Best Cryptic Poems | Poetry

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New Cryptic Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Cryptic poems are below this new poems list.

subtle and cryptic by low, gate
Cryptic world by bellen, charmane
Natures cryptic message by Pett, Roy
Cryptic Riddle by Simons, Brendan J.
CRYPTIC TABLEAU by Rodrigues, Kim
CRYPTIC by Enriquez, Leon
Cryptic And Puzzling by Project, The Brooklyn Six
Cryptic Crossword by scott, john
CRYPTIC WORDS by Enriquez, Leon
CRYPTIC by Enriquez, Leon

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The Best Cryptic Poems

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Hidden Beauty

Hidden beauty resides not in the grace like charms
Of coy smiles 
Painted across a gentle Madonnas face.
Nor is she vested within the chastened vows
Of saintly knights; encased Great-Helm:
Thus maketh the pale maidens meek pulse
To so fervently race!

She neither dwells in fair Michelangelos alabaster statues,
Or famed masterpieces hung upon hushed galleries
Hallowed walls.
Never does she proudly boast from-on-high
In lofty ivory towers,
Or brazenly shout across yawning grandiose marble halls!

For she will not be found in royal palaces,
Or sprawling estates of greatly lauded piles;
She is not to be found in ancient cathedrals -
Or exalted from their most sacred holy aisles!

She will not be found in hidden empires in brave new worlds
Frontiered by far flung foam washed shores;
Nor found prowling echoing dusty bank vaults -
If all the worlds bankers
Were to throw open all of their bolted cold steel doors!

For hidden beauty knows all the crafts and wisdoms
Of learned mens most subtle and tricky arts:
And cares not a jot, or gives a damn,
For all the poets and their foolish sentimental hearts!

                            But.....

Perhaps she shyly glowers inside a sun struck morn -
Her stealing lips simmering upon the dew kissed dawn;

Perhaps she wantonly flirts alongside a babbling brook -
Where sweet Virgil, Her, for a Muse mistook;

Perhaps she frequents the flowery paths of verdant pasture -
With all their lush, vibrant, unassuming rapture;

Perhaps you may find her in the dappled shades -
In and amongst the streaming glades;

Perhaps she traipses idly through heavens lights -
Of beached harvest moons and star tilted nights.

                            Or.....

Perhaps she briefly flickers across sizzling lightening strikes -
Accompanying thunderous cannonades of symphonic rolling might;

Perhaps she sometimes ignites the drifting tallgrass plains -
Glistening within fleeting rainbows blazing an arc over sparkling rains;

Perhaps she is in the gulf filled roar of stormy headlands -
Whose pounding seas smash and grind the sheering cliffs to sands;

Perhaps she burns across diamond ice in glacial mountains high -
Where frozen snows reach sharply upwards to rip open the azured sky;

Perhaps she slumbers in impenetrable greening forests deep -
Lain down with the hunted grey wolf...safe at last in contented sleep!

                            For.....

I am the glint rippling upon the gleam -
The tumbling cryptic flashing only partly seen;

I am the eternal flame that crackles in the grate -
The enigmatic, indecipherable, most profound innate;

I am the paradox within the intrigue -
That does so contrive but does not deceive;

I am the quantum within the curled up string -
The grain of truth from which all half-truths spring.

I am all these indefinable moments and much, much more...
which all of your befuddled senses are resigned to grapple with - 
Whereupon to set such store!

                            So.....

Content yourself and make not the mistake
To assuredly set me aside to thus debate.
For i am beyond the conjectures of a mere mortal mind,
As by accidental-consequential reaction...i cannot be denied!

                            For "Hidden Beauty".....

Once freed from Pandoras box upon this spinning coil:
To fire and play upon your enchanted thoughts - and forever foil!!


Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2015


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THE VAMPIRE

For I am death, the personification of pure evil,
The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations.
Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters,
Of blood.
Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image,
These are my forsaken children of the Night.
Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection,
Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I
Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it
Drained completely dry.
Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the
Valley of damnation.
My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement,
Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps,
Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night.
Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum,
I'm famished for the taste of the living essence
Of mankind.
A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these
Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity,
Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been 
So given, to take life then to restore it.
Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal
Moon, that hangs above illuminating this,
Our unholy abyss.
Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen,
Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country’s
Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania. 
On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons
Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control.
For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life,
But in death I am a king, let these castle walls
Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell,
Sing outside my rod iron gates.
But beware mortal flesh if you so enter,
For I will enjoy every trespasser,
Whom dares to venture within my
Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile
Upon my hungering face.

