Best Crypt Poems
Sweet Rosalia was here with me
but for a year and a day
when we strolled the cliff beside the sea
to see the oceans spray
Sweet bairn of mine did laugh and clap
to see a butterfly
she reached her hand when broke the strap
fell from the cliff to die
Poor child of mine made not a peep
when fell unto the rocks
I pulled her from the watery deep
my bairn with sable locks
Such deep lament pooled off my face
she cradled in my arms
the tumble left none of a trace
the blow that did her harm
I could not bare to cover her
in mother natures brown
nor place on her the white death fleur
in cold and darkened ground
So Rosalia I did place
inside a glass top bed
forever more you'll see her face
whilst sadly she lay dead
I could not bear such deep repine
my heart could not erase
when saw the child did break my mind
wrapped in inky Seas embrace
My Deep lament would not erase
visions of my darling drowned
So I stepped unto the cold cliff face
And flung my body down
Butterfly wing door vestibule builds anticipation
Shuffled, carpet muffled greetings, familiar embraces
Piloted by Holy Spirit, seated hushed congregation
Ritual of ornate cathedral thanks hidden crypt rib cage
Enduring centuries, pliable sandstone testiment
God's following holds time proof tenacity
Flared proud corners, pyramid reminiscent
Honour continues amidst shifting society
Solid oak panelled door on wrought iron hinges
Greets round barrel key bearer with ominous groan
Down four slouching stone steps from street edge
Solo visit in sacred space never partaken alone
Curved bookcases cater for leather bound learning
Volumes of theology define best ways
Nook with desk lets liturgist imbibe God's word
Tall back chair, acorn emblems engraved
Beneath majestic vessel, clay damp chamber
Rhubarb velvet curtain, tassel tied to sides
Strongest entity relies on the Lord as Saviour
With worship's dedication, faith survives
In expansion, searcher emerges at alter, cleansed
Hive of etched arches tribute precision architectural
Vibrant robes, sashes draped, silken beacons
Of preparation, celebration of overcoming, renewal
Pulpit's ingrained memory both daunting and welcoming
Deep set lead light showers sombre pews in intimacy
Haloed Christ holds baby, shares parables with children
Crease covered hymn books strum procedural symphony
Written July 2020 (no previous submission)
Submitted for : Brian Strand
Completely New Volume 23
on 18th August 2020
When this pen of mine it dries
Pondered words in memory dies
Forever lost on paper wrought
Emotions gone in fleeting thought
Left there to beg unwritten script
Falls quiet into memories crypt
What words hath thou in mind
You have failed to leave behind?
I am a vault for the deceased -
for those who failed to make it past
the autumn of their lives.
I house the bones of the fallen ones
too frail to endure another winter -
who withered away like fall’s dry leaves.
Oh, how beautifully they shone
in the spring of their lives.
The back door....
Around one thirty amid the Octobers early morn
A beautiful young lady dressed in sheer black
Pomegranate lips with the deepest of dark alluring eyes
Long flowing ebony silkened hair; radiant
An hour-glass figure of ivories white smooth skin
Adorned within silver, gold, onyx and turquoise jewelry
She, the picture perfect image of, a lovely gypsies queen?
A princess making her way towards this dimly lit table
Out of nowhere; thinking unto myself, I have seen this moment before....
A slow felt dance; sweetly spoken words; a sparkling and seductive smile
Thirty minutes or so later following closely behind unto, a nighttimes place
Warm whispers; soft kisses; a young mans undressing of dreams!?
Nothing left to be said except, the intoxicating flavours; these
Mid-morning passions burning brightly their, delicately intense, sighs....
Closing my eyes to suddenly recollect, when I was but a child
Halloweens late-night; lost around the corner from my very own home?
Walking up unto the decorated door to ring, its bell; trick or treat
Another beautiful young lady; dark hair, dressed, as a lovely witch
Inviting myself in....
Opening my eyes again; she must leave but, she shall be right back?
Back in black; retrospects sea of reflective revelations; thus given ~
My first wintry witching encounter was but a year before; lost; when I was seven
Out of my dreams; these nightmares, now standing afore my sight; the fallen?!
