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Death and Forlorn Time in the Shadows of True Evil
by mcdaid, liam
by Talbot, Mick
Death and Forlorn Time in the Shadows of True Evil
by Bateman, Gary
by Asuncion, Bernard F.
by DEY, NAYANIKA
by Austin, Martyn
by Roberts, Seren
Forlorn and War Torn
by Vigoren, Bo
by Kakamu Aliyu , Umar
by Braithwaite, Katherine
View all new Forlorn Poems
The Best Forlorn Poems
Once upon a moonlit night
There came a ray of magic light
That shone upon an orphan home
Where two small pumpkins left alone
To thirst and starve to fret and cry
Would spoil at last and surely die
But struck at last by magic’s beam
There came a most fantastic scheme
When a dad and son with paring knife
Cut mouth and eyes to give them life
Their eyes were dark with lifeless stare
Their mouths with fangs beyond compare
Blind and sad the pair and so
Old dad invented candle glow
No longer were they sad forlorn
Jack o lantern fright was born
Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2016
(this is a form called Swap Quatrain, where first
line's phrases swap in the last line of each stanza)
In shadows’ veils, at end of night,
sweet Moon removes her modest light
and softly, yet again, exhales -
at end of night, in shadows’ veils.
As she departs, her love’s released
to climb the stairway to the east.
They cannot meet to share their hearts.
Her love’s released as she departs.
She watches him while hid from view,
the way he kisses morning’s dew,
and sees gold rays spill from his rim.
While hid from view, she watches him.
Sad Moon, alone for centuries,
with awe has watched Sun leave, cerise.
while she, afar. . . how cold she’s grown!
For centuries, sad moon alone.
She takes his place so he may rest.
And though forlorn, she’s always dressed
in lace, for Luna has great grace.
So he may rest, she takes his place.
For love of night, for love of day,
she can’t implore him that he sway
from course. To be apart’s their plight.
For love of day, for love of night.
For Thvia Shetley's Cosmos Poetry Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010
In forest's night, the trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow,
silent shadows waver there,
chilled by gusts of autumn air.
Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
among those stumps the shadows creep
and shroud a form that seems asleep.
Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals
a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
with scarf of death left on his throat.
The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
They cannot speak, but if they could,
they’d tell all travelers of the wood:
"We’re not the foe. It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
Although we loom and cause you fear,
something worse is lurking here."
Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
And silent shadows start to shrink
into a night of blackened ink.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2010
HE’S MY BEST FRIEND
Times of laughter under a southern sky
with jacarandas in their ripest bloom.
Those days were left behind as years went by
with summer’s shining light now dimmed by gloom.
With the darkest shadows cast over you
I still see the light that once shone so bright.
With a friendship that lasts a whole life through
I pray for God’s mercy to heal your plight.
Your words are drowned in tears of silent cries
though once your courage was my saving grace.
I feel the forlorn sadness in your eyes
as I give my thanks with a warm embrace.
Through final parting our rapport remains,
memories light the dusk as daylight wanes.
26th October, 2016
Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2016
While Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
in six-star luncheonettes,
and Bankers beam Their self-esteem
(bailed out of broker's debts),
the deep, devout and down and out
sink, sallow silhouettes.
Tycoons hold reins (arrayed as chains)
where words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we turn our cheek
to worlds They’ve polarized,
and march to war, through Satan's door,
watch cities vaporized.
The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
all lined with jaded clay.
We're taught at school the Golden Rule
for all to live in bliss.
But in the wars on foreign shores
the only rule is this:
'Yo! You and I must fight and die
inside the black abyss!'
But well alive, the Merchants thrive
on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
to quell the dissidents,
while Artisans are posing plans
to conquer continents.
But back at home, the rumors roam
'Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
in weathers wet and numb.'
They fantasize with fleeting lies
and pray we'll all succumb.
A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
ensures we all agree:
'With dynamite we fight for right
and not for tyranny.'
The brain aborts when drugged with sports
and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
they baa when they obey.
In search of sense in sounds intense
of droning drum tattoos,
souls, thin and worn, file by forlorn,
in tame and tattered shoes -
their tears of pain, like streaks of rain,
have strewn the avenues.
Along the roads, the future bodes
in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
pale orphans share a crust.
