Best Black As Pitch Poems
A red sun, pooling like a drop of blood,
coagulates at the edge of darkness.
And the night flows like a shadow, a flood
black as pitch, inking a seamless starkness.
A gilded moon, like a pitted gold coin,
beams in the sky as a beacon of light.
And like swarms of flashing fireflies, stars join
quasars and pulsars, twinkling in the night.
Dawn frets like a nervous actor offstage
practicing, to introduce the sun.
And as a gossamer breeze turns the page,
morning shimmers, like a web, freshly spun.
And the sun rises, a golden balloon
afloat in the air like a songbird's tune.
There is no thing so peaceful
As a winters night in the woods--
A canopy as black as pitch,
Spangled with the pinpricks of a billion stars--
Shimmering.
The banks of snow and downy flake,
Turned to diamonds by the moonlight
That drapes the sparkling,
Rolling hills with a shawl of powder blue
And midnight lace.
The cold air, brisk and chill,
Transforms my every breath to puffs
of cloud, that trail away like
Wisps of smoke, into nothingness.
So peaceful is this winter wood--and still,
Like foxes napping.
No evidence of man exists--
He is not welcome here.
I myself am an intruder, and gratefully.
There are no prints, or marks,
Save the tracks of a hungry deer.
And the indecisive flurries fall,
As if the stars themselves--
And lightly gather on my brow and lash.
Then comes, and without warning,
A gentle breeze--a timid thing
Who asserts itself--reluctantly,
And shy.
It wanders through the powdered wood,
Lightly stirring snow and pine.
How comforting the rustle--
Just as reverent as a hymn.
And the sweet scent of the Douglas Fur
Consumes the sense and dulls the wit,
Till I am thoughtless there;
Save but one, this is a prayer--
The kind whispered as a child.
Perhaps children would be welcome here,
If they could quiet be;
Although snowballs would be welcome
In this place of sanctity.
But awe the sound, I thoughtless hear
A pinecone falling from a tree--
A sound that I would overlook
Were I elsewhere but this wood.
And that's the magic of the hymn;
The magic of the prayer--
The magic of this powdered wood
To be the more aware.
And thankfully I ponder every flurry--
Every flake, every star
And every diamond--
Every cloudy breath I take.
Now the banks of blue
Are a part of me--
This winter wood, my soul;
And though soon I will be leaving,
I will never really go.
For there is no thing so peaceful
As a winters night in the woods--
And there is no thing so quiet,
As snow!
Down many of the coalmines in Yorkshire , Safety dictated that an alternative means of escape
had to be found just in case anything ever happened to the shafts that raised and lowered miners to their work.
This usually involved keeping a single route open underground to the next nearest colliery .
Old George waiting by the mineshaft
Spitting his chewing tobacco juice
Today with his apprentice
They must survey the mines escape route .
1000 yards underground
In darkness as black as pitch
They reach up to their helmets
Turning on the headlamp switch.
George prodding at the timbers
That support the roof and sides
His apprentice grows more nervous
With every single stride .
A mile down the escape route
The roof is seven feet high
They see a little fallen rock
but manage to squeeze by .
The roof is getting lower
George hears the scurrying of mice
Brought down the mine in bales of hay
When pit ponies and the miners destiny were spliced.
The apprentice is visibly shaking
but only one more mile to go
When a piece of falling timber
Dealt his torch battery a glancing blow.
George could see the boys panic
and as the leader of his team
He reassured his apprentice
Then they shared the single beam .
Suddenly they hear a crack like thunder
Then the splintering of wood
George pushes his apprentice
but a fall of rock stands where George stood.
Young boy on his hands and knee's
Screaming Georges name
More terrified by the second
When no answers came.
Now in total blackness
He inhabits the world of the blind
If he is to help his leader
The boy must use his senses and his mind .
The faintest hint of breezes
He feels on his face
Air sucked down the mineshaft
Just might be his saving grace
He crawls along the jagged floor
Using his sense of touch
Soon in the distance he hears machinery
A sound he has never loved so much .
He tastes the ever freshening air
Hope inside him grows
Then the tiniest speck of flickering light
His tears overflow.
Help, Help, he's calling
As the miners come into view
Two men want to hep him to the surface
Burt he awaits his friends rescue.
Old George didn't make it
He sacrificed himself to save the boy
Broken hearted the boy had a breakdown
and had to leave the mines employ.
The boy became a father
Then a wonderful granddad
but he never tired of telling the story
of the best friend he ever had.
Hurriedly through the night it came
Blanketing the ground in white
A storm of raging wind and snow
Late one Christmas Eve night
It came to us with little warning
A blizzard of blinding white
While families bowed their heads
Giving thanks for the birth of Christ
The winds did howl like a wolf
And snow drifts halted travel
The dark night was black as pitch
Emergency crews were frazzled
Then as the night gave way to dawn
They found the silver lining
Families snowed in for Christmas
Seemed winter had perfect timing
Copyright © 2010 Lena “Lolita” Townsend
I'm going to tell you a tale that may frighten you
about the precursor of death that will pursue...
