Best Corporeal Poems
you course in my veins with prurience, wild
immersing my marrow in urge, recompiled
teceptors abducted the instant you smiled
love's effigy flaming, my sinews defiled
all virtue forsaken, as tears from a child
fidelity's prospects are henceforth reviled
I inject you, narcotic - my opiate, pure
a caustic and carnal contingency's cure
delectably dressed with diabolic allure
such dermal sublimity, surface demure
I taste of your shapes, corporeal contour
skin softly savored, goosebumped and bare
your tang on my tongue, the nectar I share
our sugar rush potion for ravishment, rare
mixed in a kiss with the strands of your hair
your ecstatic delirium inculcates my core
I'm lost to a lust that's not lasted before
tinged with an aching that day would abhor
velvet and warm are the walls of your fire
addicted to you with a crave to be higher
you are my medicine, the tonic I chug
I am infected, lubricious and riled
lavished in sensual senses so sure
imbibing the essence of you without care
mixed in like poison, I stir you and pour
swallow in gulps, the consequence, dire
you are my opiate ... you are my drug.
addicted to you.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Choice M, Any Form, Any Theme" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
( This is a new form I created named "Minuanetta", with a rhyme scheme of aaaaaa, bbbbb, cccc, ddd, ee, f, abcdef g (title) ).
In the night's chilling air a phantom figure, drags itself from
The watery edge of the river bank, emerging, rising upward
From beneath the moonlight's illumination, she is free, to walk
The earth's spiritual plain of existence once more.
In soaked layers shifts, of tatters whiten lace, the corporeal
Image moves across the old chapel's courtyard.
Slowly this deaden heart of the betrayed, shuffles through
The fallen autumn leaves, crunching them under the weight, of
Her drenched wedding gown.
The haunted bride, carries a wilted bouquet of for-get-me-nots,
As she weeps, walking down the aisle of past regrets.
This virgin maiden, sounds a low mournful sobbing, that echoes
Against the marble ruins, of a dilapidated church steeple.
Lifting skeletal limbs, step by step, this bride of
Desolation climbs unto the threshold of condemnation.
Her wailing screams grow louder, and louder with each
Movements, begging, pleading for salvation's penitence.
But in the Lord's realm, the haunted bride has violated the sacred
Laws of God, so is she doomed for all eternity, to repeat her final,
Moments of life.
Wearing the veiled shroud of death, beauty's once fare,
Is nothing more than illusion's shadow vision of the forsaken.
A victim of abandonment's fall from grace, for consumed by
Sorrows pain, did she take her own life, in limbo she is the accursed.
Slowly descending in sheer remorse, her tears cascade
Downwards, staining the holy soil therein, her unkempt train
Trails behind this ivory phantom, with muddy green
Seaweed woven amongst the antique lace.
Cold watery waves crash against the murky shore,
A foreboding eerie mist lingers up top the rippling lake,
One last air's stale breathe she does inhale, as again life's
Essence leaves, become just exploding bubbles,
Popping at the water’s surface.
Here the haunted bride so does rest, in a fathom's aquatic crypt,
Beneath the dark abyss of no return.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Stretching beyond infinity, into the realm of the impossible
space harbors the entirety of an ever-expanding universe
an empty ebony expanse, a lifeless, inky vacuum
an inexplicable yet omnipresent phenomenon
a scientific enigma, the stuff of miracles
ethereal, encompassing, supernatural
space defies our ability to define it
or to appreciate its complexity
a non-corporeal living being
or phantasmagorical force
its origins a conundrum
its expansion a puzzle
its vastness eternal
its secrets secure
yet it existed
before God
spoke a
word.
In an hundred years...
Everything around us will be changed,
And everybody will be dead,
Yet, something will continue...
Will it be, as my radical leftist brother predicts,
The final takedown of Western Civilization?
Will we all rise to pray and face east?
Will we all rise and face nothing but a cup of sustainably-grown coffee?
Will the common people be able to afford coffee?
What will have become of our words, penned
sometimes in ink,
sometimes in blood?
Who will still read us?
Will our great-grandchildren show old, unrotatable, digital photos?
What of those of us who have no children? Will our words survive, even a generation?
Will our poetry be sold, half-price, or clearance?
