Best Disembodied Poems
Sudden, as a bolt from the blue,
Came down a humming bird, tantalizing
Skimming down and darting up
As an ever revolving top
It reeled round and round
Before it alighted on a drooping flower;
That hung from a bending branch
In a corner of my front yard garden
It precariously clung on to it
Like a small pendent on a chain
A sight so cool, now so rare
That lighted up my dull spirits!
Once they showed themselves up
On almost every sunny day
Promptly after the monsoon rains
When the plants en mass in resplendent bloom
Oh! How I love this tiny bird
Not larger than a bumble bee
Dressed in a cloak of green and black
Flitting round on fluttering wings
It literally dances and pirouettes in the air
Before descending down closer to its target
Swirling, gliding n’ moving back and forth
As if unsure of what it should do
Finally with a terrific jerk and swiveling move
It hovers close to hanging blooms
Balancing itself sans any support
And draws out nectar with its long needle bill
When the zephyrs carry a sweet scent
It flits from flower to flower
And having enjoyed the ambrosial treat
It flies back, well satiated like a darting arrow
My eyes fail to capture its lightning move
As it goes whizzing through the lambent air
Quickly disappearing like a mote of soot
Losing itself in the vast expanse of the blue
Being less than an ounce of fat
So light, sleek and well streamlined
It travels faster than the speed of light.
In a fleeting dash, moving out of sight
Can any other bird rival it in agility?
Or vie with it in its simple grace?
How cute, this spirit of ‘disembodied joy’
This winged diminutive denizen of the sky!
,
Black-blue paint bleeds from within the cracks of crumbling cement walls,
Crushed skeletons infused within limestone erode,
exposing nameless sorrow hidden behind faceless grains of gypsum,
while a forgotten galaxy's celestial ceiling peers through a decaying thatched roof.
Misguided souls reach out into night's void,
screeching repeated sins into feverish gusts of wind,
tethered to each rusting rebar that's barely holding what was once their haven together,
unable to let go, doomed to relive past grievances.
Weathered spiral staircases lead towards nowhere.
Bleakness suffocates while hope is snuffed out,
like the wick of bitter candles drowning in their own wax.
Spinning surrealistic scenes melt into intangible realities,
each soul writhing in agony, trying to break free of abject cycles,
yet punishment clings like the smell of burnt tobacco,
unable to separate the scent from the fibres of existence.
Disembodied voices find no reprieve,
only more excruciation
at the hands of cruel judgement.
(An invented ghost tale)
A tale was told how centuries ago
at one old wooden bridge, there had occurred
a tragedy, for led there by some foe,
three children, by his scythe, were massacred.
It plagued my mind what drove him to this act;
how evil could prevail and not atone!
So one dank night the path to death I tracked,
and on the bridge I found myself alone.
Then suddenly I shrank. There loomed ahead
a disembodied soul with horror’s face.
Then circling endlessly the bridge, he fled,
as smaller ghosts with bandied blades gave chase.
Three gravestones lie nearby - no less. . . no more.
And yet the spirits I had seen were four!
An oldie for Carolyn Devonshire's Halloween Fright Poetry Contest
have you ever heard the devil whisper in your ear?
the acrimonious voice instilling guilt and fear
a satanic chauvinist who cherry picks your thoughts
as you abdicate morality for something you should not
have you ever felt a choke while you were asleep?
fighting unseen forces that often made you weak
have you ever tried to kill yourself and shove a knife in the belly of your gut?
have you ever heard the murmuring of the crowd whispering "youre nuts"?
have you ever watched the news and seen death and destruction?
realizing human sacrifices still exists relating child abductions
the devil plays his part in the abattoir of the human mind
but within this construct of our reality his powers are undefined
his deception and his manipulative motive is to abscond from the truth
but to clarify his powers is to expose him using proof
he has thwarted love in many ways and conquered the weakest soul
he has recruited wicked men to join his bilious abode
have you ever walked the potters field and felt the presence of those who relinquished the light?