Dead colonies of bumble bees,
a ravaged hornet's hive,
rain forests, dales or minke whales
soon nothing left alive…
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
as long as They survive.
The Moguls wield a silver shield,
wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
boast brazen bayonets;
and unicorns sport ivory horns,
defend the Martinets.
Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
who watch you day and night
to track your trails and read you mails
and say They have the right
to know your thoughts and thwart your plots
to cease Their oversight.
Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
and common sense deranged.
As sunlight wanes in winter rains
and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spiders' webs
seem tattooed on the wall.
And in the night the Masters write
The Final Protocol.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2015
Pained piano keys compose
a chorus-less composition.
Melancholic moods crave
to sway back and forth
like bluebells and lilies dancing,
when kissed by the morning breeze
Forlorn flute flirts with sympathetic tunes,
echoing vivid vibrations,
piercing layers of a forgotten heart.
Somber undertones seduce the soul
as it struggles to swim,
silently immersing in sorrowful symphonies.
Yet the orchestra is mute - slumbering
in the ruins of unfinished musings.
Ignorant to the heartbroken harp
that lusts to strum romantic melodies,
but stands in sincere elegance,
decaying as dust suppresses its emotions.
Lyrics float by, searching for a home,
but remain unheard in the absence of the viola.
Its loss has become an enemy
to violin strings, crippled from cries
yearning for their cello comrades.
Alone their music does not co-exist
and falls upon deaf ears.
Music has no providence,
yet the mind is lost in its province.
Searching for soothing serenades
that softly sail ships towards
shores strumming sweet strings.
Sometimes harmonies struggle to enlighten in solitude,
but when composed together, their lyrics live forever.
The Silent One
21 November 2017
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017
In the silent breathing of night,
the darkness and the hush
(A heavy band of slave)
like black ants snaking
through the forlorn distance.
Grieving with tears
Of yesterdays burning anguish.
They hum a languid song
On the fragrant breath of wind.
A haunt that invades my trembling eyes
With a thousand boundless tears
That quivers through the night.
The dreaded echoes came down the black pathway
Like a thousand men
Galloping through the sultry breeze
(Were the heartless whips that toiled)
With dumb hands,
Feeding paled pink flesh
With endless stings of cruel misery.
The stars curled around their naked feet
As they trampled the grass
Wet with lurid dew and the masked
Beds of fragrant hues
Prancing in the hallowed night.
I could feel the storming of their sorrows,
The rock of their heart
Drooping with defeat.
Despair a master to their fading hope
That sailed across their faces.
Oh those foul notes budding with despair
Branched within their eyes.
The lulling whispers of their shackles
United with their treading feet like hooves
Cloaked with heavy weariness
(It surrounded the dead of night)
I hung up my fears
For I was bright with their pain
Oh I died that day
Oh I died that day
While drifting to the helpless East
To that damp cold earth filled
With drowsy mournful Asters
Then the smell of dead men came alive
Black dogs clustered to the earth
Their children beside them with gripping hands!
Copyright © Mustapha Mohammed | Year Posted 2013
Seared upon my soul for ever more
That break of dawn upon a summer morn
As I made my way along that rocky shore
Strewn with remnants from a ragging storm
When through a rising mist of gray - so forlorn
I saw a badly broken sinking ship
With canvas wings of white so sadly torn
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs
And as that mighty fearless ocean roared
With salty breezy breath so filled with scorn
I saw it rise up from the ocean floor
Wrapped in a velvet coat so frayed and worn
A red, red, rose impaled upon a thorn
Where passion bled like rain from ruby lips
Upon a vivid memory reborn
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs
The wind - it whispered - in my ear - Lenore
As black clouds in the sky began to form
Into a face I’d never seen before
With hollow cheeks that endless tears adorned
That fell in frozen crystal drops so foreign.....
Then from those clouds his face began to slip
And I cried the tears of a woman scorned
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs
Lenore, the love he would forever mourn
That from his pen on page in words did drip
As I read his poetry and love was born
There beneath those majestic purple cliffs.
Author: Elaine George of Canada
Written: February 28, 2011
A tribute to: Edger Allen Poe and his Lenore
Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2011
High shadows loom on garden walls.
They tremble in the winter’s breeze.
As from the heavens powder falls,
they mimic naked limbs of trees.
They tremble in the winter’s breeze;
forlorn, they sway as low winds moan.
