Best Catacombs Poems
I say to you lets take a walk...to laugh...to chill...and simply talk.
Let’s start heading across the rocks...and go beneath the streets of Rome.
Let us take a break from our feet...down a path right beneath quaint streets,
This is the place where all roads meet...where I’m meaner than Al Capone,
And I could simply make this easy...but your mind will not be blown.
You’ll never see your children grown.
For I thought you was my best friend, but for now you will face your end,
You’re heading there out of your sin...to no light...no love...or cell-phones.
You’ll dwell in torment forever, birds of feather flock together,
In this hall there is no weather, the only echoes are your own,
You’ll rot in disgust and your shameful heart will always be alone.
My love for you...I will condone.
With such greed life karma prevails...and in darkness your bones’ll dwell.
Doesn’t matter how loud you yell...no one will hear that high pitched tone.
I vent all of my frustrations...without any hesitations,
After my retaliation...of this sweet revenge I will prone.
After kicking you in the face...what’s this...is it bodily foam..?
So un-brick the bricks to the dome!
And I don’t care if your legs hurt...for this is how you made it work,
You built your tomb under a church...right beneath its’ big golden throne.
Now behind the mortar you cry...and no one can bade their goodbyes.
My friend...you used to smile so wise...who smiles now as the other moans..?
You love what you can’t have...life...I’m done...revenge has proudly shone.
You’ll die behind the wall of stone.
All of your hate and jealousy...is buried with greed and envy,
You’ll fade from earth as unworthy...right beneath other dried up bones.
Here’s my remorse...wait a minute...clear my nose...on the wall I spit,
Your ego fits nicely here...I’m starting to like your new home.
I’ll let you be with a marker...that I have engraved out of chrome.
“The center of the catacombs”.
_____________________________________
The form is Trochaic Octameter
Iambic pentameter serves as the substitute.
Constructing Catacombs
Desirous death, a submersed breath, the walls in a carious crumble
Living life, a surgical serrate strife, as we stand surreal and stumble
Baneful blood, a feverous flood, the temerarious towers will tumble
Terranean tears, fertile fermenting fears, a famished fatalistic fungal
Corpses mounting high, Angels in the sky, reuniting dead and divine
Perpetual praying, love’s lost laying, as we build their sacred shrine
For we question why, we deceitfully die, within the abortifacient vine
Blue clouds of clay, casually chip away, as the minstrels drink their wine
The new Babylon, do we belong, beyond death's door is still unknown
Faith be quick, do we get to pick, a heaven or hell that we have sewn
Odious obstruction, of deaths destruction, mankind comes to mourn
Caught in oblivion, a denunciative delirium, and thus we are reborn.
Nov.08.2017
PREMIERE CONTEST NO 110
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
The rottenness of it all is no less foul for having been bleached white. This is the conclusion I come to. I walk with a scarf covering my mouth through the dimly lit catacombs of the faithful. The arched ceiling holds a dangling string of incandescent bulbs which cast a sickly yellow glow on my shoes and the cavities full of thighbones. “Why are all the bones the same,” I ask. The guide smiles. “Tens of thousands of heaven seekers wish to be buried here. There’s only so much room,” he said. “Even today people pay for holy ground.” Ghostly, armless, rib-less, headless, specters seem to rise un-braced, oh the indignity of it all. I picture them searching for the missing parts of themselves. I sneeze through my paisley scarf, stumble back; back, following the arrows in reverse, seeking the way out; just as frantically as they had sought the way in. The rest of the group trudges on; after all, they had paid their coin to Charon.
First Published in Inwood Indiana January 2014
A Foggy Mist and a Chilling Sound
Walking down the dimly lit street,
a foggy mist rising around my feet.
Soon the fogs so thick, I can't see,
walking blindly, by the river,
that's running past me.
Street lamps can just be seen,
then I hear a scream.
The intensifying fear of something
so unholy, chillingly cold.
Screams could be heard through the mist filled streets.
This grotesque sound like a lunatic running around.
A feeling more terrifying, than I could have imagined,
then silence as no more sound.
Fear surrounded the very air that we breathe,
chilling as I imagine murder most foul!
A sinking feeling, as I was walking around.
Then some how, I had lost my way and
found myself wondering around and
going the wrong way.
Then I found myself in a graveyard,
with catacombs and labyrinths leading
to tombs underground.
Unnerved by where I was and
scared beyond belief, perplexed by
the mist and the events of the night.
The ground was dank from the misty steam.
Then I had a vision of this fearsome looking thing,
this monster stood before me,
this creature of the night, with demon eyes.
Full of anger and hatred,
this spirit form, this gruesome being,
with the most horrific eyes!
I was shaking and trembling,
I felt cowardly inside.
My teeth were chattering, as my eyes
were opened wide.
