow's Eve. A breeze stirs the hairs on my nape. Bells
toll, the ringer incants “Unto the Church, I do You call, Death
to the grave will summon all.” Freshly turned gravel
rolls from the burial mound, the earth’s answer to life’s
reticence. Our son, whom I cradle, mutely lays.
See, the ground moves. There, there, my boy. Love's only mislaid.
Father, Mother, take the babe, go, shield him from Highgate’s darkness.
I stay. By will alone, I'll not let maggots deface beauty that lives.
My Angel, please, tug the cord housed in your coffin so the bell
will ring, rouse London’s rigor. You will waltz on this grave,
speak of Siberian winters, then scoff, roll eyes at the vigor of death.
Insubstantial lips brush the babe’s forehead, even death
cannot stay her reply. Ed’ard, Mother will take him home to lie.
A chill north wind rises as if to show your sorrow from the grave,
clawing the headstone with twigs and pebbles; clouds darken
the moon. Your shade screams; a bough whips Mother's cheek, the bell
on its gold cord is silent. Wind nigh swallows my howl, Angelina, live!
We are alone, Angel, save for those cemetery ravens which liven
roan weeds. Three nights I've troubled Highgate, plucking deadheads
from your boney wreath. Obstinate wife, revive the grieving bell.
I hear them calling Ed’ard, Come. I am torn from your stone: waylaid,
outnumbered, locked in our bedchamber. At the next darkening,
the babe's rattle rings, calling your name. I escape to your grave.
Nightclothes drenched and shoeless, I topple onto the grave.
Yea though I walk … ring, damn you, bell, ring! Curse this life!
The sky cracks open, sheet lightning pierces the craven darkness
as if in answer a mother oak’s limb shatters. The deadweight
crushes me against the granite angel where you lay.
At sunrise, church bells rang Angelus prayer from the chapel’s belfry.
Angelina, Angelina, our grown son visits our grave to honor the dead.
He is our true afterlife; all my fears have been allayed.
All is too calm and well 'til his eyes darken as he batters your bell.
A collaboration by Debbie Guzzi and Cyndi MacMillan,
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014
Sometimes it all feels like a dream.
A dream full of love,
Full of life,
And full of happiness.
It is as though I am surrounded by flowers;
Yet, every pedal stings like the nick of a blade.
A sharp, jagged blade.
Carving every inch of my body. Could this really be a dream?
I lie here, trying to escape, but I keep drowning in the flowers.
Even through all of this pain, I still feel the joy of love.
With every tear I shed, I still feel happy.
My world seems empty and cold, but I still feel the warmth of life.
I wonder if this is the end. If my life
Could really be taken by a simple blade.
I begin to stray away from my happiness
And realize that this is no dream.
I thought I was draped with love,
But little did I know that this garden was filled with malicious flowers.
I once felt delighted in the presence of a flower.
The cheer it brought made me burst with life.
I thought I knew the meaning of love,
But I never knew the pain of a blade.
It helped me distinguish reality form a dream
And determine what would truly make me happy.
It seems so far away, the hope of happiness.
The pedals turned black, darkening the hate within the flowers.
I close my eyes, begging for it all to be a dream.
Praying for a prolonged life.
I lay in the garden of vengeance, awaiting the pierce of a blade.
Longing for the compassion of love.
Not even a moment later, I realize there is no love;
Nothing that can make me believe in the existence of happiness.
Again and again I feel the torment of the blades;
The misery that began in this garden of flowers.
I feel my grip loosening, about to let go of life.
I am beginning to disappear like the memory of a dream.
At that moment, the light shines through the flowers.
My body fills with life,
And I finally wake from that horrific dream.
Copyright © Corinne Meade | Year Posted 2015
If i could exhale, really exhale,
To expire the rubble of the ages,
1000 years of dread off my belly,
and my fingertips once so dainty
then could grasp stars and not burn,
I dig my face into the dirt and find eternity.
i gazed into the jackals eyes and he spoke to me from eternity
he said "follow closely so that i might teach you to exhale
and maybe dear in return a smile upon your face will burn"
an expression lost on my brittle jaw for ages
so i walk upon the crust of the earth now bruised and dainty
yet i feel growth between my toes and swelling in my belly
woe does bewilderment plague me here, tearing up my belly
then a soft green garden snake cradles me into eternity,
i watch her curl and dance across the soil of this dainty
room, she looks back from her slither reminding me to exhale,
have i been lost for all these ages?
or have i simply been afraid to burn?
and thus so is it my place to burn?
for i feel welcomed and smooth yet i have poison in my belly
and tomorrow i will remember the pain of the ages
may i retain the knowledge of eternity
or become bodily again when i exhale?