My entire life I have found and find that, "God," has always been by my side....
What purpose and why? I, mired deeply within my own lifes sins as, darkness
Has sought my existence; the pulse of my beating heart; my breath; my soul ~
This book of reasons; pages turning upon the visions of truth so told!
One last midnights moment left; the wistful hours brewings of, a destinies....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
....Tales from the crypt!?
Tales From The Crypt
Date: Wed, Dec 2 2015 at 1:10 PM
I can see the hurt "Inside"
But maybe her "Pride"
& being Strong to "Survive"
All of it she "Hides"
See the hurt in her "Eyes"
The Pain In her "Soul"
An the Pain that "Grows"
That's why maybe she Chases the "Gold"
An Astray her from her "Goals"
She Weighs all her "Pro's"
But she knows the fate of her "Cons"
Might replace Lust for Love to Create a "Bond"
She searching for love but in the wrong "Places"
That's why some WOMEN "Manipulating"
That's why they travel roads "Dangerous"
But it's in our Sinful "Nature"
In her Sinful "Behavior"
Sell her Soul for "Paper"
In the Image of the "Creator"
In Society an Humiliating "Reputation"
If you want to be "Famous"
Make sure it's for being an "Innovator"
& A "Lifesaver"
Fundraiser "Administrations"
An doing "Donations"
Misguided an "Persuaded"
Beauty is Inside in the Soul & "Heart"
Not just your Beauty on the Outside that "Sparks"
I see what turn Women into "Sharks"
Maybe she in love with the "Villain"
But she needs a Hero when trouble is "Afflicting"
Then you want a Good Guy with a Bad "Side"
Do you want the Hero Or "Menace"?
You See what happens when Superman becomes an "Nemesis"
You can turn the good guy day into a Dark "Sky"
Stop playing "Poker" having Relations with "Jokers"
A Good Man will Rage "War"
For his Queen with his "Sword"
Take down Armies an Rage never Seen "Before"
Swing his Blade in their "Core"
An Roar with the Display the "Gore"
Seeing his enemies on the "Floor"
In his Brain & Heart is a "Force"
With Pain, Love, "Forged "
Just Open the "Door"
An let a King Love You
In a deep crypt
With moss covered walls
All damp and musty
Candles cover all the niches
And dark shadows cast
There’s a light
Coming from a crystal ball
In center of the room
Showing twisted faces
That can be used for evil
The witch controls them
Through the channels of the ball
She takes over her devious ways
And brings pain
To innocent people
All for fun
Russell Sivey
Never had I met you
Still I know your name,
Because of the notoriety
Because of the fame
Written in stone
Forever and a day,
Many gone too soon
Seems to happen that way
Halls of Hollywood memories
Echo down the tomb ...
In a place of reverie
Not a place of gloom
Legends of the silver screen
Lives of cinema and script,
Lying in silent repose
In walls of the crypt
Living on in pictures
In ghostly black and white,
Gone but not forgotten
Under legacy's bright light
I can leave a flower ...
Can touch your nameplate,
In life I could never
Get near one so great.
Tales from the Crypt 2
Date: Tue, Jan 19 2016 at 12:34 PM
This A Tale from the Crypt Keeper
Of A Boy with Mystical,
Physical,
Spiritual,
Lyrical,
Features
Created as A Creature
With An Extroverted Demeanor
Inside him is Ether
That Burns as his Strength
Willing him to Persist
To hurdle the Roadblocks
Behind him on the Road is A Fox
But he's not Running
The Fox is the One Hustling
Jumping
Lunging
Tunneling
An Dungeon
For him to Fumble Within
In this Jungle
The Sun Shines even when the Moon Rise
Like the Sun gives Light to The Moon in the Night
Even in his Darkest Gloom it's Life
The Dark Storms gives Room to Bloom in the Light
God is with Him
No Matter How many is Against Him
Grooming him to be more Godly
In his Human Ungodliness
To the Essence an Element that Embodies Him
To Use him for Wisdom
Truth & Deliverance
Because darkness tries to Blemish
Light so without Two Can't Coexist
Darkness can't Comprehend
Light when it Transcends
On the Road where he walks through the Stresses
To Be Perfected cause his Story is A Testament
Cause His Glory is Destined
Of Course He has a Moral Deathwish
But not until the Oracle says his Time is Setting
At the End of the Road is Golden Gates
Gold Plates
With Light Shining
Like Ten Thousand Diamonds
Like Ten Suns Risings
Walking till he Gets to The Island
Paradise
Where He gets a Garment of White
Wings for Flight
An Crown of Life
He was Just walking through Day twas to Night
Another Day to Do Right
He's with God no matter the Critics
To see his Vision
His Mission
So he walks Humble with his Head High
To the Sky
On this One Ride
Butch and I saw the Stones at the 1969 Altamont Concert.
