Best Ink Black Poems
It stood there
looking empty and old,
neglected and sad
with windows shuttered,
covered in shadow
both day and night,
hovered over
by trees whose branches
disguised the house
and made it seem
a part of the
overgrown landscape,
completely surrounding it,
keeping strangers and unawares
at bay.
It stood there
shrinking from the present
almost lifeless,
a house with no soul
no face, no breath,
as if it started out as a ruin
and was determined
to remain so for all time,
unwanted, unkempt,
shunned by passersby,
its roof looking tortured
its doors uncertain
as to whether they opened at all
and no one knew
and no one asked.
It stood there
talking to itself
in a silent conversation
that no one heard,
talking about things
that used to be
as though the Past was in the Now
and the Now belonged to the Past,
and who would dare
to knock on its doors
or tap on its windows
to see if anyone would answer
or show their presence
to the world outside,
a world gone by.
I stood there
on many a night
along the side of the road
just endlessly peering
at this lonely old place
wondering, waiting
for a light inside
to be turned on
at the same appointed time
emanating from behind
heavy and yellowed lace curtains
that looked like tattered spider webs
in only one crooked window
and one window only
hung with spidery lace.
I stood there
on those moonlit nights
bewitched by this house
listening to calls
and breaths of wild things
that roamed all around me
under ink-black star-filled skies,
but no light from moon nor star
could illumine
this clapboard-covered curio
from another day and age
concealed by branches, vines
and bramble,
bushes and nettles
and mystery.
I stood there
wondering
who turned on that only light,
who roamed the house by night
who walked its tilted floors
who locked its uncertain doors
who hung the curtains of lace
who built this unsettling place
who called this abode their home
and how many hallways would they roam
and are there secrets that lived inside
and what was the bramble trying to hide,
was there anything for it to reveal
anything for it to tell
this house haunted that knew me so well?
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
Winter is a deadly companion to those of us
who stay behind. Spring is not guaranteed, only
a lonesome song, frozen on the lips of my
fellow crusaders.
The tip of the spear belongs to the "Ice Warrior"
Camouflaged under a dusting of snow, ink black
like the night or mind bending off sun glare,
always eager to send cars sailing and people
falling. I was one of the lucky ones...I fell
on ice and broke my arm.
I knew I would see Spring...first paying a
painful
toll. Political insanity mostly fills the front
page in Winter, the truth of those lost forever
to its treachery only whispered in the "B"
section.
Those of us who survive for one more Spring
and Summer bare a different attitude than our
fellow snow birds.
You'll see us standing alone among forest
wildflowers...or sitting quietly on a dolomite
boulder overlooking Lake Superior.
Oblivious to all but our grateful senses,
humbled
by
our
fragile
existence.
Minnesota Winter 2017
A welcome sight the lights ahead - like misty globules on ink black foam
The billboard elicits a sense of foreboding - Welcome to the Midnight Bazaar
A lack luster moon adds to the mystery – nervously I enter to ask my way home
A familiar song plays in the somewhere, the name eludes me - how bizarre
Somberly dressed people scurry past- eyes focused on illuminated screens
Refusing contact, shoving past rudely as I ask where this place would be
One of them in riddles tells me - this is home - the place to be it seems
I wonder if the scales of reality have tipped in favor of insanity
A stall arouses my curiosity and I look as a butcher of sorts places
Bleeding hearts getting desired effect - starts a pushing jostling frenzy
Uninterested in the clowns on stilts with their painted morbid faces
Children walk with sullen looks - expressionless eyes that fail to see
Crowds clamor to buy sea food - how absurd - especially as a smell of decay prevails
Fresh produce on sale with dyed color bleeding and truffles of mud is there something amiss
A man wanders around with passports on offer - Buy yourself a Life - his sign displays
Relief at last - a stall with books and maps – here is my escape from this tainted Abyss
This God forsaken place is not where I wish to stay
And I must strive to leave it before the light of day
An exorbitant sum I pay eager to escape his cloying breath, his black toothed smile
A commotion at the far end - some sort of bidding - curiously I venture courage giving me wings
A sign proclaims ‘Souls For Sale’- in rage I scream ‘you cannot sell souls - This is so Vile ‘
Dark soulless eyes in chalk white faces – Bore right through me – Look right through me
I run screaming, falling, clawing the map that shows all roads lead back to this Hell - I scream
Waking myself - knowing the name of that song still in my head - Shaking from this macabre dream
Footnote:
This was not meant to be a pretty poem. It exaggerates the state of a world that has seemingly lost its focus and empathy. Let's not let this happen
Take a bit of Dean Kontz, Stephen King and the unnatural things going on with food enhancements and you have the stage set for a macabre nightmare!