They mimic naked limbs of trees.
Frail shadows now have thicker grown.
Forlorn, they sway as low winds moan.
The winds surcease, no more to blow.
Frail shadows now have thicker grown.
On arms of trees are coats of snow!
The winds surcease, no more to blow.
As from the heavens powder falls,
on arms of trees are coats of snow.
High shadows loom on garden walls.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
The menace of war in the chaos of life
The peril of ocean when tempests are rife;
The danger of jungle where feral beasts hide
The terror that lies in a mountain slide.
All these things are simple child's play
Or frivolous sport on a summer's day;
These sad battles that rouse and vex
The heart and soul of love and sex.
Struggle and hardship, beasts of prey
Are there to menace all human clay:
The bird uncaged can take to his wing
But the hazard of love is another thing;
Under the torment of passion's control
Love crushes the body and steals the soul.
A minute of rapture, an age of despair,
These are the gifts of love's warfare.
Always and forever since time began
When man dared woman and woman lured man;
In that sweet peril that prowls and lies
Is a bloodless conflict when eyes meet eyes.
That careless menace, forever sweet
Whose forlorn end, is joy's defeat;
Now and forever till time has passed
On passion's altar, hearts shall come last
Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2012
Lovely golden red-tinged leaves seem lost in conversation,
Eloquently rustling as they flutter to the ground.
Autumn’s breeze is whispering to them a revelation.
Vanquished they are soon to be. Vanished – they will have no sound.
Eerily the evening creeps, its shadows enveloping the trees.
Stirring in the wind, the leaves now hiss as November’s grieves.
Trembling are the leaves that on lush boughs once brightly swayed.
Ashen is their world; murmuring with fear, crestfallen they lie,
Longing for the green of summer,
Knowing they soon will fade. . . .
Inglorious is our end! Can you hear their forlorn cry?
Now the wind is quiet, and the leaves have all grown still.
Gone is Harvest Moon. First snow falls with a silent chill.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
silence of a bee in the forest
silence of the leaves
leaves on majestic trees
leaves my soul quivering
quivering happiness and joy
joy of freedom and journeying on
joy in my soul beyond time
time entangled in vines
time to pause in the emerald
emerald windswept meadows trembling
emerald velvet foliage creeping
creeping and creeping the embroidery of green
creeping sunlight fills the shadows
shadows are where the violets sleep
shadows hide a hundred chirping wings
wings of the poets dreamy muse
wings of a little butterfly kissing the decay
decay in the tangled branches
decay beautiful and divine
divine tufts of yellow
divine bliss in silence
silence in the garlands of green
silence in hushed echoes
echoes of unseen songsters
echoes of wild streams bubbling and flowing
flowing words and verses
verse amongst the scattered dandelions
verses in the whispering calm
calm the clusters of vines twining
calm the bliss
bliss in a deep canopy of towering giants
bliss under an azure above
above the cowslip and foxglove
above blue birds fly
fly downy wings
fly with the sweet wind
wind that whispers in my ears
wind that lifts the tufts of pretty flowers
flowers wilted and dying
flowers with petals forlorn
forlorn my poetic words
forlorn and weeping
weeping on tattered paper in solitude
weeping poems and rhymes and verses
created in the silence
solitude . . .
May 23, 2015
Submitted to the contest, shhhhh , sponsor, Silent One
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
He just appeared to me, like wispily curling
One grim and early morning in the very midst of
Decembers briefest days, on the highest slope,
Toiling through my daily round; where, slowly
Driving up past the Whitethorn hedgerows to
Ascend the snowy Heys, I had carefully negotiated
The wide and slowing bend to regain the summit of
Grappenhalls ploughed and upper-ground.
Stopping the car I stepped out to take a closer
Look. There he stood: New born and rather wobbly.
His long blustery mane thick and silky: Liken the
Mythical Enbarr; a wide eyed expression of staring,
Uncomprehending malaise written all over his
Shaggy face...So wondrous was he of this icy world
So rigidly bound.
Perplexed - perhaps, or amazed, at the utter
Desolation of this cruel place and the callousness of
The Fates wounding imposition upon him...when
Thrust forcefully into yonder shattered bowl - shrunken
Hopelessly into the clutches of such an altogether frozen
Little icicles beginning to form upon his fuzzy beard;
A first taste of his mothers hot milk, that, in his
Awkward blundering, he must have hastily spilt
When clumsily fumbling with extended and pouting lips
Upon the swollen teat. The foul weather, so unfortunately
Adverse, of hail and sleet, gathering more momentum -
Didst indeed still prevail...increasingly growing
Steadily even more worse!
