Best Convulsive Poems
While snowflakes continue to fall,
upon a night pale as ghostly winter
I falter from my own distraught pause--
the hazy moon watches my young girl
a serene angel laying in starshine, on a bed
frigid cold with her tiny body
wrapped in fine linen and pink bonnet:
I could still recall her pupils tightening,
while through glimpses silent, my own mouth
utters, ' fight, my dear one, fight!'
Yet, her last gasp escapes a frozen outline,
those eyes blinking restlessly up high
as my fallen gazes droop at her gaunt form --
How this heart cleaves till screams rack
my own body with convulsive, inconsolable
anguish: this route to a thievish doom
makes me seethe, slam, screech at life
for my child's unborn dreams ...never to fly, ever.
It rains and a mantle of tears drown
upon her skin, my face in endless whys--
as I howl with night birds for the villainy of time.
Verses of Metaphors 3- RHYME OR FREE VERSE ONLY
Sponsor: Lu Loo
04.26.2019
My tranquil world is trembling
with sublimated anticipation,
I’m losing my footing of romantic resistance
Body shaking is convulsive proof:
equilibrium quaking; off balance, I deduce
Mind trapped in love —
can’t wiggle out ... can’t squirm loose
My feeble objections
are falling through the roof
Wave after wave
moves swiftly beneath my heartbeat
I’m tumbling head over heels,
landing silver rush hard at your feet
And your avalanche of kisses
are beginning to smother me
Only your searchlight of desire
can maiden eyes see
how far I fell ...
As waves of your love
has buried me deep
Wave upon wave,
an earthquake beneath my heartbeat
Save me with a yes,
baby come vow rescue me
This poem was inspired by a poem
penned by the talented poetess, Alexis Y.
Her beautiful poem is titled: "The Pledge"
A Cold Dark Yellow Unhallowed Moon
A cold dark yellow unhallowed moon smiles beguilingly
In the pitch black starless and cold empty night sky
Suckling upon the blood and the very life force of
Pure innocence, light, and goodness . . . .
Fear stirs eerily in the forlorn sound of a fog horn that’s
Blowing and crying a sad echo haunting far in the distance
It warns of the imminent arrival of a malevolent Hellspawn
Force of absolute unmitigated evil . . . The Phantom Vampire.
As the Phantom Vampire materializes from nowhere in the
Darkest shade of night blanketed in the thickest of fog and
The coldest of night air . . . One can sense with utter fear
And foreboding shivering sounds touching from the shadows
Creeping softly cold fingers down the spine with walking
Fingers crawling inside a prism of frozen ice and in a mist
Of souls crying in the presence of demons while yearning lust
Of one blanket covering the sky’s face painted showing
Hell’s own hideous face—an exquisite evil and a spirit
Drunken and moaning in an eternal fiery abyss of
Suffering and howling sounding their own lust for pain
Great darkness grips them who walk this troubled Earth
Without joy casting happiness to the lepers always and
Forever chained to the darkness and eating out hope
In the very end . . . .
From this spider’s web and nest of dark perpetual evil
The Phantom Vampire transforms himself from ethereal
Form to his human form quite frightening indeed for
Any human being gazing at his grim countenance and
His most fiery red eyes glaring intently whenever he
Encounters an unsuspecting soul . . . and the sight of
His razor-sharp canine teeth bring on convulsive fear
In the hearts and minds of his intended victims . . . . continued
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 6, 2014)
In the Church, I met a woman quite old,
Bending under the weight of years.
I wonder what made her steal my attention.
Was it her struggle to hold back her tears?
Despite her frail stooping figure
She seemed to have an indomitable will.
Defeating all infirmities of age, she stood,
With a face though sad, yet tranquil and still.
Strange enough, she recalled to me,
The determined but decrepit old man beside the pool
Who Wordsworth had once encountered,
Gathering leeches so scarce, but resolute and cool
I watched the woman humbly prostrate,
And feebly rise and straighten her aged form,
Surrendering herself at the feet of God,
Imploring grace for life’s little tasks to perform.
In her gnarled hands, she firmly held a prayer book,
With the other supporting her frail figure on a staff,
And with a sigh of relief, she left the church,
As if her afflictions were reduced to half.
As the Congregation dispersed in all directions
She feebly walked to her accustomed haunt.
At the rear side of the church was a Cemetery unkempt,
Where the ancestors slept, devoid of earthly cares and want.
Among all the tombstones in marble and granite
Erected in memory of the kindred dead,
There was a newly dug up grave,
That stood aloof as a heap of mud.
I watched the old woman approach this spot,
Where she knelt down with a calm demeanor.
Her withered hands clasped together in piety,
And her eyes closed in silent prayer.
With a convulsive motion of her lips
She rose and once more knelt down,
As if searching for a face so dear
Whose memory she could never ever drown.
Within that mound, slept her only son,
Who died in his prime, a month before,
Leaving his widowed mother behind,
To brave the shafts stinging, so sore.
