Best Devilishly Poems
Watery eyed thoughts came,
Zap! Pow! a short circuited brain.
Inward turned burned ocular pain,
too many thoughts to restrain
I’m a cheap sheep making my mistakes again.
Smell my seared wool going down the drain.
Ba, ba, blackishly wishing I was right as rain.
Words accessed by my fingertips
help to quicken my sheepish heartbeat
Yet I bang on my keyboard, DELETE, DELETE!
Ripping out digital scores, sheet by sheet.
Never once listening to what other sheep bleat.
Instead I feel my brain draining
as my barnyard thoughts are straining
I can’t translate what they’re saying.
It sounds to much like blah blah complaining.
I’m watching you fake shepherd boy,
black sheep never sleep
into the darkness we’re destined to creep.
Sad sadistic secrets you’ve burdened us to keep
So we push our charred thoughts way down deep,
as we travel paths dangerous and steep.
Within the silence of the lambs,
you devilishly relish hearing us weep.
While I admire fleece as white as snow.
I’m not inclined to go where those sheep go.
Their path leads to your fictional rainbow.
They’re not safe just because they travel slow.
The True Shepherd wouldn’t lead them to and fro
I listen to my uneasy queazy feeling
and exit your proverbial row.
I wish I could stop them too
but, ba ba ba, to the slaughter they go.
For Wow Me Poetry Contest entered August 26, 2019.
Written August 21, 2019
Re-entered in John Hamilton’s N/A contest
The raccoon was brazen
Bold, devilishly handsome
I fell in love quickly
I know. Raccoons are no good for opossums
But the heart wants who the heart wants.
We met on a warm day
in the throes of summer
He was eating cat food when I arrived
to the consternation of a gray tabby
who was sitting on a prissy
large-flowered puffy porch chair.
“spoiled princess”, the gentleman said
with his large bandit eyes.
“brat probably” I replied, demurely, flicking my pink tail.
He stopped eating and looked at me for second.
Wandered off porch, giving me the rest of the food.
Lights began flickering on and off.
I thought it was lightning at first
Then a large WallyGeemer tromped out.
He was in his underwear.
I flipped to my side, pretending dead.
“EDNA!” the WallyGeemer screamed.
I had heard this voice before.
It is a voice of fear.
He went back inside and slammed the door.
I was halfway back to the marsh when the
generous Raccoon stepped into my path.
“Would you um like to um…”
“Of course,” I said.
And we did.
Of Saints And Sinners
Within the sacrificial selfless silence
The seditious spirit stands in defiance
With salient scars of eternal echoes
Amongst the meditating melodious meadows
Sinister sins compound in complexity
Where demon deeds are devoured devilishly
Macabre masters of the medieval mind
Disengaged discipline of the consciously confined
The saint and sinner must coherently co-exist
One restrains of thoughts the other can not resist
Erosive entombment in the somatic solitudes
As both struggle within the manqué multitudes.
Oct.28.2016
Saints and Sinners - Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
In my global village, Oxy, where folks live all alone,
There’s lots of open secrets, for secrets are well-known!
Fairly dark alien residents live with us above ground.
A dull roar or deafening silence you hear when they’re around.
In mobile homes, alone together, some big babies live,
hanging out with old boys. Head butts they like to give!
An idiot savant is here, and he is terribly nice.
His glasses are half empty, and he likes to use hot ice.
Non-working mothers are employed here as paid volunteers.
Infinite in number, earth angels are those dears.
One skinny broad likes idle gossip. With sad clowns she talks.
She gets cold sweats. In restless sleep, she wakens from sleep walks.
A petty officer with some lame effort likes to find romance.
She wears tight slacks but lusts for men who only wear dress pants.
A gentleman bandit had brief longing for a student teacher.
Her morbid humor was, for him, her second best feature.
Mostly in my village, folks are devilishly good.
Private citizen have open house in every neighborhood.
Others, though, are pretty ugly; some are really fake.
The highly depressed with quiet rage are just too hard to take!
All that aside, with mild enthusiasm, I must say,
I love the mud baths, rock gardens, and elevated subway.
Come visit. You’ll love our jumbo shrimp, local celebrities,
work holidays and free love; all make forgotten memories!
Written Aug. 26, 2016 for David Lindsay's Oxymoronic Obsession Contest
Every line has one or more oxymorons. This was great fun!
Daughter crime
hooking up with felon Father time
Both got incestuous, crooked desires in mind
Two thieves in a thug hug,
secrecy intertwine conspiracy vine bind
Mother brood
raising a wild pack of dog sharks
to feed on
minnow murmuring moods
of bottom dwellers street schooled
Imprinting runt dorsal vig tales
with a devouring loan interest attitude
Like father, like daughter
Evil is, evil become
Like mother, so are the sons
Wicked poison flower, wicked petal blossoms
Family of privileged gangsters;
from rotten fruit, spoiled seeds sprung
DNA genie-ology:
witches ~ warlocks conceived
by blood occult umbilical wizardry
Inherited death
will be all in the family
Cursed wealth,
it will estate all in the family
Snake in the grass grifter grafted stealth
give get you
adopted into this viper family,
so devilishly easy
Destiny rooted in brimstone soil,
be any branch from this evil tree
it doesn't take a lot
to make some people happy
a midnight snack of goodies
with that, oh so sweet, cold milk
could be Malomars,Fig Newtons,
or those yummy chocolate covered
Ring-Dings......