Stood his mother there - resolutely, as if grave Epona
Depicted in a hewn chunk of Grecian rock! This
Metallic pan he shivered within: The centre of his
Twirling Universe designated as this one small
Spot...And all it should ever contain therein.
A ripping wind that snarled and savagely bit down like
A pack of wild hunting dogs, oblivious to his obvious
Distress, into newly formed bones,
where, stretched across: Tightly pinched muscle and
Tautly sinewed flesh - involuntarily flinched!
Whilst all the while, not withstanding despondent
Resignation, an aggrieved
Spirit that silently and inwardly bemoans;
Contained here...In his sparkling kingdom of barbed
Wire and an irregular scattering of smoothly rounded
A torturous blast that blew so raw I stamped my feet,
As if a horse myself, and exhaled upon my hands, now
Clasped and sore, vainly trying to reinforce myself
Against the unrelenting cold; a fearsome breeze
Howling in rising crescendos, unopposed,
Through the blasted files of battered trees, whose
Roots clawed in desperation at the thin soils of that
Barren hill, leaving him naked and painfully exposed
To the ruthless torments of a vicious blizzards
Casting hopefully about I sought to catch sight of a
Kindly soul, whom, with an imploring stare or polite
Shout, I could impose upon to relieve the slight laden
Over the plight of the brave little Foal. Oh staunchest
Mare: Thou art Impenetrable like the shield of Achilles!
Grimly determined as if to refute the very elements
Themselves, and dare the brazen God
Of Thunder - to break! And heap upon this forged and
Ferrous land when unleashing his indolent Furies -
The mauve and purple clouds to violently tear asunder!
For, gripped in the maw of such a gnawing ire,
What could you possibly know, little man, of
Comforting warmth leaping across a cheery hearth
When stoked and released from the confines of a
Parlours glowing fire?
Or Vulcans hellish fires bursting forth from erupting
Volcanoes - when spewed out blistering magmas run!
Majestic fires pervading Angels disrupted heights:-
They whom bear witness to the obliteration of an
Exploding Supernovas doomed sun!
Fire or Ice...it be all the same: One scorches within a
Tightening Vice - One within a wanton flame!
Tarried I a while longer, like a man unsure whether he
Was to be completely overtaken by some momentous
And wondered out aloud: What hardened heart had
Deserted this poor creature to this inhospitable
The self same heart that had decreed that he, the
Finest of this rare breed, should open his eyes on that
First morn to find his meagre plate encumbered with
Miseries so devoid, and served with inadequacies of
Such spiteful forlorn; with nought to sate the ragged
Edge of his desperate appetites...save his mothers
Fluids; although, in urgent anticipation, should
Give him good cause to keenly salivate wouldst barely
Suffice the discontented juices, that unceasingly
Complained aloud, to happily digest and
Gratefully dissipate within his hollow bowel.
It was then I suddenly noticed, slowly revealed to my
Aging sight - Barely thus adjusted and focused to that
Opaque light, what looked like a black tarpaulin thrown
Across a bundled pile of straw, still obscured but now
Dumped carelessly in a far corner recessed on the
Furthest edges of this dismal field.
Could this be his drafty stall? Delivered here, unseen
And unheard, upon a bed of dried and bleached stalks -
Enabled Like a baby Messiah amongst the Israelites!
Wherein, comes the crunching night, which coils
Around his cradled form with damp and insidious
Vapours, he reclines against the unyielding Dam -
And valiantly Fights... To attain uncontested slumber
Beneath the refrain of Heavens dispassionate
Firmaments; whose Great Creator counts and records
His given number;
The blazing lanterns, admidst rolling oceans
Of abandonment and disdain, now abruptly parted -
Like the sea of Galilee! Towering waves rolled back
From the denuded and ageless bar:
Pushed out wide - And far aside...
To usher in the immutable brilliance
Of one small horses lone and guiding star...
And if I recall rightly, my little friend, I christened you
There and then...And thereby named you - IRONBAR!