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014


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The Poet

THE POET’S PANEGYRIC “There’s someone I knew with talent unleashed and a heart that had for so many relentlessly reached This poet sought inspiration from the living and the dead But I can tell you this about the poet who has moved me by what this poet had ever said I read the words from a comfort zone which this poet created, surrounded by friends or by foes or simply alone” His essence of soul sweeps down deserted dead streets where the thunder still crackles, the burial bell bleats He laughed at himself as a Royal Rhymester Clown but bore the black pains of those all aroun’, He echoed regrets but never a grudge ... of this I’ll say little... let his lines be the judge THE POET’S PEN Blind shots cry out beneath the night, a car is cruising by. A stripling’s blood streams words to write ... Wry rhymes to ask us why A silly girl with child, unwed... to many, but a slut. The baby at her breast is dead ... Cruel couplets meant to cut A drifter, broken, cast aside, lies lifeless in the cold. Tap tattoos on a tattered hide ... Some scarlet stanzas scold Two lovers clutch a turtledove, enraptured by her coo, impaled on pangs of Ladylove ... A sultry song for two A drone of drums in distant wars beguiling bold dragoons who sell their souls like wanton whores ... Raw rhythms writ in runes The stars ablaze, like tiger-eyes reflecting candlelight, ’lume angels singing Lullabies ... A sonnet stuns the night The soulless eyes of shackled slaves bleed tears that burn and blur. Their ash, like dust, set free in graves ... Emblazing ballads stir A hurricane, foretold, unfurled, unravels mystic signs as Demons dance, destroy the World ... Limned lurid lyric lines Some die a death neath hangmen’s hands where tainted justice reigns for ‘thou shalt kill’, Revenge commands ... A quiet quatrain pains While well-to-dos amass and flaunt And follow fashion’s trends, pale children starve and die of want ... And so an epic ends THE POET’S EPITAPH His words lie strewn along the sand While breakers wash ashore The ripples weave designs unplanned ... a verse forevermore His tales, entwined in cryptic airs where freedom seeds are blown, warn Guarders of the Realm ‘beware’ ... his heresy is sown His life outlined a chronicle along a lonesome road It started out as doggerel ... and ended as an ode
With a little help from my extremely talented, but somewhat modest, friend “ANON” AKA JC... Thanks JC, for the depth of your support and your breath of inspiration...


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013


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Butterfly Dreams

I look through my prism
Still I can not see
All of your vibrant colours

I wish for the beauty of a sunrise
To see the brilliance of flowers blooming
Bright blue sky and emerald waters
The colours of fall leaves
I want a rainbow symphony
To hear and see your complete majesty
For my eyes to dance with your flitting wings

The magnificence of you 
is isolated behind a wall of dark grey
A protective layer of granite
Cold to the touch
Unyielding 

I chip
searching for cracks
I tap out a cryptic message
Hoping you will understand
You guide me to the entry way
past the sentinels
Down the corridors
To your banquet hall
Where now I celebrate
Marvel at the brilliance of you
I see
I hear
I feel
Each colourful note

My prism 
had been inadequate to the task
Your wings spread across my imagination
Oh so many vivid colours
Colours a rainbow can't possibly articulate 
Other butterflies would look anemic next to your splendour
Diamonds would lack clarity and brilliance
As I gaze at your form
I try to comprehend
the magnificence of you
I marvel at perfection
You light upon my shoulder
and give me butterfly kisses
My heart is overjoyed 
for in that moment I have 
a glimpse of paradise!




SKAT's butterfly Contest.




Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015


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AUTISM

I rise at the center of...
Is it a room? This is a face.
There is motion, too fast, too clamorous.
Cryptic and opaque. Shapes shift
into my field of view.
Recognize! The message spoken
ends in an upward curve.
Interpret! It means a question

?                         ?                            ?                          ?    

                                 What to respond, when....
                                 I get nauseous.
                                 My body twitches, my mouth tics
                                 I make no sound
                                 I cannot speak.
                                 I cast my eyes down.

Curl up, arms wrapped around self;
Rock to calm down again;
Count the tiles;
Hum Rachmaninoff.

                               What is this incomprehensible life?

My soothing world is filled with letters and words,
a keyboard, screen, and silent friends
They speak to me in sentences and formulas
of friendship and love...
on my screen..

I am afraid
         I am always so very afraid
                     Once I was somewhere else
                                    Locked up inside
                                                    My head

                                                                Once I was somewhere else
                                 I will not go back there
I want to stay out.


Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017


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Prisons of Conceit

Confined within the steep banks of a narrow mind 

is a cryptic river where men stumble in and go blind

They construct reinforced dams that hold them back

from accepting the candid truth;  white is not black

Like the slow moving current of a trickling stream

their thoughts are clogged and clot like curdled cream


What chance do the recalcitrant ones have to accept

reality if they allow no vision of being circumspect

of taking fault and blame for having a closed mind?