or have no question that my thoughts and ideas are dainty
i have visions of my presence siting crossed and dainty
breathing barley and quiet as i burn
surrounded by a castle of tones that bring me to exhale
into the mouth of god and back into my belly
i feel my self escaping and gasping for eternity
coming back down to the end of my ages
i could sit and cry for the death of the ages
but this life i despise growing and rooting, dainty
yes, paltry no, and tattering for the rest of my eternity
yet i recall the jackal and his feet where the earth does burn
and i miss the poison in my belly
it not escapes me, but it crusades me to exhale.
before and after the ages, the world will burn and my body will lie dainty
on the ground filling her great belly with the poison of eternity cursed to exhale.
Copyright © xtevie fernandez | Year Posted 2013
Nightfall begins. It's beautiful, magical,
even astonishing. The grueling, long
process of avoiding my dreams.
So many bad thoughts from the books I read
right before bed. I could feel the darkness
creeping up my window. I am scared!
Terrified, anxiety ridden. I'm scared!
I try to think of things, happy or magical
to counteract all the feelings of darkness.
I want to go tell mom, but the hallway is so long
to my parents room. So maybe trying to read
baby books at this hour will help my dreams.
I tried a dream catcher to catch my dreams.
And if it stayed bright all day I wouldn't be scared.
Across the globe there are places like that, I've read
about. And that in itself is absolutely magical.
A night light being enough, is the type of night I long
for. But until then I still have to fight with darkness.
What did it ever do to me, darkness?
Other than infiltrate my precious dreams
with monsters, loud noises, and long
dark memories. Leaving me broken and scared.
Sometimes the creatures are even magical
in weird ways like the books I read.
It is not only what I have read
but also movies that are full of darkness.
Equipped with a creative genius' magical
ideas, movies bring tons of visuals to my dreams.
One day, I know I am going to get over being scared
of these things. But that's going to take so long.
So until then, I can only long
for the day that I can read
a book and not be so scared
and anxious of the darkness
that it entails. Or let my dreams
turn events into things that are magical.
Although I know it'll be so long until this night’s darkness
goes away, I will read until the morning interrupts my dreams.
Because being scared is for the birds, but the nightfall remains magical.
Copyright © Alyse Williams | Year Posted 2017
It’s easy for them not to try
when their love shines as bright as the Northern Star.
I’m thinking about you and I can’t stop
wishing you were right next to me all the time.
But you’re just too blind to see the story
we make when we’re together. I hate
that I sometimes think that you hate
the idea of us being together. There’s no use to try
to ask for something more. Your eyes tell a story
when you smile. You could be the star
in the movie called “My Life”. Maybe over time
you’ll change your mind and stop
denying what I feel for you. I have to stop
being scared that you might start to hate
everything I do. We’re not like that. Time
can only prove how eternal we are. Try
to see me as more than just a star
in your night sky. I can be your moon and our story
doesn’t have to end. We don’t have to be a short story
a seventh grader wrote. Our clocks don’t have to stop
ticking. We can last forever just like a star
does in the sky. Even though it died years ago, we don’t hate
it because it still illuminates the cold nights. Can you try
to imagine us together? I’m not wasting my time
no matter how much you say I am. One time,
I remember, you said you were writing your first story
and I asked you if you were going to try
to include me in it. You begged me to stop
and to go away. You screamed, “I hate
you, you freak.” and I felt like a star
falling from the sky. People think a star
can solve all of their problems. But the time
you got the restraining order proved that you hate
letting other forces solve your problems. And the story
you tell about me is just lies now. I won’t stop
loving everything you do even if you don’t try.
I try to love the fact that you’re now a star.
But I can’t stop thinking about you all the time,
and that maybe your story, “The Stalker”, is based on hate.
Copyright © Luka Obradovic | Year Posted 2016
I have this story of the garden of evil I saw.
Darkness called to me, I was drawn inwardly.
Walking, a glimpse of beauty came into view.
She intrigued me as to why she was inside.
When I stepped in front of her she smiled.
Not an ordinary smile, one of pure wickedness.
She spoke to me calmly at first, as my eyes did view.
Transformation began as her beauty faded inwardly.
I swear to you that I felt like darkness had smiled.
Her shape changed and now a devil my eyes saw.
Beckoning me she said come with me inside.
My soul captured my mind knew now wickedness.
She told me that I was hers now as the demon smiled.
That I had to take my place beside her in wickedness,
Which the garden of evil was now placed inside.
That the evil call had embedded my heart inwardly.
As she took me aside to a mirror where I could view,
What happened to me, undeniable is what I saw.
I was changing outwardly, as well as inwardly.