have you ever heard the breath of disembodied spirits feasting in the night?
have you ever seen a ghostly figure like your eyes was glazed with smoke?
have you ever swallowed pride and felt like you would choke?
have you ever wondered why people pull the trigger and slice their loved ones throats?
its the sacrifice to the devil insted of sacrifices goats!
have you ever blamed a creator for the mistakes that you made?
and turned your back on him for every losing game you played
knowing the devil is complicated to understand
because no one knows what its like to be a bad man
There stands a desolate castle on England's venerable shore,
That once sheltered a royal line that ruled its sprawling realm.
Now, according to local lore, eerie things are seen and heard,
In that castle by the sea, in that haunted castle by the sea!
On blustery nights a spectral sentry is seen pacing its towers.
Clad in mail, armed with lance, he's heard to herald the hours.
His disembodied voice is heard e'en o'er the raging storm,
Atop that castle by the sea, atop that haunted castle by the sea!
On stormy nights as thunder crashes and the savage gale shrieks,
Lightning illumes a princess wraith, tears coursing down her cheeks,
As she waves to her handsome prince who goes forth into battle,
In that castle by the sea, in that haunted castle by the sea!
On moonlit nights a phantom hearse drawn by six ebon steeds,
Trailed by ghostly figures intoning haunting dirges is often seen.
As drifting clouds overshadow the moon, it fades from view,
Nigh that castle by the sea, nigh that haunted castle by the sea!
If only those barren, lichen covered walls could only speak,
But, alas, they now stand forlorn, eternally mute and bleak.
The haunting secrets they might reveal are forever buried,
In that castle by the sea, in that haunted castle by the sea!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention in Debbie Guzzi's "Jack OUT Of The Box" Contest - Jun 2011
One dark night takes me on a ride to an isolated hill where I inhale unpleasantness ..
Wide gleamy monstrous gate opens as the mighty wind blows,
creepy ferns crawl all over the floor.
Eerie garden awaits the lost lover's presence;
There stands a haunted home with a grubby porch at the entrance.
The magnanimous door welcomes me unwaveringly;
To the right there's slaughter hall polished with blood stains.
On the wall, hung portrait of a lady wearing a long red gown with a silver hat and a golden rosette stapled;
Beside protruded, a yearning window decorated by cob webs;
To the left led staircase ,as I step on railing, it crackles like hatching eggs; Carefully I manage to reach the first floor and confronted a quiet room occupied by constant whispers & spine-chilling whimpers...I slowly move inside and envision nothing strange,but I feel something moist dripping on my cheeks from the roof above.
When I look up, the entire strong ceiling collapses,
disembodied spirit arises,floating on air,observes the decaying house from a distance.
14-7-2020
~Deepa. V~
First place in the contest:-)
Note: Decaying house Poetry Contest.
Sponsored by A Dear Heart(Constance)
Finding Abigail
“Abigail! ~Abigail!...where are you, my love?
I can’t see you, nor smell you, let alone touch you…”
A nebulous cloud encroaches the corridors of mind,
Where a fallacious hope seeks its refuge in silence.
“Abigail! Is that you? I thought I heard someone talking…”
Disembodied voices revel throughout the empty voids,
Existence in the grand abyss impenetrable from both sides.
“Abigail, I know you care about me…I can’t see you,
but I hear you…I remember the time we met my sweet,
the sky and air stood still until we embraced…
then came the fireworks…we must still be there, for all I see
is smoke my dearest…Abigail! come back my love,
I’ve lost you in the smog!”
Illusions begging resolutions, the marginal mind wanders,
Taking with it memories of what used to be,
but now has been abandoned.
“Abigail my love…I’m afraid…can you hold my hand my sweet?
this is no good, I can’t reach you…where are you…Abigail!?”
The subject is going into Cardiac arrest… convulsions are increasing!...