What footprints will we have left, who built no buildings, saved no lives, ended no tyranny?
Yet, I think we will survive for a generation or two,
For there are always a few who hope to feel something,
To know the grounding reality of shared human experience.
I do not pretend, they will be reading ME,
But, perhaps,
They will be reading US...
That shrinking crowd that comprises the body of
Our words made corporeal,
And one or two of us, they will remember...
I hope for nothing better than a sea,
And quiet waves that bear away once-me...
I.
Fold, crease, unfold, sheets
of paper thin as possibility,
a crisp white plea to gravity.
Forty-five times, a cosmic origami
building bridges from table to the moon.
The mind dreams, unfurls
dimensions from the flatness,
each fold a petition of ascension.
But reality, that quiet artisan,
intervenes. Seven, eight,
perhaps nine folds—
the paper resists,
its fibers tightening,
a rebellion against a lunar destiny.
The geometry of dreams
collapses into the physics of limitation,
a negotiation between ambition and restraint.
II.
Sated with the hunger of excess,
we feast at counters where gluttony
is a ritual, a rhapsody of indulgence.
Plates piled high, offerings to the insatiable
gods of appetite, mouths moving
in a tempo of ingestion.
Like a paper's rebellion against too much
folding, the body, too, whispers its limits.
Sometimes in tears, sometimes in laughter,
but always in inevitability, the stomach's
silent protest, a wall that even the voracious
cannot breach. Eruption looms, a volcanic
protest, or else the creeping weight, its own
gravity pulling the body to a corporeal moon.
III.
From paper to body, from the moon
to the food, all are tethered by the finite,
implacable laws governing a universe
of possibility.
Fold and unfold, feast and decline,
the trajectory of excess tempered by
the ever-present specter of consequence.
REASON
“…For what is seen is temporary,
but what I see is eternal.”
2 Corinthians 4:18
-
-
Oh, Reason,
You wise charioteer of
Our senses,
Firmly into your
Hands hold my
Perception’s bridle
And guide my galloping
Insight
Onto the veiled
Path of reality that,
Among myriad trails of
Phenomena unfolds
Undetected by my corporeal
Eyes.
I beg you, oh reason, to
Steer my understanding
Towards the ethereal heavens
So
My mind would be able to
Get a glimpse of the
ETERNAL!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
31 January 2013
I got arrested!... further developments await...
By gravity said law
linkedin with physics
stating that a body at rest
will remain thus unless otherwise
acted upon by an external force,
hence I cannot wrest motion
from inert human matter
regarding nearly lifeless entity
concerning how aye barely breathe
heavily weighed down
with lugubriousness easily crushing
this seventy two inch
rusty, cowardly, creaky...
complex corporeal edifice,
thus resigning myself
watching flight of bumblebee
hopscotching from one
clover plant to another
wondrous winged warrior
unphased by human "rat race"
higglety pigglety,
pell mell, helter skelter,
how grand living off the grid
venerating native flora and fauna
simply engrossed with daily tasks
solely attending
basic inalienable rights
life, liberty, pursuit of happiness
keeping stereotypical roles intact
males species pact schedule
hunting in tandem
with brotherly comrades
females tending hearth and home
tendering, safeguarding, nesting...
homeschooling offspring
supervising fledgling,
the latter gingerly venturing
tentatively into parts unknown
unfamiliar territory brimming
trained instincts detect danger,
nonetheless plod along
blueprinted genetically
inherent migratory paths
guides where uncertainty looms
within wide whirring web
invoking, feigning camouflage,
or mimicking ("FAKE")
simulating another organism.
I am the shield that has protected this soul,
the armor of flesh that has yet kept it whole
I am the vessel that has carried it so far,
the legs and the feet that have trod where we are
I am the walls within which it's dwelt,
the roof and the floors on which it has knelt
I am all these things and yet I am naught
I am corporeal, not immortal and will soon be forgot
I am but a husk, just a layer of skin,
the flesh and the blood and the guts here within
I am but a mask, no more than a veil,
for what's carried inside to the end of the trail
I am but a casing, a covering at best,
destined to rot and decay with the rest
I am not all of this man; I am merely his shell
I carry no weight; I but wait for a bell
HIPPOCAMPUS SADDLED IN DAYDREAMS
Hippocampus saddled in the vast sea, one of God’s superimposed dreams.