These are the ignorant, the foolish ones aptly defined

as those destined to stagnate until they decompose

It's the subsequent end to the stubborn who oppose

a new premise or concept with which they don't agree

They rot inside prisons of conceit;  a human tragedy


Copyright © Lin Lane | Year Posted 2017


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Poets

So you fancy that you know the poet?
I for one, wouldn’t dare make that claim!
Poets have ventured where few men have been,
And the poet is no stranger to pain.

Poets don’t live on the same plane as most,
Theirs is much deeper and higher.
They have dipped their quills in the blackest of ink
And climbed farther than most can aspire.

In a way, they are like a reporter
But their stories do not come second hand.
When their words bring to life vivid scenes of delight
You can bet there’s more gold in the sand.

The poet who writes of the joys of a puppy
And paints pictures of frolic and play
Has watched his companion grow old and pass on,
And thanked the good Lord for the days.

The man who rejoices at a burgeoning oak
Just breaking forth from the brown
Has sat in the shade of a towering red wood
And wept when it fell to the ground.

When the words of a bard touch you deep with its truth
And ring in your heart like a bell
You can bet that they paid for that seed with their youth
Or snatched it from some unknown hell.

For ‘tis poets, not fools who will quickly rush in
Where good men and angels refrain.
Only there do his cryptic words yield their meaning,
Only there can you feign know his pain.


Copyright © Dean Wood | Year Posted 2017


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Riding Misty

Though Santa never responded to pleas
There was just one gift on my list each year
A horse that could run at the speed of light
A bold little gal; I never had fear

With two high school friends I visited a ranch
To ride in 103-degree heat
Through the bramble bushes and prickly pears
Upon little “Misty” I took my seat

The Mustang Adoption Program’s success
Sparked ranchers from Tucson, Arizona
To give a home to a rust-colored mare
Many miles from my home near Daytona

Cryptic white markings graced Misty’s neck
Looked like words in Native American code
“She’s so small,” I whined, seeking to ride fast
But no matter, to the desert we rode

Even the roadrunners were envious 
When Misty gained speed and hit her full stride
Warp speed!  I clung to the saddle horn
As Misty passed larger horses with pride

My hat fell on a cactus, sweat filled my eyes
My life flashed before me, quite a surprise
It seemed like she had wings as we flew
Don’t be quick to judge a horse by its size

I thank Misty often for the ride she gave me
She fulfilled my dream and gave me a thrill
But on the news today a reporter said
Wild horses would now be rounded up and killed

I’m so grateful I had the chance to ride
A wild horse with spirit and awesome speed
But what will become of her ancestors
Misty’s now part of a vanishing breed



*For Frank's "One Standout Day" contest
by Carolyn Devonshire


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010


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One Way Ships - Part 1

Flings and wings and rings rejected... Cupid’s arrows fly deflected... “It clearly is too late” she signed, “to love, adore or pay me mind” Penciled lines drew cruel conclusions mocking mirror’s cracked illusions... Sometimes, in time, I hang awhile, reflected in her parting smile Drifting wan, below unheeding worried, wounded suns a’ bleeding... Struck dumb by night, no way to say “Let’s sound the stars another way” Shaking sands frame distant smokestacks, shanty towns, forsaken oak shacks... Pursuing dusk, collapsed and dyed, the docile dolphin deftly stride beyond behind the ebbing tide, towards One-Way Ships of sunken pride Gypsy dreamer in denial... Sleep and slumber standing trial... I never really ever slept inside the cryptic walls she kept Martian moons provoke the ocean... Strange enchantments stir the potion... The mutant molten purple skies ignite subconscious fireflies Voiceless echoes feigning laughter... Crushing quiet screaming after... Vague vagaries pretend to sleep, my conscience crumbles in a heap Startled stars at dawn are slacking... Still her tempest sail is tacking... In fractured dreams sere silhouettes blow foghorns, trumpets, clarinets... Discarded glowing cigarettes tinge One-Way Ships with pale regrets Cold cathedral clocks upended... Frozen second hands suspended... Beneath the gauze of time I try to while away somewhere nearby Ticking, tocking time’s a’ tolling... Cruel eternity’s cajoling... The future, tattered, calls bereft, with nothing but her shadows left Brigantines skim gated grottos chasing clowns and desperados... While jugglers juggle circus bricks, I’m trapped by time’s uncanny tricks Candied candles flicker faintly... Braided tresses quiver quaintly... Demystified, untamed in time, her face is traced in puppet mime... Amorphous tongues of jangled rhyme hail One-Way Ships that glide sublime Bolts of lightning flash unkindly... Stoned, alone, I huddle blindly... I drain another dram and bray “she’s far too far too far away” Twisted waterwheels a’ thirsting... Flaming flower buds a’ bursting... Adrift, I stagger far below their unchained magic rainbow glow White crowned wave crests break unbounded... Shackled seashore sands lie pounded... Unleashed, beyond the bridled world, her silver sails, cut loose, unfurled Captive bluebirds nest in baskets... Morning glories cover caskets... Wee ballerinas swirl and spin while giant jokers smirk and grin and, wasted, I withdraw within carved One-Way Ships in flasks of gin
Continued in Part 2


Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012


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VOICE OF AN ANGEL

Locked high in the tower the Princess did cry No school for her that was the golden rule The King allowed her one pastime - she could sing She would retreat to her chamber whenever she could Her eyes sparkled with intelligence; singing was her prize She’s so blessed with talent, confined in the chateau Great inner strength inside made her such a winner Her voice, so light and beautiful, made her rejoice She shines like a precious gem despite her confines 02~01~15 Contest: Plucky two by Nine – ‘Cryptic Rose’ 2nd and 9th words to rhyme Words to be used:- Princess, school King, retreat, Intelligence, blessed, strength, light, gem ~awarded 1st place~


Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015


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The Pirate's Lady

Crew of scoundrels, scalawags
Skulls and crossbones, on her flags
Hull held low by money bags
The fruitful Pirate's Lady

Upon her splintered deck they rove
Safely anchored, hidden cove
Her belly stowed with treasure trove
The faithful Pirate's Lady

Treasure hidden, booby traps
Clever riddles, cryptic maps
Soon to return, to ivory caps
So fleet the Pirate's Lady

Sails at full, for seven days
On east horizon, looms her prey
They intercept with cannon fray
The frightful Pirate's Lady




Copyright © Joe Inca | Year Posted 2006


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My Poetic Restaurant

Were I a restaurant proprietor
Al fresco and exclusively for poets
My menu would be cryptic metaphors
Original from memories echoic

Spring rhymes of happy times and brighter days
Fresh summer sonnets mostly bittersweet
Then autumn prose on multicolored trays
Some winter villanelle hor dourves for treats

And if you come your muse can eat for free
Imagination is a welcome guest
There is one rule, no dictionaries please
Yes, thinking caps are furnished on request

Come dine with me until you get your fill
The best part is you'll never get a bill


      September 6 2016


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016


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Shades of Marmalade

 Evening drifting in on twilight shades
   As sunset glimmers softly on the sea
 Shimmering in  colors of marmalade
    And fading deep into its mystery

 Dusk enchants with spells of its sweet allure
    As  restless waves await the mystic night
  Flowing relentlessly to rocky shores
     As seagulls dot the sky in twilight's flight

 And in the darkness of the cryptic deep
    The ocean churns with raging sounds sublime
       And soon, it lulls the midnight moon to sleep
 As starlight twinkles with silvery chimes

  When the moon awakens from its sweet dream
 The sea in morning light will surely gleam!
                            ----



Copyright © Joseph May | Year Posted 2016


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Freudian slip

A poet's soul lay in slumber,
his pen a distasteful adversary. 

A suffering soul lost in yesterday,
stumbled upon his somnolent path.
Enchanted eyes felt her nakedness 
through barriers of her cryptic veil.
Echoing tremors of her broken soul
gently charmed his hardened heart.
Enraptured by her enchanted tears
he joined her capricious journey.

Her enigmatic elegance inspired his
zealous zealot pen to ooze musings
praising their charismatic camaraderie. 

Drifting into the anomaly of her mind,
he became a victim of a Freudian slip.
Voices tormented her malinger mantra,
suffocating her into a maudlin malaise.

Reprehensible words led to bruised ego,
unjustifiable actions led to lonely silence.

An aroma that expired with her last petal.

A poet's soul lays in slumber,
his pen a distasteful adversary. 

Silent One
Simple Musing
23 January 2018

Freudian slip
a slip-up that (according to Sigmund Freud) results from the operation of unconscious wishes or conflicts and can reveal unconscious processes in normal healthy individuals











Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2018


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Black Bird and Midnight Butterfly

There she sits, a "Black Bird on a wire"
On wings repose "she sings of light"
 "Broken People" gather beneath her 
People who have seen the "Faces of Storm"
Accused, Yet "guilty of innocence"
I become an "Unaware Witness"
"Forever by your side" I will remain
Perhaps you can teach me "the art of understanding"
For you let the "Butterfly Rise" with grace
One of many "miraculous secrets"
After all these years "I am still waiting"
Searching for answers "behind cryptic doors"

I sit in the silence of "Solitude's Embrace"
Leaving me with more "Observations of ponder"
The dark was such a "Seductive Predator"
Why do I feel alone, is it a symptom of "my lacking"?
You my dear Blackbird- you are "Prettiness Defined"
"The Sowing" yours, it defines you.
"Yesterday you were my Garden"
Together we discussed many "painstaking views" 
I remember taking a breath, "bewildered of all you emanate"
"Black Bird on a wire" tell me your secrets!
As I look into your eyes, our "hearts converse"
"I want to know" am I really here?
A"Midnight Butterfly" Beating my wings for you
"Make Love to Me"

Let us fly to the sky, "Discovering Forever"
On our way to "a reachable happiness".