There's iridescent beauty found on his ebony wings
but always of impending death his cawing sings.
He perches as a grim reaper on the fence, taunting
as if on my gravestone to bring fear and daunting
A dance step to his left then quickly to the right
He takes wicked pleasure, but I will feel no fright
for never will I weep and as long as I remain alive
His corvine refrain fortifies my strength to survive
Black as pitch he sits, fluttering wings on my gate
I refuse to accept him as foreshadower of my fate
I'm not destined to be the carrion that he will feast
In shadows, day and night, lingers the black beast
Jeering with an evil stare, are bright beady eyes
His dark presence I've come to loathe and despise
Blackguard! I shall curse him until my last breath
Begone raven! Today, I will not waltz with death
Now you know the tale of what keeps me awake
It's the macabre one whose thirst I refuse to slake
I am still alive and have not yet fallen from grace
So, I will not let him lead me to an unholy place
On the Outback Downs of Queensland
There is the strangest light
I have seen it first hand
And it sure gave me a fright
I was camped out while Lamb Marking
On the Downs out Corfield way
Hot days with sheep dogs barking
We sure did earn our pay
On one eve when days work done
We sat around a fire
Telling yarns, let our tongues run
Leant back against the wire
As I looked out in the distance
The night was black as pitch
A light with some insistence
Gave my interest an itch
I knew that there was nothing there
Only us for miles around
What was this light, gave us a scare
Some six feet from the ground
I got up, had another look
I called for volunteers
Let's go take a butchers hook
But all I got was jeers
I walked away out to the side
Until it disappeared
We still see it here they cried
Now that was pretty weird
So make your own mind up about
That Queensland Min Min light
I can say there is no doubt
Was on the Downs that night
feathered wanderers
how far… what lands you espied
moonlight guides you on
~
feathers… how many
would it take to lift me… fly
a dreams worth… magic
~
the crow the raven
black as pitch… their beauty gleams
precious jewels
~
donkeys… mules… oxen
man’s workhorses… over time
still abused… misused
~
snow-capped… the highest
mountains… peaks… touching the stars
borrowing snowflakes
~
super condors
majesty… kings… queens of flight
twenty-twenty sight
~
mister mole
a golfers nightmare
in each hole… one
~
with my magic wand
holes I slit in the clouds
so the sun can see
~
sea glass… pollution
first as sharp as crystal light
honed down to jewels
~
cow jumped over the moon
fairy tales… lies… cows can’t jump
fairies don’t have tails
~
white sand
wave ground coral… beached
once homes for many
~
once homes for many
wave ground coral… beached
white sand
~
hark… nature crying
pollution… its wicked ways
heed natures warnings
~
babies forever
some life… bar one day
adults breed then die
~
humans if only
adults just for the one day
would peace prevail…
~
green life
supports all that breathe
returned…o yes… facies
~
red wine, I drink its aroma
honey, I drink its nectar
autumn I breathe its breath
good in words alone
they breathe for the world
perpetuating life
~
tears emotive reason
inadequacies… failings
love… most emotions
On a dirty grey Monday morning a drizzle in the wind, a black car stopped,
From the car stepped an officer who gazed around looking for door numbers,
His head turned it fixed on a woman's house he slowly walked up to the door,
He gave three very hard knocks stood waiting, fidgeting for it to be opened.
A lady opened the door and he introduced himself he then handed her a letter,
Before she opened it he suggested going inside as it was so very cold and wet,
Standing in the warm kitchen her hands shook and she ripped at the folded note,
As she read the letter tears rolled down her thin cheeks she held onto the sink.
Her son had been killed at Flanders, the officer lied told her how brave he was,
The officer sadly looked at the floor he had done this a thousand times before,
He said no more and quietly left the house, the grieving mother sat on a chair,
She stared at the crucifix on the wall bitterly and cried as she had never before.
She could feel his ghost as a child not so many years ago so proud, when he joined,
The letter said the bugles played and drums rolled at his funeral his friends wept,
They raised the flag high the sun shone off the polished boots of the many mourners,
Had she lost two sons she would have had two letters both would have been identical,
The letter browned in a frame over the mantle piece and with time her heart healed,
Torn fields of battle became a field full of red poppies and little white crosses,
Grass grew slowly over the land, nature trying to erase history the madness forever,
There is light and dark as the days roll by, in reality it is always black as pitch.
The wind exhales then breathes in deep
It swallows the leaves as the willow weeps
Swimming in all Her earthly sounds
No longer green, leaves touch the ground
The limbs are never completely bare
Like old man oak is losing hair
Is it summer, fall, winter or spring?
Or maybe a season that lives between?