God bless and keep you always little fella...For you
Awakened the poet, however inadequate, within me.
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016
I must have encountered her on a hill,
Where scatterings of ferns deepened
Through insolent winds that shivered
While watching her carry a basket of daisies…
She is Loveliness, forlorn in a drowsy pathway,
More forlorn than languid endings
Or all that death can ever reach.
By trying to alienate myself from this image
A weariness brushed on a Dresden face so pale
That the luster in her eyes became stardust ,
While I designed a self-tumbling act as a ploy
To gaze at her closer , oh one divine mystery.
Just there, etches of beauty flatter her hair,
Like a dream capricious as twilight leaving
And in her almond eyes, the moon-flakes glimmer
How by chance, this silhouette found me breathless,
That I did gravitate through her bloom, weakening--
She, an air between death and forever… Loveliness on a hill.
MAY PREMIER Contest for Brian Strand
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2016
Remembered In Thy Full Bloom
A Collaboration By,
Robert Lindley, Teppo Gren
and Michael P Clarke.
Thou art remembered in thy full bloom,
a rose grown within my garden of life.
Thou art lost to me and this my doom,
Gone the tender love of my precious wife.
Ill wind had blown, poisoned arrows of fate,
love lost, ever I cry, we reunite.
Tho', should such be only at Heaven's gate,
illuminated, in true love's precious flight.
Thine effect so lives in my lonesome cast
as I meander in my ruthless path,
in darkened dust of my ill-fated past,
dying to break free from this endless wrath.
Yet memories sighs they recall our love,
when we did caress love's fiery desires.
In wondrous passions our hearts flew above,
Thou art memories ghost, kindling love's fires.
Pray I, your dream-winds soft and fair tonight,
eager heart leaps to melt in beauty's glows.
With yellow-moon kisses, all could be right,
our love's truth, written in destiny's scrolls.
As lonely spirits found love's true accord,
thy gentle soul caressed my heart with joy.
It was thy gracious beauty I adored,
for endless days thy soft caress enjoy.
Thou comest beloved, love for to bring,
thy wondrous beauty, darkness doth dispel.
In divinity thy heart it doth sing,
one moment of joy my heart did foretell.
Within each heart's spirit, desire to come
pray future treasures that announce their glow.
Thy touch, paradise in love's kingdom,
may we with grace, beg our romance to grow.
The light of life returned from dust to dust
be it not my destiny to abide,
and side with mortal ways in life unjust,
with a forlorn dream to be by my side.
Now back to the terror of my dark night,
once more into the pits of hell I fall.
Despair and sorrow darken God's bright light,
Deaths promised joys shall come, I hear death call.
Pray true, warmth and true color to the rose,
return pure gleam that sent my heart to thee.
Wherein all time, forever thee I chose,
thou art ripest flower, I thy lone bee.
Rejoice in death to treasure thine embrace
as end is nigh, with courage to depart.
A halo uncovers thy beauty's grace
to cast celestial light, and mend my heart.
And now doth come my end, I see death's light,
death doth touch my heart, now eternal love.
My beloved, I see thee shining bright,
I now praise death as I ascend above.
As my life's last shadow so swiftly falls,
pray I, this aching soul hears thy dear voice.
Ancient echoes whisper love words, thy calls,
now dear wife, I fly forth, your love my choice.
In heaven‘s garden thy rose blooms in trine,
as love’s eternal bond in sacred love
is cast beyond the faith of God’s design,
and prayers of truth are whispered up above.
Robert Lindley,Teppo Gren,
and Michael P Clarke.
This poem was written to try and find the sadness of a man lost in deep despair. His only escape are those small moments when his memories sigh his beloved to him. He is ready to welcome death so he can be with and hold his beloved again. Death will be a release.
I want to thank Micheal and Teppo, for the great pleasure it has been to
engage in this three way collaboration! Both for giving me such exquisite verses to write to and with...
I know this poem is long and took us a long time to complete, but to me it is well worth it .
As I could not be happier or any more proud of what our combined efforts have thus created.
I hope this fine poem gifts and pleases those that read it.. For such is the reward that any poet should hope for.
Mike and Teppo, my good friends may God bless you both..
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017
I rise and fall like melancholy tides
in ebb and flow of wistful disrepair,
our separate in consciousness divides,
the whiff of grief fills broken-hearted air.