As Time by seconds and minutes ticked away
The bereaved mother stood up at last,
And heavily yet quietly walked away,
Leaving the one who was once her own part.
In sadness, her faith sheds light in her cloistered heart
She has a calm assurance that though her son is gone,
In another realm, free from all tribulations and pain
He walks immortal in radiant bliss in the light of dawn!
April. 4. 2023
~ Placed Fifth~
Death of a Loved One Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Unseeking Seeker
"Oh my god that was good" he said, as he rolled off of me to the edge of the bed. Reaching for cigarettes carefully placed, on the bedside table and removing the taste,
of the juices that easily flowed from me when his tongue sent me back to heaven again,
and again with shudders that came to an end with convulsions so violent I had to pretend,
it was you instead of this pig of a man picked up in a bar and replacing the hand, I should have used as originally planned, in gratification of body and soul
with dreams of you with me and filling that hole.
In more ways than one,
and join with my cries as we both start to cum.
But rough hands have left their mark on my butt as he slapped my **** and called me his ****.
Pulling my hair and squeezing my ****, releasing himself in convulsive fits
of profanity as those same rough hands continue to paw
I pray for an end to this life as a whore.
Locked in this world of meaninglessness lies, becoming someone I have learned to dispise.
Dressing to please some sick fantasy
I've lost the girl who used to be me.
With female to female desires suppressed,
that bubble so deeply from inside my chest,
For you.
The lady serves me my coffee each day but all I can do is smile and say,
thank you and hope that one day you will see that my deepest desire is to turn you - into we.
in stark contrast to pastoral silence-
prolonged convulsive sobbing
of a distraught widow
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Writing Challenge 4
Placed 3rd
Sponsor: Dear Heart
© 20th March 2019
Her evening gown was studded with opalescent sequins.
She had chosen the dress herself, deadlier than the male.
Why had she brought him there, when doubts could kill?
Why did she choose this drowsy reverie, music enhanced?
A fairyland of opalescent lights and intoxicating perfumes?
A kaleidoscope of prismatic colours that confused the mind.
She felt the frenzy of love and lascivious emotions in her heart.
Doubts overwhelmed her. Did she dress for him or for herself?
Confusion curled into her convulsive mind, an uncontrollable force.
He led her out to the uppermost terrace. The moon had risen,
But its mild illumination was slightly obscured by softly moving
Cirrus of thin, iridescent mist. Time was of essential essence.
He drew her to him and looked steadily into her shimmering eyes.
Lips met, soft and warm. Her heart beat with extreme elation.
She then knew for certain, he belonged to her forever more.
13 February 2023
Writing Challenge - E Words Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Raped of all freedoms, basic democratic rights
Restraints ever tighten casting underdog to fight
Sharp scratch of needle pierces State sectioned vein
I submerge to a world of the psychiatrists drain
Adult my dummy preventing tongues loss to bite
Held within induced seizures epileptic in might
I welcome the darkness, one silent scream
Memory the victim midst non-consenting scene
Consciousness awakens clouded mind to dull mist
Punch drunk I sit to chemical onslaughts new fist
Medicated features exaggerates hollowing face
Expressionless my return, a salivating disgrace
Emptied companions stare at floors, piped TV
We sit, we quietly stare at the nothing now to see
Surrendered manic thoughts, depression held at bay
Psychiatry cures tomorrow by destroying my today
This legalised torture, "Electro Convulsive Therapy"
A disproved mental abattoir of Victorian barbarity
Why erase future names from the timeline of mankind
Whilst celebrating all achieved by past great bipolar minds
Politics are like long excruciating
Unsatisfactory sexual experience,
Politician the lad equipped
With the tiniest tool
Crowing as sex goddess,
Polls the bed covered with roses
Candles lit all around it
Sadly underprivileged beings
Being orgasmic sanguine woman.
Situations of such nature,
Pleasure is absolutely unattainable
Emotional crisis is bound to be catastrophic.
Don’t be convoluted by these convulsive
Cosmetic counterfeit promises political parties
Formulate in order to fornicate you for your ballot
Once satisfied vanish leaving you bitterly impoverished
Only to see you half decade later.
The United Kingdom – which direction?