It is done!

Thanks to those who contributed

Mystic Rose
Kim Patrice Nunez
John Lawless
Jan Allison
Broken Wings
M.L. Kiser
Rotten Apple
Catie Lindsey
Debbie Guzzi
Eve Roper
Yanny Widjanarko
Cecilia Macfarlane
Tim Smith
FJ Thomas
Casarah Nance (special honor, part of title!)
Peter Duggan
Olive Eloisa Guillermo
Julia Ward
Eileen Manassian 

Eileen sent a soup mail with her title "Make Love to Me".
Our Queen of Passion was trying to stump me.:0)
I think it adds a bit of ooh la la!








Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015


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35 Minutes before Midnight

‘Tis a lavender breath
That I sheathe
For this everlasting trip

Forsaken
This raft I float upon
Raging streams of consciousness

Tonight, I am undone
Yet, conundrum pieces
Remain glued under atrium curfews

A 60 degree wind
Warranting dander of sin
To disconnect its worm
From embedded lyrics coating this Adam’s apple

Holding solace’s microphone
As one
To an ocean of maple shrouded dinner tables

No attendees tonight.

My chocolate depths
Layer tears under vivid duress
Temptation choruses
Opening weary floodgates
To picture her without
Silken
Dress

But, I digress

Partially

Another cryptic footstep
Walks with me

Communion comforting watered down seeds
Implanted within gum lines of inhibitions’ mouth

Quarter to midnight
Mystified wrist pulses on round-trip flight

My sentences craving wanton vowel

Needing
Missing

Y o -

©Drake J. Eszes 


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013


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THE CURSE OF BLACK BEARD


Down deep beneath fathoms icy keep, where deadmen’s
Scream in utter silences aquatic hell, amongst the devils
Graveyard of wreckage's carnage, there exists a ghostly harbor
Of phantom ships!
Anchored are the souls of the undead, and vessels craft for which
These commended rode upon, tethered by chains forged in the
Fires of the demonic, each linkage a sin committed by greed’s
Deceit or murderous deeds done in life!
Many ominous flags wave within the shifting under currents,
Thus rippling in tides of infamies eternal, but none compare
To those eternally feared, as the pirates of the bloody
Skull and cross-bones!
By the pegged legged dead man’s rotting corpus, or the
One eyed zombie sailor, there is no name more feared in the
Whole seven seas as that of the pirate known as Black Beard!
Just the sheer mention of this cryptic Captain of larceny,
Sending a shivering’s chill through the briny depth, into even
Davey Jones skeletal remains, buried within his timbered lined,
Entombment’s burial locker!
It lies completely frozen in a block of glacier ice, perfectly preserved
In death’s never yielding grasp, the Queen Anna Revenge, all hands
Of the unrested crew awaiting for their Captain’s supernatural orders!
This hell cat of the seven seas, still railing against the devil’s final decree
Of death, Black Beard stands at his captain’s wheel, screaming in defiance’s
Rage, cursing in balsams tongue of vengeance!
Demons child spawned from mortal flesh, died in the smoking guns aftermath
Of battle, but the grim Reaper held his spirit in bondages bloody contract,
Signed in the x mark of youthful innocence, the captain of darkness,
Gave him the dirty deed of the final inquests executioner!
At the calling of his dark master of purest evil, the Queen Anna Revenge,
Is released from her frozen ice prison, slowly drawn upwards to
Emerge from the depths of the deepest abyss, of the Barring Straights!
This dead man’s ethereal craft, bursts unto the surf of the living,
Ice cycles of monstrous size hang from the sails and mast!
An icy covered death vessel, with one mission to undertake,
And to collect the souls of the dammed or forsaken,
By the hated and dread pirate, Captain Black Beard,
Scourge of the Seven Seas!
The living cling to life, in shadows fear cast by the
Queen Anna Revenges shadow of death, as her heckling jackal
Captain Black Beard, steers at terrors spinning wheel, “By hook or Crook,
Nay none shall escape my vengeances wrath, “Says this notorious
Doom master of utter evil!
As his shark infested disciples arrive, for their bucket of bloods
Chummy festival of human flesh, and bone banquet, Black Beard
Summons the life essence by naming’s hailing aboard, laughing
At these poor mariners pain and agony, until the last
Screaming’s echoing ends beneath the briny deep!
In the chilling breeze, phantom souls hang downwards from
Crow’s-nest above, while others are forced to walk ethereal plank
As one last torment, just to please this black captain of death!
Then the Queen Anna Revenge, returns beneath the cold waves
Until she is called upon again to fulfill her never ending quest,
For Black Beards thirst for ultimate revenge is quenched,
With the souls of one thousand dead men!