Neglected now, heartstrings' rawhide, I mourn
with briny beads that water my dismay,
eyes teary drizzled mist, inside forlorn,
my psyche pierced by thorns in love's bouquet.
Whatever will I do, this emptiness..?
A gnawing hollow where my heart should be.
My lonely preys me like a lioness,
a simba stalks this lost love refugee.
Soft morning sun does gaze into my eyes
enlightening the depths of agonize.
November 17, 2017
~ Second Place ~
Contest: Best Sonnet Premiere
Sponsor: Laura Loo
~ Second Place ~
Contest: Your Best Sonnet October 1 - December 31, 2017
Sponsor: John Hamilton
~ Poem Of The Day ~
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2017
This year we will remember
Happier times in past months of December
This year we will certainly see
A massive void where you used to be
This year we will sit and stare
At that forlorn and empty chair
This year we will sit and reminisce
You are not here for us to hug and kiss
This year we will definitely see
No gift for you under the Christmas tree
This year we will shed a tear
For dad as you are no longer here
This year we will raise a toast
To our dad who we loved the most
This year will be so difficult for us all
It was the year the Lord did my father call
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
PART 1: THE MEETING
Alone one night neath lantern light, I trudged a weary mile.
Forlorn, I went with shoulders bent (the storms around me howled)
until I met a Silhouette behind a sultry smile –
She gazed with eyes that mesmerize (Her body caped and cowled)
and stayed my way with question fey... ‘Why don’t you while awhile?’
The churchyard groaned, an organ moaned, the bells of midnight chimed
as wanton winds awoke and dinned, and mistrals multiplied.
A prostitute – not shrill but mute, with gestures pantomimed –
snuck by in haste, with tracks untraced, beneath the evening tide.
The Persian moon, like arced harpoon, arose and slowly climbed.
The Silhouette (a pale brunette) arched eyebrows meant to please,
and down the lanes, on windowpanes, the shadows danced and sighed.
A meadowlark within the dark, somewhere beyond the breeze,
embellished Her with wisps of myrrh while deigning to confide
to nightingales veiled whispered tales of human vanities.
She doffed her cloak before She spoke with sighs of sorrow sung
(like mandolins, as night begins, when mourning day’s demise)
and spun Her tale of grim travail and tears She'd shed when young.
As jagged volts of thunderbolts lit up the dismal skies,
a velvet fog embraced a bog in coils of curling tongues.
Through summer vales and winter gales Her secret thoughts were voiced.
Midst storms so cruel (neath lightning’s jewel that glistered on the ridge)
She reminisced, She touched... we kissed... Her lips were wet and moist...
A lighthouse dimmed, while moonbeams skimmed across a distant bridge
to avenues where residues of shallow shades rejoiced.
PART 2: HER TRAGIC TALE
“Midst sweet perfume of youthful bloom, the lonely spirit braves
and often cries and sometimes dies in quest of her amour.”
While starry-eyed, a ship I spied, a’ sail upon the waves –
The galleon docked, the seagulls flocked, the Captain swept ashore
where, debonair with gypsy flair, he led his salty knaves.
While passing by, he caught my eye – I tried to hide a blush,
for ambiance of innocence leaves fire’s ice congealed.
His gaze (defined by eyes that shined) beheld my cheek a’ flush.
I bowed my head while caution fled, I felt my fate was sealed
– a bird in spring with fledgling wing – he’d snared a falling thrush.
He said ‘Hello’ – I answered ‘No’ and yet before he’d gone
said I, ‘I’ll wait at Heaven’s Gate not far beyond the Pale’.
At dusk he came neath moon aflame, and left before the dawn
just humming tunes along the dunes that lined the sandy trail
beside a pond where morning yawned, where swam an ebon swan.
We met again, and once again, and once again, again
entangled in a love called sin, in whirls of make-believe.
While in my arms, with voice that charms, said he ‘I must explain –
the tide awaits at morning’s gates and I must take my leave’.
Then tempests formed and vapors swarmed in ardor’s hurricane.
‘Forsake your home and we may roam’ he smiled as if to tease
and still naive, said I ‘I’ll leave, in silver buckled shoes’.
He took the helm in search of realms, before the morning breeze –
with tearful eyes, I bade goodbyes with fare-thee-well adieus
and sailed above a wave of love across the seven seas.