We are losing him! Quickly flush with at least 20ml of 0.9% sodium chloride…
“Abigail my dearest…I can see you…so beautiful you are…come to me
My love…come closer...let us start anew.”
Nurse, prepare him for surgery…there is a good chance we may save him…”yes Doctor.”
“Abigail! Abigail! ...I’m losing you, my love…come back, come bac, com…”
He’ll be OK now…we saved him, but sadly he will still be enslaved by love…
Oct.04.2018
Brainstorm Poetry
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
Placed 2'nd [1'st of 8]
This page is intentionally left blank.
It is intentional,
a deliberate attempt act of obscurity.
These are the words you are not reading.
These words do not exist.
Their appearance exists nowhere,
They are ghostly and untouchable.
They are empty invisible vessels,
Voids, absent content.
Your brain is intentionally left blank.
You only think you are thinking.
You are not thinking.
Your thoughts cannot be traced.
The mind on which you rely
cannot be found.
Your passions are intentionally left blank.
You cling to incorporeal beliefs
and judgements.
Your hopes and dreams,
Your loves and hates have no essence.
They are disembodied and intangible.
You create your own meaning
and order.
You impose it on all your blank pages.
Being Persistent
By: Miracle Man
2/4/2021
One of the biggest illusions many have,
is that of entitlement.
Few things arrive on a silver platter,
and when they do,
absent is any feeling of gratification.
Countless are obsessed,
by visions of having what another has,
but without cost, feeling entitled.
Each person should strive to earn,
their space in life.
God fills each path with stepping stones,
that advance us toward our goals.
Yet chosen too often,
is the path of least resistance,
And many become just disembodied voices.
Rise to the top, Cream does.
An unearthly fog thickens nocturnal’s peaceful aura.
Scents of lamenting petrichor mix with slick, decomposing leaves.
A disharmonious death knell calls to me,
Untying the red strings of fate from the celestial loom.
My heart weighs heavy against a faltering ribcage,
Standing in front of the wilderness of mirrors.
Disembodied voices duplicate—
Head spinning, whiplash ensues.
Reflections distorted, coated in soot—
I've become both saint and sinner.
Looking down at my hands, veins darken,
Burning from within—realization strikes:
I’m the ashes, the smudges obscuring judgment’s view.
Dreams are disembodied entities in need of being incarnated into concrete reality!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
16 December 2018
* May your dreams come true!
Faces of eggshell abeyance dripping
breathless from the branches of bemusing bathos
bespeaking dreams of being worn
as masks of romance,
to be shattered by the essence of a kiss
that evapoeates the veil separating
shadow from flesh,
Can You hear them Luv,
voices of a pale color
murmuring a covet for caress,
can You feel the palor of their pathos,
touch the ashen blush,
a smooth melancholia lush,
mouths, still open,
in hush for that pulse rush,
We are in a grotto of disembodied desire,
these spirits ache like embers dying to burn
as We have ached to love learn,
shall We share with them our heart rhythm,
give them a taste of dilated veins,
of fluid soul ablaze,
You embrace my marbled forearm
with tearing mouth and panting bites,
like a woman committed to primal passion,
I love You as the Tiger loves the prowl,
put your hands heavenly upon my face Luv,
Sshhhh,,,
I place this mask upon the warmth
of your face for ritual affection,
It fits like rose bloom,
place the other ghost skin on mine,
Yes, it feels like living wax fresh
from a black candle flame,
We enter one another like lights
of lava pour,
It has begun my Luv,
the unabashed ambush of innocence
by unbridled lust,
expressing hunger primordial
through a compassion moral,
there be not shame in our giving flame,
We are righteous in naked virtue -
J.A.B.