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Dedicated to Linda the Poet Destroyer











Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015


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Behind cryptic doors

Clumsily tripping, over our own feet
Sometimes, minds aren't meant to meet
perhaps we're off just a micro beat
thoughts obscured, behind glass covered in sleet

Sure there are those, who wish to exploit
but really in the end, what's the point?
We're all merely visitors, in this joint
Trying our best, with words to annoint

Cloisterd in shadows, wanting to be found
glimmers of earlier selves, clowning around
When others laugh, why do our fears compound?
Downturned mouths, strangled crying sounds

Embarrassing moments, last an eternity
Sometimes I'm my very worst enemy
Thinking hidden messages, are meant for me
Is that what poetry is meant to be?

I let essential words, roll off my lips
Credentials have no taste, when I take deep sips
Preferring a message, from a page that drips
My mind unfocused, takes many trips

I like the power, of words intrinsic
Flavors and texture, is what I like to lick
If it's too saccharin and sweet it makes me sick
My pleasure comes, from words hot and thick

So you see, I too like to word explore
Words found, behind a cryptic door
I start upright, end up on the floor
Keep on reading, until I can't absorb anymore!


Written at the request of James Horn.
Response to his  "to Come Back Again" Poem.
Thanks James, our interaction led to a poem of the day!


Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015


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Rainbow Symphony

I looked through my prism
Still I could not see
Your colors

I wished for the beauty of a sunrise
Wild flowers blooming
Bright blue sky and emerald waters
The colors of fall leaves
I wanted a rainbow symphony
To hear and see your majesty
To walk along your red carpeted splendor

The magnificence of you 
Hidden behind a wall of dark grey
A protective layer of granite
Cold to the touch
Unyielding 

I chipped
Searching for cracks
Tapped out cryptic messages
Hoping you would understand
You guided me to the entry way
past the sentinels
Down the corridors
To your banquet hall
Where now I celebrate
Marvel at the brilliance of you
I see
I hear
I feel
Each note

My prism 
Inadequate to the task
I see your colors
Oh so many colors
Rainbows cannot articulate 
Butterfly's look anemic 
Diamonds lack clarity
I see
I try to understand
The magnificence of you
The perfection
The power
The glory
Yet I cannot
You are 
I am not
Yet because of you
I see
A glimpse of eternity



New poem for SKAT's  "All Colors are in" contest






Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013


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CHILDREN OF THE NIGHT


Given are we the name of the vampire, creatures of the forbidden,
Driven to live forever within the shadows, or die
Beneath a wooden steak, through our black hearts of pure evil,
But in reality, we are so much more than fictions fantasy tails!
Passions blood devils, quenching our thirsts of desire beneath
The Flickering lamp light of centuries, the ageless immortals,
Entombed within the cryptic blood covenant of the fierce!
The children of the night, who bear the mark of the carnivorous beast,
Behold our dark father, whom dwells in the blackest pitch of hells
Crimson kingdom of death,
We are the lunar descendants of legacy's blood brethren, transfusions mutant
Disciples of darkness, prime evil chameleons of illusion and deception,
Invoking predators, feasting on the exposed under belly of humanities
Breasts of the sinful soul.
Abominations blasphemers, of the elliptical salvation of the divine,
Winged serpents of the devil's spawned, vampiric snakes curling around
The throats of mankind, infusing them with our deadly venomous poison!
Hooded cobras, existing underneath the veiled silhouette
Of the translucent moon, ebony dragons of twilight, flapping against
The harvest of the newly born undead!
White lilies of fleshes innocence, are lain to rest at the mausoleum of the forsaken,
Tender are the leaves of the blackened flowers of the newly pronounced dead,
These delicate petals are so cast a sunder by the winds breathe of the demonic moon!
Legends beasts of the fields to be feared, the unkempt, and unclean
Spiritual wracks hidden until night falls veil descends, but within us
Is a living piece of humanity, desiring to love, procreate and spawn,
Those of our kind, to invoke others of our species!
Beneath the earth is a world of living death, the kingdom of the undead,
Given birth by the slaying of the sun, here is our unholy domain of darkness,
For we are the cursed and the shunned!
My kind seeks the soleus of the shadows, bathing in the cold warmth of
The moons chilling air, we so soar beyond the tethers of humanity,
Swaying between the shifting clouds of gossamer, into a world of spiritual
Uplifting, singing the praises of our dark father, for we are the children of
Night off spring of the immortal one, the devil’s own kindred of the blood!
Given are we the name of the vampire, creatures of the forbidden,
Driven to live forever within the shadows, or die
Beneath a wooden steak, through our black hearts of pure evil,
But in reality, we are so much more than fictions fantasy tails!

BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015


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Shadows

Shadowed veils of night are falling, as I hear the darkness calling,
all around me time is stalling, but my mind I cannot cure.
As I stoke the embers dying, tears inside me gently crying,
gentle tears from eyes are sighing, yet this sadness I endure.

Shadows sway in twilight's leaving, as my thoughts leave me grieving,
bleakness stains the world around me, painting wall and sill and floor.
Ebon silence now is creeping, through the cracks I see it seeping,
in my mind the cracks are weeping, whence it comes I can't be sure.

Shadow in my head still growing, rampant visions ever flowing
lying nightmares never slowing, while I pace from door to door.
Creatures lay there always waiting, in the dark forever hating,
ever dark and irritating, never knowing what's in store.

Shadows dance in candles' flicking, cursed demon always tricking
endless night yet clock's still ticking, please release me from your gore.
Cryptic shade in substance fleeting, from within you're always eating,
eating soul and heart yet beating, as the veil is slowly lowered... lost am I
                                                                                                            ...evermore.


12/28/15



Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015


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The Mask of Alabaster

Once the night had fallen upon a sleepless slumber,
Whence the winter woke me when the third was three in number.

I sense that a wince doth lurk and wear which wicked gaze,
Of conniving shadows cast between my bedroom windowpanes.

I try to sit up from the fluff of foul feathered pillows of goose,
Yet they hold me down as if they'd grown on my neck to form a noose.

Shadows are simple reverse reflections of what's been left behind
A thing when sight can see what light has yet to hit the mind.

They pirouette as silhouettes upon my wall and in my eyes,
In which I sense with worry why I'm frozen and feeling tied.

As I'm laying locked in horror I look through the window’s diaphanous glass, 
And see that in a tree there floats a fluorescent face in a mist of brass.

It floats aloft the frost of the frigid Winter floor, 
Stirring cirrus shadow limbs of the moonlit sycamore.

An incandescent twilight cloak, illumes the timber's lattice, 
Where shines this cryptic spectral glow akin the ignis fatuus.

Abrupt by insanity as I fancy this fantasy, surely born by a brief hallucination; 
Optic inventions craft in confusion surely conjured such nonce observation.

A peculiar perched mask seems to hang disguised within the wintry thicket, 
“An illusion,” I suspect “my percipience deceived, by a dubious false exhibit.”

Two holes are dug beneath rubbed bone, bleached white in wan complexion, 
Masquerading to mock the missing paired two eyes of aesthetic perfection.

“Indeed,” I thought, “These staring beams appear as do a pair of eyes,” 
I try and descry the light from which they shine under a gleaming guise.

Purloined I’m poised in a lucid melt, tasting a poisonous pure oppression, 
Wrought by this face that haunts my view through the lens of my fenestration.

Shifting my view to find fault in my faculty,
I sought salvage in sight of such psychic insanity.

My fidgeting efforts prove futile, the carven masked eyes fix upon mine still! 
Incessantly I’m stunned in speculum, boiling in a benumbing brisk of thrill.

Alas, my eyesight: no longer the sole sense of this deville, 
What once was mere vision hails now my ears with a trill.


My breath and pulse waxing slower, and waning ever faster, 
Aghast by celestial sounds from a susurrating mask of plaster.

Whence from my vision avowed, to the vacillations I succumb, 
Of undulations the mask strums, moving inside my eardrums.

Who brings to me this apparition, arisen from perhaps an adumbration,
Of a visit from he whose grim reaping, lends to the living certain cessation?

And then in reminiscence, to my mind arrived the anamnesis,
Of the shelf that shelters a book one might otherwise dismiss.

Within its parchment pages, whence in refuge resides a clue, 
To what this mask is made of; when, where, and why; by who?

Pins prick from prior paralysis, upon my dermis disguise of bone,
I shiver and grab the book and beg, bound reason to me be shone.

Within this covered lexicon read acrylic words in arcane diction, 
Which most readers would anthologize, as ancient artifact and fiction.

The first supposition tis true, that this book was bound in the archaic ages, 
Amiss the latter assumption that fable unfolds by the turning of its pages.

In my desperation I stir commotion, reading over every turned folio, 
Longing for light in yonder window break, as did Shakespeare’s Romeo.

Yet each passage read of occult sorcery, or a variety of mages, 
No line of a white mask, appeared to me on any of these pages.

All hope seemed to escape with passing page, turned by my flustered fingers, 
Then a sudden zephyr blown ingress to the page on which now I linger.