My eyes were blood red and horns came into view.
I had become her male counterpart, we both smiled.
Within a couple of moments, I was lost in wickedness.
Then out of darkness other creatures came from inside.
More and more demonic creatures are what I saw.
She said, Meet our armies that mankind cast inside.
That she had waited for me, again her lips smiled.
Upon wave of her hand a mist came into view.
It was me in previous form, yes, you were evil inwardly.
Your whole mortal life you felt you had no wickedness.
Suddenly I knew she was right, this was a prediction I saw.
My destiny was sealed; garden of evil will keep me inside.
A consort I will be to her evil heart, fulfilling wickedness.
Thinking back in my dreams I could have changed what I saw.
Though forever and beyond, darkness grows inwardly.
As we held each other, a vision cast came into view.
We looked deep into each other’s eyes and we smiled.
What we both saw, within her womb something was inside.
We knew we shared wickedness, as the birth came into view.
Love, lust held inwardly, looking on, our baby demon just smiled.
Note. This was part of a dream I had and I feel it was a release to write this to help me fight my personal demons that have always plagued my mind and dreams, maybe I watched to many horror movies when I was younger, I have seen almost all of them more than once
Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2011
There are smells and sights and tastes which always remind
of Grandma with her rows of flowers bright,
the red of poppy the gladiolas white, the blue of spring violets vain
the scent of lilacs in the air and pine needles in the mix.
Sometimes too, the memory of her sweet breath does rise
of Black Jack gum or peppermint and all those summer times.
The search for new spout dandelions the mushrooms other times
And summer’s end brought black blue teeth a blueberry’s remind.
We’d dig for bait with cans of tin, Idella, grandma mine, and rise
from ‘neath the patched quilts of calico so bright.
By chance to fish within the stream, trout in our breakfast mix
along with silly shaped pancakes so placed on china vain.
The beauty of her sky blues eyes never was so vain
that wisps of salt and pepper hair gave time
its only claim. To rise like yeast a child within this mix
to hear a bark of terrier and feel Babe’s tongue remind
of childhood days a Grandma’s house. Idella our bright
find. Take those blessed tender hands and rise
Touch childhood cheek like dough of white and rise
have no dark dwelling thoughts of blue blood in the vein
the thinness of her fragile skin the dimmed light so bright
just remember love full of the better times.
And with the scent of venison and sizzling pans remind
laced with home made butter, fried onions in the mix.
How had Idella’s loveliness from German bloodlines mixed
together with the stalwart Grandpa Trussell’s rise
to birth the lively bunch of child my Mom’s remind?
When in the dark of night the rush of red rolls through my vein
mind light flies and flickers like the candle flame of time
and I return on winged horse within a dream so bright.
Smell the wood smoke from the stove caste iron bright.
See the siblings teasing cat and dog within the mix.
The mantle clock’s brass pendulum sings in time.
Hear the winter wind blow through the rafter’s rise
like tucked in chicks the storms blew all in vain,
now only grand kids live these tales and do remind.
Always in the darkest times I think of my Idella bright
and Gram reminds me of both joy and sorrow’s mix
soon like the wind on weathervane I'll rise to heaven and her kiss.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Replace the desolate words I speak without intention
With my intended poetry – a burst of fresh light
In a forlorn bedroom filled with buckets of darkness!
As the world turns on its tilted axis
So does life, a rollercoaster of dreams
Created and crushed as a poor spider’s web
The spider spins her life’s work, a web
Food and survival her only intentions
She has no time for the flying mortal dreams
Of a world filled with goodness and light
No time for Allies, nor for an Axis
Who she can prevent from spreading the darkness
My life is spent in shadows and darkness
Waiting for the day when the spotlights are shined on my cobwebs
The only remaining things that will be of me, as I walk the low axis
Of countries grouping together with clear intention
To murder, pillage, and take over the light
Of innocent children, still sleeping with innocent dreams
All children quickly lose their dreams
When faced with the world and overwhelming darkness
They are too young to make their own light
And so spend their lives with the government’s web
Supplier of everything that happens, their intention
To create a worldwide alliance, one country, one axis
Young European unifications forming an axis
They have no clue about their true dreams
They have but one thing, that thing, intention
To expand, which every country labels darkness
But every country is entangled in the web
Of expansion and shining the religious light
I have never followed the religious light
And I understand the fighters of the Axis
All so sure, so believing in the government and the web
That by the end of it all, there were no dreams
Only an eerie, dying darkness
All the people died without any true intention
When there is intention, there is a fading light
The darkness desperately, wrongly produced by the Axis
Their pipe dreams stuck in the world’s web
Copyright © J. Amorose | Year Posted 2017
Though the attackers are many in number
The escaper is courageous and clever
So the attackers have failed to harm that
The escaper has befooled them in fact
Though the danger is dense and severe
The Strategic Manager is called the Savior.