I have babysat a roomful of six year olds,
my heart beating louder than a pack of screaming hyenas.
I walked out with them quiet and safe in their parents arms.
I improvised a speech to an audience of millionaire entrepreneurs
that ended in a standing 'O'.
Often I danced with titanic sharks,
and even French Kissed Killer Whales.
I have slept deep in the grip of ink black jungles
on mid summer nights, no dream.
Once I hung on with two broken arms
five hundred feet above my demise, without a whimper.
I skated through fields of dead bodies
in not just one but two very nasty wars.
Played tag with the devil and in the end hung
his left horn above my fireplace,
yeah my fireplace I owed him that.
I swam naked on the crest of a waterfall
from the top of its peak to the concrete sheet at its bottom.
Many times, I have partied with death,
her bones drenched in the fluids of our perverse acts,
but not once did she leave the party with me on her arm.
But please,
p
p
p
p
p p p please,
don't,
please don't,
make me talk to my EX-WIFE again!
10~10~2014
The salt water
baubles washes
gently
upon the jetty sent
from lands distant.
Pushed by a hovering
yellow moon,
sometimes built into
thunderous waves
of hurricanes.
Change comes rapidly
and dangerously
as the sea meets
yesterday coming
back.
It speaks to me and
it does say,
I give no quarter
and furthermore
I ask
for none.
As I stare outward
at the placid waters
I feel heaviness
deep inside my
chest.
The sea has become
humanity to me,
With its powerful
and hushed rage,
not seen before.
Heretofore I have
been persuaded
by wanderlust to
skim the surface,
to walk on by time
without end,
miss nothing that
may be something.
I linger here.
The moon is playing
peek-a-boo,
reflection on the
water seems sad.
Stories are to be
told, perchance
to a much lesser
degree of now.
But
not yet.
Ink-black dark, I
cannot see;
even Luna appears
quite uneasy.
The peaceful lapping
of water
distresses me; I
don't know why.
Devouring soul?
So tranquil you
could hear a
tear drop, or a
salamander fart.
My nose detects an
exotic odor
Arabian sand carried
by wind.
Wind
words.
I squat on the rock
jetty,
look for ghosts;
probe my own.
My intimate séance
annoys
what I have kept
concealed..
I see what I see.
The serene sea is a
patient anomaly,
so serene I fear
there are things
unsaid.
The night bitter
black when moon
hides,
I sense an
oppressing evil
attributed
to dreams.
Swept by waves of nostalgia
Afloat on longing tides
I assessed this oyster compound
where my heart could not abide.
Aphrodisiac pulls of Neptune
were as lava cooled to stone
What use were pearls of luster
when one had no collarbone?
Heralded by sea trumpets
kelp banners flying high
Sentinels of sea urchins
with pink coral by their sides
Calamity, with determined madness
shoved sponges from his path
Provoked by clam injustice
Spurred by mollusk wrath.
I searched for an escape exit
from that cruel, moronic clam
This myriad ideology,
naught but an oyster sham.
When a seahorse bobbing aimlessly
moved closer to my side
I unhinged my oyster carapace
and grasped its roughened hide.
I was jolted and I was jostled
as I settled on its back
Calamity watched in amazement
standing frozen in his track
When an agitated octopus
released an ink black kite,
a galaxy of starfish
sank into the brackish night.