The sea rises as my mind is flooded with thought
The polar ice melts into the arms human desires
The atmosphere is caught on the verge by human technology
The earth is entangled in the threshold of environmental degradation
Development and prosperity leaves me at the mercy of climate change
I feel swept away by the tide of human development as tar sands and mercury cast shadows in my palace
I feel imprisoned by the chains of green house emission
I am left in tattered robes as economic exploitation and prosperity leaves me impoverish and hopeless
I miss the nation of the buffalo because they built their consciousness round my Interest
I am a seeker of life and spirituality but now must battle for survival in the hands of globalization
I settle like dust in the mouths of human activist but my muscles are weak to human separatists
Hunters resort to mental gymnastics as they sing the hymns of ecological variation
The next generation is denied access to culture as the weather changes like clothes and keeps us on the edge
The world needs an ethic of continued sustainability but the minds of men focus on continuous wealth.
The willingness of humanity to tend to the earth is laid bare by the strings of environmental conquest.
I run to the comforting arms of environmental stewards who nourishes my body and soul with ceremonies
Contemporary thoughts have not been able to put asunder where disembodied minds have continued to plunder
My skin prickles, hair on my arm
flag-raised.
Quite peculiar, actually, someone
or something, is watching me.
I recalculate my senses, dusting off
pre-conceived notions of paranoia.
Across the room, a dull thud garners
my attention. Searching, I discover a
doorstop has simply tipped over, quite
impossible, I conjecture!
I pick it up and feel a distinct burning!
it's hot to the touch!
Dropping the fiery doorstop, I hear an
otherwordly chuckle emanate from
somewhere above me, reloading my
sense of apprehension.
Not to be ill-prepared, I crouch in a
defensive position, peering this way and
that, ready to defend who knows what.
I turn to evacuate the premises,
and come face to face with a grinning
disembodied head!
Punching my way through the
phosphorous face,
I escape!
Wakening
From
My
Dream
02/15/14
© All Rights Reserved
Picture it.
3:00 AM
Niagara Falls, Canada
We are rudely awakened
by an intermittent buzzing
very loud
irritating, nerve grating.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Fire alarm,” he answers.
We get up, wide awake now.
“Maybe it’s just a drill,”
he says, hopefully.
A disembodied voice
“Please remain calm, please stay
in your room while we investigate.”
The message is repeated at intervals.
He goes back to bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s probably a false alarm,”
he answers. I wonder.
I’m thinking that if it’s real
we’re wasting precious time.
We’re on the ninth floor.
I’m thinking of the arthritis
in my knees, knowing we would
not be allowed to use the elevators.
I get dressed, make coffee,
immediately apply my makeup,
check my hair.
The word is passed along the halls
“Evacuate, evacuate the hotel!”
I grab my purse, jewelry,
camera and poetry notebook.
He puts shoes on bare feet,
exits the room wearing only
a tee-shirt and sweat pants.
The stairs are crowded with people
in various stages of undress:
Fuzzy slippers, long sleep shirts,
flip-flops, nylon jogging shorts
flimsy gowns, satin boxers.
A moving mass, silently descending.
Outside, hundreds milled around,
quietly watching the fire trucks
parked at the curb, motors running,
red lights flashing.
I un-sheath my camera, begin
capturing the moment.
When the all-clear sounds,
he starts back upstairs.
“I’m going back to bed,”
he announces, and begins
the climb back upstairs.
“Not me,” I say, “I’ll see you later.”
I find a chair in the lobby,
sit down to watch drama unfold.
A couple from Toronto had
walked down from the 22nd
floor, she with a cane
(hip replacement surgery).
A young woman from Louisiana
with Aloette Cosmetics,
roses in arms,
waiting for the shuttle bus.
Families with small children.
A bride, whose new husband
had walked off without her
gives him an angry message,
a rude gesture, a divorce threat.
Free Starbucks coffee supplied
by the hotel, followed by a bill,
shoved under the door,
seven hundred sixty-three dollars.
“For three nights!” he rages.
“It was worth it,” I say,
“I wouldn’t have missed it!”