We swept one morn around Cape Horn and sped for Gold Coast Bay.
With naught to reck, I strolled on deck, a baby at my breast,
while zephyrs blew and seagulls flew above the ocean’s spray.
Our ship soon moored, we went ashore and off to Fortune’s Quest –
with gold doubloons which shone like moons, he gambled through the day.
Two deuces wild... he thinly smiled... another card was drawn –
he called and raised with eyes half glazed, was dealt a dismal three.
With betting tight throughout the night, the final ace was gone
and so he lost... at what a cost... alas the prize was me –
with empty bag and pauper’s swag, he left me doomed at dawn.
A buccaneer with ring in ear sneered ‘now, my dear, you’re mine’.
He held my wrists to thwart my fists and then... my honor stained.
In midnight’s swash, the sky awash with tiny tears of brine,
I broke his clutch with nothing much of me that still remained:
a residue when he was through, left clinging to a vine.
In morning dew, the good folks knew, and spurned me in my plight.
The preacher man pronounced a ban and wouldn’t condescend,
ignored my pleas on bended knees, my prayers by candlelight.
While cast aside, my baby died... my world was at an end.
Until this day, I’ve made my way beneath the shades of night.
Continued in Part 3
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2013
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
Copyright © Terry O'Leary | Year Posted 2012
Blades of grass, wet under foot, insect eyes
Dusk, offset by the cricket orchestra
Muted and receding into the trees and bushes,
Tickled by the wind, rattling snake tail wind
While we may be in the company of wolves,
A long legged friend is late for the party
Eyes, little iridescent stars
Attending to each one, and look there,
There she is, making the most beautiful geometry
Parallels within the octagons, pulling silks
An arm for every task, little perpetual motion machine
Is that the Queen of the Night under the rusted iron?
A forlorn lady, black patent leather, kill a man, maybe two
With her danger red symmetry, oozing with youth
And a penchant for paralysis, no one can resist her wine
Then there's the hall of cob webs, threadbare handkerchiefs
Left by ladies who exhausted all of their company
To be a spectacle under the moon, in the wood pile
Dressed up in the finest furs, all earth tones
Stepping out to introduce themselves in girlish droves
Venus of another sort, these little cursed jezebels
Hovering on the skin of the water, or on the red brick wall
Must frequent every happy corner, and slip away at a moment's notice
A real lady always knows when to say goodnight
Such graceful exits through cement cracks
Back to the parlor, to glow in the dark
And they become spiders again
Copyright © Jeremy Martin | Year Posted 2013
Love Notes in a Bottle
It came as a last meandering thought
How could I know?
Maybe a thousand years from now
On a far away shore
Would exist a lady of mystical lore
Reciting sonnets of medieval tales
In magic forests, dreaming of love
As I love
Who could feel a bond so delicate as a doves feathers
A pain so strong, like a tiger wronged
That to part would mean emotional low tides to come
That she could feel the loneliness of night
The scent of the morning dew
The feeling of rain upon ones breast
The smell of the rose
The view of the meadows
The Laughter as the children danced
The plea of one whose heart bleeds
The desires to capture love and yet remain free
Her eyes would show her ageless beauty
Her smile would hide her thoughts
Inside of old love letters
She would sigh
As I recited old prose
We would hand in hand repose
Knowing growing old is how it goes
Alas she is but an image in my mind
A thousand years till birth
Or even more
A fantasy, that lets me die in peace
That someone could love as I loved thee
You were my past, and my eternity
Lovers who never took flight
Broken wings, and broken borders
Boundaries never crossed
Kisses though we never lost
On every wind swept shore
I wander with the birds scouting overhead
As wave upon wave of desolation slaps my head
A woman is over there by the sea
She but a stranger in the mist
So not at all is she thee
A thousand years from now
On wind swept shore
Will she be forlorn?
Weeping for the likes of me
Whispering inside, he was here but a thousand years ago
Love letters telling loves desires
Inside a bottle and buried in sand
Alas is the ocean not made of ancient tears
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
My poetry garden of late
has lain untended and forlorn.
I succumbed to shock and dismay
upon entering recently, for I observed that
great disagreement had erupted
and now vehemently raged among
adjoining unmade beds of subjects and verbs.