I focused my attention
on my lost and nervous steed
We were climbing ever upward
at a most alarming speed
Breaking through the surface
I swallowed back a scream
Afraid of finding Calamity
I found it all had been...a dream.
TENERIFE
Two lovers by the ragged strand once trod
the sooty sand; slender maid with raven
hair, fisher boy of bronze; the dazzling sun
a gold doubloon, the moon a silver coin.
From rocks, ink-black as witches' cats, they saw
the teeming sea; for Paraiso Beach was
cast for them by Teide's fiery blast, 'neath
Milky Way in wind-blown spray where whale and
dolphin play... Faceless fools from far-off lands
soon found their paradise. "Commercialise
then urbanize, the mountains are for sale.
Bulldoze, landfill, then jerry-build; sewage
on the surf. Roll out roads for traffic roar;
monoxide in the breeze. Machinery tear
at prickly pear and green banana trees.
Throw up bars and apartment blocks; bedim
the stars with flashing lights; fill the nights with
keyboard beat and dancing feet to drown the
ocean's anguished cries ..." Her sculpture scorned, her
flanks defiled, the lady Teide broods - with
hissing sulphur in her breath, inferno
for a heart. Such feelings pent, her rage must
vent to blast the curse and re-create a
silent land, where lizards laze and prey birds
ride the balmy breeze, while a ghostly girl
and fisher lad go gathering wild herbs.
cc CG
Teide = a volcano in Tenerife - rhymes with lady
A SMOKING GUN
Beholding planet Earth from the far reaches of space,
In the ink black cosmos the observers must give voice
What a beautiful planet have we here
A very unusual blue and green glowing sphere
It must be the gateway to heaven's door
Let's go have a look -- what are we waiting for
If the visitors decide to land on this inviting earthly scene
They'd be met with guns and bullets before counting to 13
What I like about you is your look of surprise
The smattering of sunlight on your white gem face
The wistful expression when your heart is in that other place.
There is not a single fleck of color in your ink-black eyes
Yet in them I see the clearness of the sea, and of a late sunrise.
Sincerity so rare, like beams of a lighthouse in starless space
I want to paint you in a room full tattered furniture and soiled lace
in rags, like a pauper, with only your two lanterns obscuring the guise.
Nowadays you want to be tall, broadening and browning in the sun
Practicing the haughty smirk, the jaunty gait of their game
You can’t quite master it, though with all your might you try
But when I caught you unguarded with your pretenses undone;
glimpsed the innocence that illuminated when I called your name
I realized your pureness of heart no rags could defy.
Ache—
Let it sink
Deep
With quiet and unfathomable rage, every word shown
Black ink, black intent,
Yeah, she was done
The black nail polish on her nails chipping
Stupid, cheap crap…
The color black burned through her soul,
Giving her slight satisfaction in her furious state of mind
Always angry
Always sad, and hollow
She wanted desperately to get back at the wretch
Because of him, she wished she never existed
Lying there cold,
Stark-naked on the bathroom floor…
Standing outside the chipped, wooden door
He wanted more
Waiting to feel her flesh upon his own
The demon…
The monster…
You’ve heard the tale
It’s nothing new
Hearing him breath heavily,
Listening, his ears pounding with his heart
A beast awaiting his prey
Cornering her, despairing her
Nose pouring forth snot and blood
He had hit her very hard,
And there was surely more to come
But she had to resist the monster.
She just had to
Glancing at the boarded window in agony and despair,
No one would ever know and there was no one to tell
He’s a good man…
It’s her who’s the bad one
God is mad at her…not him
It’s always that way
Her fists slammed on her desk
After it all, he was coming back for her
She kept telling herself he was going to forget
He was going to leave her alone,
But he soon would be back for more,
Just like the old days
He didn’t give a damn about the ache she endures every day of her miserable life
In a frenzied fury,
She tore up the paper with the short poem on it
He would never feel the ache…
It would never seep through his marrow
Her phone rang loudly, startling her
She let it ring three times and then begrudgingly answered it.
“What?” She spat, clenching her teeth in irritation.