On the wing of a dove She ruffles a feather
That fluffs the clouds to change the weather
Then puffs grow dark as black as pitch
They bubble and boil then begin to itch
Until the burst that bares the sores
From which you’ll see Her blood, it pours
Crystal clean and clear as glass
A dancing, flowing huge wet mass
Sweeping branches often missed
Blades of grass the dewdrops kiss
The falling source of Nature’s life
Its fresh cool water will wash Her knife
The tool with which She’ll quake the land
Then slide the mountain with Her hand
To scrape away the mud and snow
That Mother laid there, just for show
In a snow-free zones that get much hotter
She’ll kick up the wind and spit the water
She has not a method to freeze them out
So She shows Her strength in a waterspout
Or funnels of sand with winds of fury
It’s Mother’s law there is not jury
So pray to a God, your soul to save
As Nature prepares for a closer shave
By ocean swells or lava that flows
When She strikes whether or not one knows
Mother Nature’s certain, and that’s for sure
For no one is safe, not even the pure.
Form:
Quoth The Raven
Under frosted blankets lay
On crispy frozen petals,
Sipping hearty beverages
Of dandelion and nettles,
As I gasp on misty chortles
Reflecting in an icy puddle,
Deathly spirits reminisce
Outside my winter huddle.
Snow, snow, she hath no gold
To pave my path to spring,
The raven stole my summer
To mend her broken wing,
I cannot pay my passage
If the mortal raven calls,
Neither he nor the tally man
Can catch me if I fall.
Darkness lays round about
In the silent fields of hell,
Naked as the eerie sound
Of a distant tolling bell,
My poisoned body squirming
Upon my true loves eyes,
Spreading feathers black as pitch
She flies, she flies, she flies.
Autumn seems a distant dream
Of amber painted leaves,
So I'll sleep 'neath the canopy
That is woven into wreaths,
There I mock the starless sky
As it shrouds my oaken chest
"Good riddance" quoth the raven
As they lay my bones to rest.
Miserable grey, damp wet Days
Days shorter and winters Long
Long bleak dark Evenings
Evenings as black as pitch.
Bright frosty cold Mornings
Mornings glistening in the Sun
Sun shines cold as the Day
Day soon will become night.
Snow crisp and White
White flurries fall from the Sky
Sky as white as the Day
Day fades into a crisp evening.
Days engulfed with Floods
Floods devastating your Home
Home unfit to live In
In shelter we seek comfort.
Form:
the day the earth saw no light
the day the sun was dark
when the moon was black as pitch
the day we gave up.
when the sun turned to stone
and the earth fell inward
when i fell on mw sword
and God has stretched his
second chance
beyond the limits of time
is the day i saw the sun go dark
and the day life stopped its never
ending will is the last day
i saw the sun rise.
Wealth
"20 People who have wealth but lack understanding are like the beasts that perish. ” Psa 49:20 NIV
A man who possesses riches
Without accompanying understanding
Will perish like the beasts of the earth;
A short life that’s not everlasting.
He will join the generation
Of his fathers that went before;
Sleep forever in a tomb;
No princely mansion above to score.
“Do not be overawed,” David the Psalmist said,
“When a man grows rich.”
He’ll take nothing with him in death
Where all is black as pitch.
When he lived he counted himself privileged
But that privilege he squandered;
Kept it all for his own glory;
To God’s glory never pandered.
Riches are a responsibility
And a blessing from the courts above.
God’s blessings are to bless others
To demonstrate God’s love.
So when they come without understanding
They serve for a very short time,
To give glory to self alone
And not to our Lord, Divine!
Why squander the privilege of eternity
In exchange for a quick fix here?
The honor of men is worthless;
Just a few words spouted into thin air.
Man’s splendor may bring him glory,
But only for such a short while.
To lose out on eternity
Is the greatest self-denial!
© Copyright 2012 Maureen LeFanue
www.maureenlefanue.com
Unicorn in a bag
A long, long time ago
In a land as black as pitch
An unholy alliance was formed
Between a Wizard and a Witch
No one dare try rival them
In there castle way up high
The magic that they conjured
Even Satan could not vie
Until one night out on a hill
The Wizard heard an evil shrill
The Witch’s screams were all in vain
By a Unicorn she had been slain
The Wizard swore upon this day
“All Unicorns I swear Ill slay”
He would capture them one by one
And kill them all till there are none
Knowing to hunt a beast of light
It must be done on the darkest night
For alone these beasts he could not best
So he’ll do the deed while they do rest
Using his magic he tracked the beast
The trail he followed lead to the east
There in a cave on a mountain side
The battle began and the Unicorn died
Now on his belt he carries a bag
In it a horn that is wrapped in a rag
The first of many has fell to his hand
His quest just begun as he travels the land
So if you see an evil old man
Carring a box, a bag and a can
Move away quickly give him wide birth
For he is the most powerful Wizard on earth
By Mr. E. Jones
Form:
Darkness black as pitch,
Moonlight drifting in,
Clouds drift by,
Biting winds freeze the skin,
Midnight is here,
The witching hour its said,
Spells and hexes to be cast,
Invoking spirits from the past,
The coven of 13 casting spells,
Trespass if you dare,
It's all Hallows eve ........ Take care