We had the time of our lives! We dropped acid and
did Quaaludes and snorted whatever was offered.
We were young and bullet proof that day.
We're senior citizens now but still rock.
We scored tickets to the Stones latest.
It was the time of our lives! We took
extra long naps and got ready.
Tie died house dress for me, and
Butch wore his leathers.
He complained that they rode up
in the back. I said lose weight.
We ate at our favorite joint
and got the early bird special.
We shared a glass of wine.
We can't mix our meds with booze.
On the drive to the stadium we
shared a medicinal joint for
our glaucoma. We parked in
handicapped and got our walkers.
We shuffled to the entrance and
Butch grabbed my ass. My man!
We got our seats and waited.
Mick Jagger shuffled onstage.
He had an oxygen tank but
seemed OK. The other Stones
followed and the crowd screamed
the best they could. A rattling gasp.
They performed 6 songs and said
that's all they had. Thanks for coming...
We took a Xanax to calm down
and shuffled home and dreamed.
Dank
darkness
was always
settled around.
It was all I knew
of the near universe.
Stale, stifling, suffocating
in my broken and spilt trundle
leaving bitter, morbidly clammy
earth enshrouding my body and being.
A crack in the soil, or in time perhaps.
Slivers of light split the filthy floor,
crawled over ornate catafalque,
and continued its approach,
like winter's blinding ice,
to my exposed bones.
Warming flesh grew
and coursed with
new - life
blood.
man invents the bullet
visits the medium
voices from beyond
spell the message
of a game to play
hole in the ceiling
and a message to send along everyday
something to say
to everyone who purchaese what he sold fate
a hole in the heavens today
stop the slaughter
oh bother
oh brother
what i have to say
the mailman will come your way
ring aling
sing a ling
you will know me inside out
the game i play
Man invests in addictive ways
taking me down another way
visits the voodoo witch yesterday
the devil sold me a game for you to play
never thought youd forget my name
but i guess since this way it goes
it goes
don't you dare
to think twice
pay the tithe
pay the tithe
look whose naughty nice nightmare
im not scared
im not scared
just a gamer of different flavours
hole in the ceiling beggering my neighbor
message to send along the way dingaling
singa ling what you goptta bring
mailman coming my way
guess i'll know sooner than spring
It was midnight moon
cruising in the bedroom.
I step aside in the depressed window,
watch the overwhelming spillover.
I listen, then do not listen to alien voices
of bipolar beings, speaking Aryan,
artfully in cryptic signs
crunching the bones.
Black crucibles throw up bright stars,
in cruciferous crow bars. Pungent
smell of armpits. Dizzing heights
of memorials, becoming digital targets.
Deathless deluge of totems, claim the
corpse of earth. The screams start
coming from buried caskets.
Divining rods disappear.
Blue spirits trying to fly away.
SATISH VERMA
Autumn leaves were falling
in red, orange, gold and yellow,
as I strolled a cemetery quiet.
Until I heard whispers and moans.
Hello, where are you? Can I be of help?
I am in the crypt and cannot get out !
Trees were shedding gold and rain was falling.
Are you dead? Yes, and my door out is locked !
Stonemason's talent
his gnarled hands carve fine art
fluid beauty from granite
Flowers, fern and foliage
Exquisite presentation
Not for mortal eye.
The crypt slumbers on
Divine carved angel awaits
With patience sublime.
A holy quiet
Permeates this sacred place
Time has no meaning.
STONES
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