“It’s Mr. Rickman. We are ready to see you in.”
She gulped. The time was upon her. “Now?”
“Yes, of course. Everything’s going to be alright”
She hung up the phone.
She put on her darkest of shirts
She slipped on her black, studded sweater and her spiked collar
Black boots
Black gloves without the fingers
Black skinny jeans
She wanted EVERYTHING to be black today.
crisp white uniform
like pure white ocean foam
his eyes navy blue
for he winked at the sea
his shoes polished squid-ink black
with superior shine
his medals proudly gleam
the Captain grins, wants to salute him
eagerly waits his turn
his fellow seaman — some like him
others hold the jealousy of Davy Jones Locker
but the women love him in droves
some with ulterior motives just to be a Navy wife
swooping necklines, netted stockings
long blond silky hair accost his senses
but on the long watches he serves her
the one he loves best — his country
so he trims his neckline, sharpens
the lines of his tailored pants
and protects the deck
day and night
Here is a time of anticipation,
hammocks poised for the days afternoon rain.
Glaring diamond sun, horizon ink black,
breezes stir hot thick air, thunder clouds call.
Sandhill Cranes graze in a lazy black stream,
glittering gold minnows lost as sun dims.
Mates for life in Florida's vast hammocks
now retreat to tall palmettos safety.
The bald eagle glides low to her storm perch
this nest of young chicks to shelter from storm.
Darkness builds as rumbles roll from the sea,
roiling black clouds swiftly move on sea's breeze.
Fury rushes through tall saw grass with speed,
at the will of driven rain, sand pines groan.
Palms defiant in the gusting wind stand,
Spanish moss on oaks like ghostly limbs wave.
Lightning flashes in most deafening roar,
hammock now obscure in a gray curtain.
Islands of shell in black water rising,
world embraced in a replenishing wrath.
The wind driven storm moves quickly inland,
rain lightens, winds calm, clouds open and pass.
The sun, glaring bright, air hot and humid,
water drips from still trees framed in rainbows.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
8/16/16
And for my sweet meditation- I am listening to Vilvaldi,
the four seasons concerto, wild and quite dreamy;
and I am soon lost in a daydream of flowing creeks,
singing birds, whimsy and fantasy illusion.
A mosaic, a tapestry, a fresco,
and I am walking this entangled maze;
a labyrinth of green lush vinery,
the moon my illumination.
A spirit guardian leads,
me to a garden;
a place of posy, wild flowers, a paradise, a dreamland,
and a little cherub angel child welcomes me to rest.
It is like Heaven here in this Shangri-La land,
yet my innermost heart weeps;
midnight ink black tears,
for I know this child.
Oh, horrible the memories that wrap me in darkness now,
it is my sister love, lost to death in the web of time;
clouds gather dark, hazy and misty and Vilvaldi plays,
his rhythmic, harmonious violin.
____________________________
February 6, 2017
Poetry/Narrative/A Dreamworld Chimera
Copyright Protected, ID 17- 873-004-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Chimera World
sponsor, Nayda Ivette Negron
Third Place
Naked Subjugation
Last night I wandered past your total disregard
And walked forlorn
Stark insecurity amplified
Still I walked , my usual forbearance uncomplied
Upon furthermost the distance between us elongated
The sustenance of forgotten stores inside me generated
I was venerated - nay subjugated
Of these morsels congregated
And fed me through those ink-black nights
In dew fall of the quiet
Inside unheard the rebel riots
As my breath became a billion
As my fears that I embraced
Loosed themselves and fearing fled
Melting in the murky bellows
Did I find my standing there...
Naked but for meekness laced
Forgotten was my fear
I needs you did not anymore
Nor your disregard this doggone day
Not dejected as before
Only sin has me surrounded
And soon encircled disappears, decays
Unclothed in limped insignificance
Nothing said ..
So still your body lies
Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2017
in the cool air of the spring time late evening
the night sky was ink black
as the lights went off ,
the university ground was in great commotion,
shimmering sparkles of phosphorous,
we thought the forest was on fire