In miniature form these seahorses be, an aquatic burst of genius it seems.
Hippocampus in old Flossie form, spotted from the Scottish shores.
A frightful nightmare, not the norm, thus shiver in my corporeal core.
If mermaids had thighs to tighten around their bony scales,
would that they be fight’n where the shipshape sailor fails.
Seducing sirens hiss upon the sea monster’s back with songs that rage
to lead in armageddon attack, to place mankind in a flaming cage.
4/20/2018
Julia Ward’s Seahorses
The avalanche of human souls
those who crossed over
before achieving their goals.
So their spirits linger on,
and their loved ones hear them moan
as whispers in their thoughts.
The corporeal self can flee
the physical pain of life,
but emotion and intellect continue
spirit, the soul intact.
It takes time to release regrets,
to mourn the loss of life,
to reconnect or redirect
that entity of energy.
But it goes on.
They are still out there.
They are still involved.
They still care.
Those whispered words in your sleep,
the loved one’s phrases you draw on
that is them.
If you quiet your mind
and stop your ego interfering,
you can tune into intuition
and hear them without superstition.
It is otherworldly,
outstanding.
It will change the course of your life.
Death has a new meaning
and so does life.
The meaning of life is the complex web we weave:
all the interactions, all the souls we meet,
all the objectives and accomplishments we drive.
We are the sum of our intentions and actions,
and for those we pay
working off karmic debt,
living life over in replay.
In contrast to Western religion,
we return to this spot
to figure things out;
life lessons are sought.
And with that, if we have met,
we shall likely meet again.
We shall likely meet again.
©In the Afterlife - Artimus, Susan Manley 1/17/2026 12:18AM All Rights Reserved
"Pink and Fleshy"
I’m in your petri dish now
once upon a time I was pink and fleshy
the Other side now draws me closer inside out
to be
close to you,
let me be clear
like your Ghost in the machine
I’m now your shadow
a little on the Left side
of that last supper table
Candide Diderot. ‘24
corporeal.
The shifting of many corporeal hands move across this dead cell,
A vacuums vortex, a psychic sponge, charging this battery of
Energy called the spirit board.
Paranormal phenomenon striking plate to enter realities plane
Of existence, for the ethereal challenged in crisis, seeking the
Threshold for spontaneous release, unto our spiritual realm.
Witchery’s board of trickery left in a polarized stance it
So entices the living with its tempting whispering of lies,
Incantations gate keepers wait on the other side of evils
Door way.
Memorizing the human sensory functions into a false
Sense of harmless mystery of the unexplained, it lures
These victims ever closer to weaving its spell of the demonic.
These capture being lost unto the hypnotic effects are
Transfixed unable to hit their override switch that controls
Their mental powers of persuasion, disabled is there strength
Of will power, they belong to the Ouija now.
Clasping do all for sides of the curtain of reality, times
Displacement begins in earnest, without hesitations
Momentary loll this dead cell bursts to life.
Black magic key has been inserted within the wooden
Door way’s heart and soul, a bizarre power bank draws
Forth the energy of the spiritual lost, swinging hells
Kept wide open.
The pancetta spins out of control, smashing against
The barriers of humanity, darkened ebony light shines
Through this doorway of evil and the flickering candle
Turns to a shades greenish blue wavering in the odious
Breeze.
The voice of a thousand screams echo in sheer delight,
We have been freed at last, broken is the trance, the boards
Hypnotic effects are dashed by the light of the dawn.
Dazed in bewilderment the voyeurs are chilled to their
Very inward bones, shaking, staring in awes amazement,
Wondering if these events really happened at all.
Then within these tented walls a voice responds to their
Questioning, laughing, as if a jackal at a fresh kill site!
Foolish mortals you know not what you have done, this
Night, but I promise thee this, laughing once again,
In a demonic under tone, none shall leave this domicile
Alive.
The entry doors lock without the human touch, the
Curtain windows pull closed, a momentary stilled
Scream, then all is silent, what remains is left up
To my readers to visualize, as the final candle
Blows out!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Life, a miracle too deep to fathom
And each man adds to the cosmic beat.