Is there any detection
Of a slight hesitation
As all this political diction
Is becoming an addiction
HardBrexit, a continual affixation
A convulsive sensation
A preoccupation
A bloggers’ fixation
Journalists’ devoration
No time for devocation
Unable to form an illation
Or a resolute speculation
Submitting to trepidation
For our Nation
There is no sedation
To the daily news digestion
Just a torrent of unanswered questions
And a snap General Election
I WAS CIRCUMED TO THIS TREATMENT 7 TIMES TO BE EXACT
YOU ARE RIGHT WHEN STATING THE INSUATING FACT
THEY RUIN YOUR TODAY PROMISING BETTER TOMORROW
STILL CONTINUING TO BE STUCK IN MY BIPLOAR SORROW
EXCEPT THE NEW MEMORY LOSS I ENCOUNTER ON A DAILY BASIS
I GUESS SANITY DOESNT INCLUDE A SUSTAINABLE HOMEOSTASIS
I WAS TOLD I BECAME VIOLENT AFTER TREATMENTS THEY PROVIDED
I WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO NOTICED THE ANTI SEIZURAL MEDICATION THAT WAS STILL BEING PROVIDED
HARD TO INDUCE A SEIZURE WHEN MEDICATED TO DO THE OPPOSITE
DOCTOR SAYS TO ME DIRECTLY HE CRANKED THE KNOB TO A POINT HE WASNT COMFORTABLE WITH
SO I SUFFERED HIGHER VOLTAGE SO THEY COULD GIVE ME THEIR CURE
AGAIN I FORGET EVERYTHING AND I STILL FEEL INSECURE
MEMORY LOSS IS THE LEAST OF MY STORIES TO BE TOLD OF ECT
THEY DIDNT CURE ANYTHING THEY SIMPLY ELECTROCUTED ME
I SUFFERED ALL OF THESE TREATMENTS JUST TO RETURN TO A EMPTY HOME
CONTINUING SUICIDAL THOUGHTS THEY LEFT IN MY MIND TO ROAM
SOMEDAY I HOPE TO BE REMEMBERED BECAUSE LIFE HAS ONLY SHOWN ME OVERLOOKED
GUESS I WAS THE ONLY ONE READING THE LIST OF MEDICATIONS IN MY FILE BEFORE THE TEATMENTS WERE BOOKED
THEY SEDATE YOU AND YOU AWAKE TO STUDENTS WATCHING YOU CONVULSE
INSTEAD OF THE MEMORIES I HAVE WISH THEY ERASED MY PULSE
I NOW SURVIVED ANOTHER TRAGIC LIFE EXPERIENCE THAT FUELS MY BIPOLAR RACING MIND
SUICIDE NEVER SEEMED SO DESIRABLE... FUNNY IN THE RESEARCH THAT FACT I DIDNT FIND
SO STUCK HERE DREAMING OF THE BULLET THAT FINALLY ERASES MY PAIN
STILL UNDER THE CLOUD OF ELECTRO CONVULSIVE THERAPY INDUCED RAIN
Passed Life
by Robert Denton (October 2014)
I've walked through the wasteland,
Where after 34 years I found you
Stretched out on a bed of memories
And covered with a sheet of youthful dreams.
I remember my adolescent fantasies
Unable to bring to fruition the expression
Of my aching young heart
Yet physically I erupted in convulsive screams.
To what extent do these events
Affect the formation of my perversions?
To what extent does the psyche of youthful eroticism
Carry on into wishful fulfilment in adulthood?
Am I so barren that I must unlock
The vault of regret and release such a distant past?
This journey started with the imagination of your touch.
Your pretty face coaxing me forward as I wished you would.
Frenzy
In a silent awe
sat a man, hands untied,
Under an abyssal spell of
Electro-convulsive paroxysms
But hidden from eyes of malice
Encased in lunacy,
A Rhythmic Peace
Frenzy
I TREMBLE and SHAKE just like a convulsive e a r t h q u a k e
when I think of those nights you seethed in my youthful room-
Didn’t you think of all the good you always had at stake?
Well, I’m sure not sorry to see you in that cryptic tomb.
I prayed for constant alleviation from the sins that you rendered,
I TREMBLE and SHAKE just like a convulsive e a r t h q u a k e -
You still couldn’t stop the abuse all those times I surrendered,
it's sad to think about all the joy in my life I’ve had to fake.
Tremors of disgust...father, why am I here at your dire wake?
I just sit alone in the corner chair and wither in complete silence-
I TREMBLE and SHAKE just like a convulsive e a r t h q u a k e ,
remembering all the oscillating moments of fury and violence.
Quivering in a magnitude no other human can comprehend,
being just a child, it’s unbelievable how much you can take-
My innocence embezzled, what more could you apprehend?
I TREMBLE and SHAKE just like a convulsive e a r t h q u a k e .
For the contest: Form Q
Sponsor, Broken Wings
June 5, 2017
I laughed with balls yesterday
I’m not sure why, or what it
was
That was, to cause convulsive
chuckles, I think my eyes
tear-ed
was *****, about toe nails I’m
Sure, but she said something
sharp
from dark she throws, the subtle
wit, moves swift from forest for
kill
I will, write it down next time
on a matchbook, or dial it in
Text
on insect's back, or my hand
It’s prime material, rivals
TV
But see, she has no control
when her jest will spring on
jest
I’ll test her memory tomorrow
See if she knows, this mystery
slam
I am - sure it was a pointy tongue
she’s at her best turning point to
pointer
wanting her, to do it again, from
scripted jousting with cuts and
rubs
in of, it’s self, her bearish fun
would not exists, not alone, she
depends
again, on pointers point, aimed
at her, she has a motive, stealing
your inertia
Cinderella’s shoes fit nice, her feet
when she’s pointing the point;
jokes on me