just a small sampling of how
sometimes these small wonders
help us deal with bigger things...
my favorite is the milk, perhaps with
a Pepperidge Farm cookie too...
oh, the Gods were so generous
when they created such as these anew,
sometimes I barely remember
the late evening goodie raid
it's the tell-tale chocolate stains
on my pillow, or sheets where I had laid
that brings it back to me
the price that now must be paid
laundry a day earlier than planned,
another diet quickly canned,
how come I can't stand
the thought of my choclate covered hand
so tonight I hope I strand...
those devilishly delicious treats grand
should I tie myself to the bed?
and let an elf get them for me instead?
all right, this sweet talk is now done
say, I wonder about that bear-claw bun......
Charcoal Sheep
Watery eyed thoughts came,
Zap! Pow! a short circuited brain.
Inward turned burned ocular pain,
too many thoughts to restrain
I’m a cheap sheep making my mistakes again.
Smell my seared wool going down the drain.
Ba ba ba, sorta blackish, wishing I was right as rain.
Worlds accessed by my fingertips
help to quicken this sheepish heartbeat.
I bang on my keyboard, DELETE, DELETE!
Ripping out digital scores, sheet by sheet.
Never once listening to warnings.
All the while the other sheep bleat.
Instead I feel my brain drain
as my barnyard thoughts strain.
I can’t translate what they’re saying,
but I feel them point and complain.
My paradigm won’t shift though,
I have a glass ego to maintain.
So I download my brain
into my mainframe.
I’m watching you fake shepherd boy,
black sheep never sleep.
Into the darkness
we’re destined to creep.
We have those sad sadistic secrets
you’ve burdened us to keep.
So I smudge charcoal thoughts
dangerously deep.
I prefer paths, dangerous and steep.
Within the silence of the lambs,
you devilishly relish hearing me weep.
You defile fleece as white as snow.
I resist going where those sheep go.
Their path leads to your fictional rainbow.
They’re not safe even though
they travel slow.
The True Shepherd
wouldn’t lead them to and fro.
I listen to my uneasy queasy feeling
and exit your proverbial row.
I wish I could stop them too
but, ba ba ba,
off to the slaughter they go.
Is our love a dance macabre?
A dilly dallying with death?
Or a mystic encounter of unabated love?
Will it last? Will it end?
So many questions left unanswered,
So many uncertainties attested,
All cumulative in a death wish
As emotions run devilishly amok.
My soul screams with this unpredictability,
Its echoes rampage through my veins,
As bubbling blood courses through
Twisted arteries, through havoc and chaos.
Is it the folly of chained love?
The unearthly silence of togetherness?
My lips pronounce your name but no one answers.
I realize my questions will never be answered.
Our togetherness is but a charade,
Shadows dancing in a moonless night.
Your allure is just too much to bear,
I dare keep it no more
So let our ways head into different tracks.
Henceforth I'll dance alone.
A dance macabre.
Once upon a time, Prunella
dwelt amid a magic wood
a dainty pixie most rare
whose temperament wasn't good
Last one of her purple line
in that dreary, dreaded glen
where beasts ever feared to tread
and mankind had never been
For purple pixies were known
to be devilishly mean
they'd terrified the kingdom
wherever they had been seen
So Prunella lived alone
and pouted, skulked and scowled
and dark nights when coyotes called
she piteously howled
Until one day she found them
some children lost in the wood
and scared the daylights from them
just because she knew she could
The children fawned and pleaded
to appease her rotten mood
this only made her madder
so she copped more attitude
But she'd miscalculated
when she made the last one mad
and felt the ammunition
from that slingshot-wielding cad
Wee bits of sweets kept flying
so like pebbles at her wings
until he ran out of those
then he chucked most anything
Around the wood she darted
avoiding him at some length
until at last she gave out
having used up all her strength
He plucked her from where she fell
and plopped her into a jar
then she began to bargain
as the village wasn't far
But Fred, both shrewd and clever
vowed to keep her locked up tight
'til they all were safely home
and ev'rything was made right...
So she charmed the fireflies out
to show them all safely home
bossily shouting orders
from within the jars glass dome
But once they were safely back
the boy quickly changed his mind
decided to keep Ol' Prune'
(as pixies were hard to find)
And 'though she was mad as hell
and her wings pulsed fiery red
she couldn't help but admire
this precocious, wily Fred
'Though he never let her loose
they became the best of friends
laughing with glee as they kept
his parents at their wits-ends
“What's with these wild ideas?”
They would grouse, and groan, and moan
unknowing those mischief-plans
were a pixie's- not his own!
Remembering Mrs. Sully always makes my face break out into smiling mode.
Her face was as craggy as a grave, there was an aluminum tooth on the left.
When she smiled, it gleamed with pure happiness, making her stories even better.