Then this creature of the night,
ran off into the deep misty waters,
disappearing out of sight.
I ran off into the mist filled streets again.
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron Arbuthnot aka Ron wilson
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
Melted butter
Missed crumbs of toast
Blue-ribbon cooking
In dishwasher catacombs
Remnants of delicious memories
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
FEMMES FATALE OF THE CATACOMBS -Monsieur L'Vampyre
Beneath the gloom of Paris streets
where death's the only game to play;
the light of Heaven never meets
in time of night nor time of day;
down in the catacombs I roam
and here I call this dark my home.
in search of femmes lost to the dark,
not caring if the likes of me
might lay in wait to leave my mark
upon their neck to reach their vein
before they even feel the pain.
The limestone seeps recycled vin
from life above that lets it pour
and what's not drained into the Seine
drips from our ceilings, evermore;
'tis here death's meaning is made new
and welcomed by the likes of you!
But I, and all the undeads flock
have made this place a place to live
where death's a time that we can mock
well knowing death can never give
an ending to the days we'd planned
unnumbered by the falling sand.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosaq the Doylestown Poet
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there sleeps a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
DEATH IN THE CATACOMBS
Beneath the gloom of Paris streets
where death's the only game to play;
the light of Heaven never meets
in time of night nor time of day;
down in the catacombs I roam
and here I call this dark my home.
This place is where my need runs free,
to search for souls lost to the dark
not caring if the likes of me
might lay in wait to leave my mark
upon their neck to reach their vein
before they even feel the pain.
The limestone seeps recycled vin
from life above that lets it pour
and what's not drained into the Seine
drips from our ceilings, evermore;
'tis here death's meaning is made new
and welcomed by the likes of you!
But I, and all the undeads flock
have made this place a place to live
where death's a time that we can mock
well knowing death can never give
an ending to the days we'd planned
unnumbered by the falling sand.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
I have a place that I call home
deep down within the catacombs
where Malcolm sits in a corner singing
“Give peace a chance”
and Martin stands with the crowd raising hell
while I dance a jiggle with Fiddler while Ole Missus teaches Kizzie how to read
passages from the Bible.
And then Preacher gives communion to Nelson
and me.
There, the sun glows a brilliant blue.
The midnight moon winks at Harriett
as she peeps into my world before
she retreats to her wooden box for the night.
She will not stay long in my catacombs.
But, that’s okay.
For I still get to spend time with her because
I do not fear the pattyrollers.
So, I walk down the dirt roads
without passes
and explore the hills and the grasses
of the worlds outside the boundaries of my home;
my catacombs.
Then—
I go to the hole where
Harriett lies in a box there
waiting for me to bring back
the songs that I’ve learned and then sing
to her. And she sings back to me,
“No more weepin, weepin,
soon there will be no more weepin...”
We both laugh and giggle aloud, then I
return to my home, my catacombs,
where the sun is still shining an indigo blue.
But, Fiddler's grown tired of his jiggle dance,
and I’ve learned to ignore Malcolm’s chants
and Martin’s speeches of perpetual doom.
Webs of the fallen
Welcome me
To these stone halls
Where the dead walk free
The path below my step
So creek
Alert the dead
To make groans weak
I see my father
Laid dead and bare
I’d shed a tear
But no soul would care
I see my mother
Down proud and strong
Never I cry
But I will play her song
I see a daughter
A girl I once knew
Her car crashed on the ice
And with her I flew
I see a son
A mind beyond its age
Loved him as a brother
Ending cancer took him that day
This murk, these catacombs
All death is but a lie
Amongst these decaying hearts
Their loving memories reside
Finally death is here
To send me on my way
If I only a question to give
Is the world okay?
Death lightly said to me
The world is weary and proud
Its souls are full of dread
And are covered in my shroud
But surprised I am still
Your hope is all around
It is larger than my will
And muffles my every sound
You have lived a life so long
But welcome to my land
I’m sorry if this welcomes wrong
We have many a man
Now I walk so willingly
From this world to the next
But happy I am still to see
My love for life was yearly met
Catacombs, slumbering dead
Slipped from life emotions shed
Blistering dark, insects creep
Dead will all their secrets keep.
Concrete world laden grey
Occupants have had their day
Guardian angel made of stone
Feelings nil for those old bones.
Silent wait 'til judgment day
Undertone of great dismay
Dust motes dance display macabre
Ghostly song from long-dead bard.
Tourists come they're not naive
'tis their fate they do perceive
Footsteps shuffle then they run
Eager for life, air, and sun
My apologies but I am taking a trip down memory lane with this poem . The piece was written after a visit to the Capuchin Crypts in Rome. I took poetic license with this piece it was not a typical subterranean catacomb. However, It made a lasting impression.