On the bottom right reads in numeral: “Nine-hundred and ninety-nine,” 
On which reads the magical recounted chronicle of myth upon its line.

The fluorescence of the pallid mask that posts upon the tree, 
Shares the ashen-sheen on a face seen afore, on this page by me.

An oblong oil-painted portrait, white and blush of reddish-pink, 
Its caption reads: “The Mask of Alabaster,” inscribed in faded ink.

To the left of the ghostly image reads a paragraph like a spell, 
A warning of dark wizardry, which concocts white masks in hell:

"Animated by a wizard whose avarice bears blithe the thaumaturgy, 
To forge a warlock’s soul inside a gypsum stone, 
This augury and the legerdemain required of such magical metallurgy,
Siphons a sapphire from the fire inside his pelvic bone.

His soul is trapped in a putrid shell: his very own decapitate skull,
On which will gleam a glowing garnet, glimmering gold and scarlet,
His eyes shall cry with weeping, sunken, hollow two eyeholes
Luring any victim to view the red of this lustrous target."

Such dread and morbidity of a lost soul; ‘tis most tragic, 
When trapped in a mask made by evil mischievous magic.

What malice must succeed from such a tumorous terror? 
And what reconnaissance be sought by its hidden wearer?

Returning my gaze to the wraith in the window,
I remember that it has my mind muddled in limbo.

This mask of cadaverous complexion, 
To my horror, mine own reflection.


Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2017


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Hiraeth of a Modern Celt

Upon the green hills of Cymru
I stand arrested by the veiw
of cryptic sea and ancient shore 
that stood ten thousand years before
they met my callow eye
and will remain for many more
long after I die


I'm solemn above the briny stew
with thoughts of kin I never knew
fishing the sea, mining the coal
or mining the depths of a poet's soul
A nation's buried history
revived once more because it knows
the blood that flows through me

Blood that fed this fertile soil
with the Celtic tears and toil
of Warriors dead b'neath the peat
that pads the soles of anglish feet
the true Princes of Wales
rule no more upon this shore
except in children's tales

The epic song of Arthur's quest
or Madoc's journey somewhere west
stories of the Mabinogion 
or family tales of distant kin
who fought so hard, but failed
to keep their ancient birthright
so to distant lands they sailed

Centuries pass, now here I stand
a stranger in this native land
welcomed by the foe of yore
that chased my people from this shore
leaving me a world apart
from the Cymru pulsing through my blood
and beating in my heart


Copyright © Erica Lewis | Year Posted 2006


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The writing is on the wall

The writing is on the wall.


The writing is on the wall, an old saying used even until today
for those found lacking or deficient, Divine judgement is on the way
It means that there has been a weighing done on the scales of justice
by an impartial God who knows us, and the good or bad we practice.

The writing is on the wall even today, in our ultra modern society
for those who choose critical and independent thinking, instead of piety
for those who deny there is a God, or who simply worship in their own way
for those whose judgemental hypocrisy is super abundantly on display

The writing is on the wall, for all warmongers filled with nationalistic hate
For all those inciting our youth to violence, malevolent voices that resonate
The writing is on the wall, for those who say good is bad, and that bad is good
and for those who kill the innocent child, it's well deserved and understood.



Writing on the wall comes from the Bible Daniel chapter 5 where the Babylonian King is judged  by God's handwritten cryptic message on the wall. The prophet Daniel interprets the writing and the King was killed and replaced that same evening. Consequently the expression the writing on the wall portends judgement and destruction.

John Derek Hamilton

April 19, 2016



Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016


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I am, Error

Love should only ever kindle the present and the future. Not the past… Primarily, I am second. For I have placed others on similar platforms Made of charred cedar and revamped memories Unintentionally It is not intent that we embrace, but the end result. Good, brief. Bad, seared.
Branded
I hang my smile on half-mast remembrance, The elaborate touch of yesterday’s smile
Forgotten
And days go by Where cryptic anger holds me dear Because my identity becomes nothing more Than a discarded 140 characters Yet, this handsome error Will still smile through the equally equivocal flaws Of others We are a marathon running on seismographic parallels. Faults, unbecoming Faults, embedded One-sided Expiration, denied The pricelessness of my heart, cost overridden Perhaps it has become the only option To keep love’s punishment, subdued While songs of psychic animosities, Lay judgment on unawareness’ smile It is not easy to reach wanton goals, While attempts to (mind) read incoming ruptures Incorporate 50% success rate We stumbled when we ran yesterday. We will stumble when we walk today. We shall stumble upon the sunrise & sunset of tomorrow. Why couldn’t you just hold my hand when we fall? … I am, Error. One day, I will become a candle in the wind Extinguished Will the winds upon angel’s wing Be guided by those same smiles Tossed into amnesia’s similar gust ©D.J.E.


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2016