Passing through stages four,
Human life completes its cyclic round,
Beginning with childhood,
Skipping through youth and middle age,
And ending in crippling old age,
Precisely as the seasons of the year!
Each stage has its thrills and fills
Marked by distinct traits
If childhood is an age of play
Youth, a transition from play to work
Middle age- a time when passions are tempered
Old age, a gradual transfer from sweat to rest!
Life thus sprouts, blooms, fades, and ebbs away
As plants through the seasons four!
Each stage is a link in the chain of life
And birth and death, just doorways in and out
Life after completing its earthly round,
Through vexing trials and waning joys,
Shall enter a world beyond the reach of thought.
Through the gates of death, as we pass,
Yet to another phase of life, we do enter.
As from sleep, we wake to the afterlife,
The fifth season, the close of all seasons!
No more suffering, no more discontent
With a place to dwell where the choir of angels sweetly sing
Where we shall roam non corporeal as free spirits
Where we will not see yet another season!
November. 4.2022
~ Placed Second~
The Fifth Season Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Anthony Biaanco
Hush now, all little children by the shadows of night,
Don’t resist, beware let the sleep take you, be at an uneasy peace,
For resistance is futile against this dream stalker,
Whom travels on the brain waves, of the unconscious mind?
Apparitions Spector, a vaporous wraith living on our inner
Deepest fears, a vampire of nightmares, feasting at the
Edge of panics scream, hidden is he beneath the layers
Of our worst horrific night terrors.
Comprehensions undetectable intruder, a burglar forcing
Entry by the elliptical moons anti rational sliding door,
A corporeal beast, thriving on the adrenaline rush,
Of the flight or freight, factors throbbing heart beat!
He this untouchable, whom slides his icy fingertips down
The backs of humanity, causing the fine hairs our necks
To rise and flair, a tip toeing sadist walking the delicate
Tightrope of our thin vail of dreams, than striking at us
With dreads demonic weapon, as we the innocent
Victim slumbers in depths deepest REM sleep.
Oh is he not the bogeyman's sandman, with his dark
Seeded bag of mischievous tricks, cast over his silhouetted
Shoulder, sneaking in the hallowed shadows of the nights
Blackened embrace.
An invisible phosphorus troll, existing without form or mass,
Slithering as a nocturnal snake, hunting the stilled warm
Embodied essence of humanity while we sleep,
And laughing at us this vaporous jackal, while we
Choke on his black nightmarish moon dust of death.
Pray faithful child beneath the illusions of the lit divide,
For guardians protection while thy rest,
So you may awaken in the warming breath. of
The next morning’s sunrise, for at night the
Demon of nightmares stalks for the hearts of the
Innocence and he takes no prisoners.
Now some may say that this mythical legend is
Just a story to scare little children, to make them
Go to sleep at night without a fight.
But others know the real truth about this
Spirit beast of olden times, these the watchers
Of dreams, and they say beware the sandman,
For he is always waiting, aware, lying in the
Blackness abyss of mankind's nightmares.
A child's pray,
Now I lain me down to sleep,
I pray the lord my soul to keep,
For if I shall die before I wake,
I wish the lord my soul to keep,
And not the sandman to take!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
“The Surreal Mind of a Basic Green Dilettante”
In the flow Life washes in waves around me
I am buoyed by the seductive call of a crowned Blue Sky
the Sun shines upon the surreal mind of a basic green dilettante
immersed in cerulean dreams singing oceans of mysterious siren songs, an odd being
rippling over, ever-reaching, to touch this foreign corporeal vessel, contracted and sealed
something alien, never-ceasing from the deep light of being, in a place unseen
connecting with the mortal feeling of the immortal deeply hidden within
watching all, lying in wait entrapped internal, banished by the ever-present Seen
like spreading sonar from the depths the senses are touched,
penetrating the barriers the controls are read, manipulated, and switched off;
in the silence I draw in immeasurable clouds that ride over me,
their shadows pass over like holy ghosts, mute banshees, as if I am gone to ground;
in moments like these I gain entry to that other veiled world,
poetically pulled out of the now, through gleaming spurious dimensions
hypnotically devout the addressed undressed – what ripe dreams do spill?
like a hushed romance on knees praying
byzantine blue in a room with a complex view
ever closer mortal, immortally towards you
Candide Diderot. ‘25