When I first met her, her ferocious stories kept my gentle side terrified, for hours.
I thought she was the Hansel and Gretel witch, because she looked like my vision of her.
There was a unique smell around Mrs. Sully, an earthy, vegetable-type smell.
She was always in her garden, killing snakes, big black ones, with large mouths.
She relished showing us how she whacked them with her hoe, hacking them to pieces.
Although short, stooped over and old, she was a force no snake wanted to encounter.
Her stories were full of spit and vim, anger, and devilishly mean murders and such.
If you decided to share a story, she did not hear it, she did not pause if you wanted to talk.
You had to walk along beside her, acting like wearing two or three house dresses
over each other under a pair of overalls was normal, seeing the bibs and lace stick out like crazy.
Her expertise was incessant talking, not waiting for social cues or societal nonsense like that.
She knew about all the hangings that had ever happened in the county, and relished telling
About them in full-force detail, hoping to keep us on our toes, ripe with worry.
All you have to do is mention the words Mrs. Sully, and the old-timers smile, remembering
Those awful hangings, and what happened after the rope was yanked, because we all knew.
Sometimes I swear I see her in her old black hat, pulled down nearly to her eyes,
Stooped carriage, pushing a rusty brown wheelbarrow full of produce, from one farm to another.
We were lucky, our house was smack in the middle, so we would run out and hear the tale of the day.
She owned two properties, a block and a half from each other, one of them had goats.
If we were really lucky, she would have one of her mean goats on a little leash and we could walk our block with it, as it butted us with its angry head.
Rumors said the goats slept in the house with her. It did not matter to me, she was a character
I will never forget her, sometimes picturing that amazing aluminum tooth, which told excellent
Stories. Stories I do not dare tell my own sweet grandchildren, as they stay up too late already.
I've waded with you in seaside shallows
'til love led us deeper than surface shoals.
With fervid passion, I've become blind
to everything except the need for you,
emotions rivaling the holiest hallows
inside my heart to make me whole.
We've reached the pinnacle point
of avowing a promise of foreverness.
Too late to swim ashore, for I'm drowning
in the whirlpools swirling in your eyes
beseeching you to love me... forever more.
You are to me ~ a tempting tormentor
whose whispers fondle my neck and face.
Your breath caresses each exotic place
bringing seductive sensations to my spine.
In depths of desire, I flirt with my demons,
and admit the temptation is devilishly divine.
Our shadows dance and secretly swoon,
in melodic waves beneath the moon.
I'm entranced when you call me your angel
and that your heart beats with a burning desire
or you say, "I am your passionate slave."
You see, I've memorized your metaphors,
the ones that deeply delve into my core.
Each time you express your emotions
in sensual lines of prurient poetry,
your words outshine the light of dawn.
Our language of love is not always spoken
through parted lips and fingertips...
More often concealed inside of us.
It's what our amorous hearts
ask our adoring eyes to quietly reveal.
Alluring breasts caressed devilishly.
Ethereal fantasies,
growing hard in just kissed lips.
Moist new odors penetrate quivering recurring spasms.
Teasing,
undulating,
viscous
wetness;
xanthic yearning zealots.
09/27/15
~The Wicked Witches~
(Trine)
The witches gather happily under the moonlight
They're planning to fly in their brooms tonight.
They laugh and cackle full of mischief very loud
The wicked witches can be observed among the cloud.
Then they descend and have in the forest a big cookout
They invited some of their creepy friends there's no doubt.
The witches finished eating their bat stew and cackle with delight
Again they fly high in their old brooms among the dark cloud
While devilishly plan to terrorize everyone before the sun comes out.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2011
October.30.2016
There's a breathing room looming
Around me, vacantly alive but viscous;
Feeling the bitter dead breath
While grating still, fully motionless
Like a thick,pungent mound of darkness;
As the chill runs unto my raw bones...
Nothing satisfies its hideous plight
With eyes wide open, a nightmare
Screaming devilishly at the ceiling;
Restless, growing weary down the marrow...
I reach for the lamp..it is shut, broken
Until my instinct wakes; this room is the Fear
Lying deep within a childhood's unsettled sin.
For Brian Strand's Mid-January 2018 Premiere:
Resubmitted 1/12/2018
Sometimes I feel like a duck out of water,
The greener grass is the water when I fly
And the water when I am natant.
My feathers equally ambivalent
My brain benevolently beset
The curious quandary belied by the placidity of this
Mirror in which I repose and reflect.
Mywondrous will so disposed to inertia
That I am quite averse to aviation
But the mere kinesis of flight
Prods my psyche to that profound euphoria.
And then looms that not-so-ugly duckling
To whom I am devilishly drawn.
What manner of urgency beckons me?
What end do I seek?
Why is this predisposition so prevalent?
Who is that pricks my pique and piques my prick?
When will I no longer feel such, such, such ... love?
And where is that Nirvana?
I feel like the centipede that forgot how to run.
Is there no outcome to this conundrum?
No resolution to this pregnant poser?
Too many options spoil my perspective
And I cannot compute the consequences.
To seek is not to have lost.
To seek is the eternal evidence of Life
As life is evidence of the eternal.