Modifiers that had been
carefully kept in check upon their trellises
now dangled everywhere.
Sentences had spilled out of their beds
in fragments or running on and on while
cases of subjectives and objectives
shamelessly intermingled and
were now easily mistaken
one for another.
Grammar, whose care I had entrusted
to first, second and third persons,
lay in shameless disarray,
as if no one could tell the difference.
Gerunds casually consorted with infinitives,
many of which had split. I recalled with a sigh
how many years it had taken me
to tightly bind them.
[to bind them tightly is what I meant.]
Commas were everywhere,
rendering those in appropriate position
which I suppose was better
than what had happened
to the capitals,
now completely ignored.
There was no reason for the rhyme,
and forms had somehow been confused
or misplaced altogether.
My lines, unpruned, were of disparate length and hideously incompl
An unfortunate mis-spell
had been cast
and provoked an infestation.
Many of my friends I noted
had simply departed without comment.
The contest entry was blocked,
so I bowed my head in shame
and shuffled silently
through the exit marked N/A.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
He walked along the beach a man forlorn
Forgotten were his dreams, his heart was torn
The gentle waves spoke of the years gone by
And drew salt water down from saddened eye
He saw some driftwood lying on the shore
It sparked his interest and he longed for more
He touched it gently, to his great delight
Sandalwood he’d found: passion to ignite
The need to carve once more came to his mind
A joy he’d lost and could no longer find
He took it home, that battered piece of wood
With hopes to turn it into something good
A mane of hair took shape beneath his hands
Flowing waves of curly wooden strands
Round shoulders of the woman of his dreams
And breasts and waist of beauty carved supreme
Gracefully her form began to take on shape
When he was done he stood there mouth agape
She was a goddess made of his desire
A love for her consumed him like a fire
At night he wished upon a falling star
She’d come to life and chase his sorrows far
He looked at her before he fell asleep
And smiled for he’d forgotten how to weep
He felt a stirring there beside his bed
A presence seemed to hover near his head
He looked upon his statue now in flesh
Her body like a breeze was young and fresh
She pressed her lips so gently over his
“I need to tell you, love, listen to this
I was discarded, battered, wounded sore
I chose to be a part of life no more
You saw in me my hidden beauty fine
Your wish has reached the heart of the Divine
I stand before you, answer to your prayer
Sent to give you love and tend’rest care.”
She kissed his lips, and veiled him in her hair
His tears she wiped, this answer to his prayer
With him she lay, her breast his pillow sweet
The richest fare of sandalwood, his treat
What else transpires is curtained from our sight
Burning sandalwood…..scents the glowing night
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013
As fiery beacons
And cut through the
As restless sleep
Doth so tax and
And I hang upon
That my love
I did most fervently
Swear unto thee!
As icy comets roar
And sail against
The galactic tides,
Their streaming tails
Lingering upon a
I will grasp
This one last chance...
To bare my soul
And chasten myself
From all my sins.
Then immortal wings
Will downwards sweep
From heavenly ramparts
Where divine Angels
Do so keep...
To gently raise me
To my feet,
And, softly brushing
From mine eyes,
Lift me high
To be seated down
Before the wise.
Hence so empowered,
Once more take flight -
When, passing through
To search you out
Across the sands of
Thus, finally, after
Across starry Aeons
Of an almost infinite age,
Many anguished trials
Beholding your perfect
Suddenly and inextricably
Before my wonder-struck
After enduring what feels
Like the damnation and
Curse of eternities
How I shall cherish
And much adore...
This one true heart
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014
You lost my life.
Sharp as a knife...
You lost a lot of things.
Your memory in my heart
Today I gave you my secrets,
All of them, the ones from Egypt,
And those from Europe, slow motion
Swimming away across the Ocean.
I whispered in your ear
All you didn't want to hear.
I forgive you,
I forgive you.
The secrets of the life stolen
While you screech, eyes swollen
With tears of loss.
Both of us kneeling on moss;
I am not cruel, only want your love,
That one word you get so sick of.
I will always forgive you,
I will always forgive you.
Buried so deep inside,
Almost a stone I tried to hide.
I'll always be that seeking child
That wants to be reconciled.
I lost you before I was born.
Before I even opened my eyes
I was forlorn.
April 8, 2017
N/A in contest: Open Poetry Contest 2
Sponsored by: Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017