Copyright © Muzahidul Reza | Year Posted 2016
As I walk past, somebody
tries to scream, “Save
Me!” My heart beats faster. Me,
myself, and I
like we are the ones. Am
Yes. More scared
Than the somebody
In the alleyway. Am
I walking faster? Yes. Trying to save
myself for I
don’t know what is in store for me.
What is going to happen to me?
For if I’m too scared
To move on, am I
too dumb to ask somebody
To help me save
myself? I am.
Sometimes I am
too busy to care for me.
I am too confused to save
myself. Too scared
to stop myself for somebody
may not see that I
need them and I
may be stuck and am
very cold and lonely that not even somebody
With a blanket and a puppy can warm me.
The life I lead, how scared I
may be, is too much for somebody to save
me. To save
myself is too hard for I
am too scared
To ask for help. How am
I so stupid? Too scared to save me.
I just need somebody.
Somebody save me.
I am scared.
Copyright © Brianna Hollister | Year Posted 2017
With day full of sleep, moon falls in the river.
Its beams danced on water with shadows of trees
to a beat of rhythm from wind till it died
and buried in music of quietness of night.
With perfume of flowers giving weight to air
cool of dark beauty night’s peace granted prayer.
Cathedral as reverent as echoed Lords prayer
as gentle as songs by frogs from the stream.
Harmony hanging in a gemstone sharp air,
with touch of sadness as dim sparklers in tyrees
while chirping of crickets brings richness to night
This will be the hour which wretchedness died.
The stars in the heaven pronounces day's death,
still speaks of the coming of fresh morning prayer
as glorious moon-glow reigns above night
while weak light reflects off bountiful river
twinkling in beams through branches of trees,
gives a roar of stillness through paper thin air.
The sky and the dark and the shadows of air
The river, moon and the sun as it died.
As leaves slowly descend from generous trees.
An answer it seems to nights granted prayers
it all means little to approaching rivers
which has born witness of deceit of the night.
So quick in the darkness will charge storms of night?
Critical lighting strikes in tranquilized air
heaved by the wind once magnanimous river
thunder and rain, wind and foreboding of dead
comes terror and fear and murmuring prayers
amongst shacking of limbs and bowing of trees.
Fierce is the storm and with uprooting of trees
as wind rips and cries through cover of darkness.
All creatures will witness the dark Devil’s prayer
as thunder splits atoms of wild burdened air.
The night cannot sleep till storm’s ferry dies
and silence of night returns to the rivers.
Storms of the night and night’s peace granted prayer.
Shadows of trees and moonbeams on the river
but rising of sun will bring death to night’s air.
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007
(WORK IN PROGRESS)
O ,wherefore thou ,is thy Sestina Angelina?
she is not here ., thy love thy dove
thou angel eyes hover...oft high above
Tis thyself, a gentleman who doth wait
whilst me dreams and longs to view her gracious gait
I shall dwell ,tarry here in the dark
I must appeal to the day ; canst read her sonnets by dark
But , Joy ! Can hear the bells of her Villanelles.. me Angelina
Me beauty uses classical , graceful words that match her giddy gait
Me elegant ,enchanting dove
I shall remain, I shall wait
For thou, Sestina thy Angelina sent from above
I pace the earth with a weary gait
Me mind wanders ; travels to heights above
longing for me heart, me dove
whilst me dwells,tarries, here in the dark
imagining thyself with Angelina
Thy Sestina , as I , here , wait
I cry, here, in the dark
float in thy head above
O where, O where, is thy turtle-dove?
Is she, too ,in the dark ,
Me angel face, Angelina ?
Shall I further wait?
I growest more weary to wait
anticipation marks thy gait
Still, no sign from me Sestina,Angelina!
I will pray to God above,
on my knees, here, in the dark
whilst I await the return of thy dove.
Alas! Hark, do I hear me dainte dove?
Shall I run to greet her,or patiently , here, wait ?
Shall I continue in this dark ?
Where is she? Didst me not hear the crick of the gait?
Special Notice: Angelina not recorded here nor above!
O , me , O me , O why, me Sestina Angelina ?!!
O ,wherefore thou is thy Sestina Angelina; she is not here .,thy love thy dove
thou angel eyes hover...oft high above; Tis thyself, a gentleman who doth wait
whilst me dreams and longs to view her gracious gait; I shall dweel here in the
Copyright McCuen 2008
Copyright © MC MC | Year Posted 2008