Best Inky Black Poems
She senses before she sees
The manicured nails - the elegant fingers
Holding out the hundred dollar bills - enticingly - so temptingly
A generous nights takings of busking here
In one proffered hand
She grabs at it petrified it might be an illusion
Evaporating in a puff of smoke
Fingers hold it back, teasingly
Compelling eye contact
She looks up sceptically
Dark eyes meet her aqua blues, sparking a sort of affinity
‘Eyes are the window of one’s soul’- so it is said in all sincerity
But the magnetic dark eyes of her enticer are fathomless in their intensity
His type she has encountered before - money for favours
Well she is no novice - a living after all - a girl has to make
And his generous offer rivals his devilish good looks
But she senses a darkness favouring the energy emanating
A cold shiver runs through her veins like someone just walked on her grave
Fear ripples down her spine akin to a stroking finger chilled in ice
The spell he casts foreboding
The calmness of the night has taken flight
In its haste to set the macabre scene
Mesmerising are the eyes that bore into hers
Projected thoughts furtively slip into her mind
Infiltrating it like a slithery snake
Bringing with it forbidden thoughts of desire
She falls into the inky black abyss
Succumbing to heady dark passionate conceptualization
However the chilling message is coherent
This is not a mere opportunistic one night stand
That he desires
This is more - so much more
This is taboo concupiscence unleashed
This is her life in exchange for what?
Her life for immortality?
Surely not!
Yet his eyes eloquently convey it all
The hunger so unconcealed - so transparently flagrant
To yield to darkness
Satisfying his appetite for
Death of a different nature?
Obliteration of life as she knows it to be
Tenebrous Immortality in exchange for her blood
A prelude to his finale of taking her soul
And then a metamorphosis
From Prey to Predator
Video clip -
Like a Vampire- Catrien Maxwell
When I think of what to write
often the ocean comes to mind
Endless sea of pretty blue
and stretched out horizon lines,
impossibly flat
Yet when I actually arrive
it isn't the sea that my eyes
take a liking too
Rather it's just below the waves
my mind does go...
...to the little trinkets
beside my toes
Fossils of sea creatures,
alive one - and now, even in death -
you can see the beauty of their features
Seashells of every shape and hue
(even if they're familiar,
somehow they're always new)
Some are inky black or cobalt blue,
creamy whites and nutty browns
(pretty oranges, too!)
Some are hefty like a throwing stone,
others quite miniscule,
blending in with the sand
Some are fragile -breaking easier
than the waves-
others are like a hardened sunrise
Their well defined rays,
my fingers always finds themselves,
unbidden as an eye-blink
(as unthinking as a smile)
I like the clanky sound they make
when lightly shook in a mason jar
I shake them like dice in cupped hands
(loaded, in my case...
I don't gamble with a good time)
Yeah, when it comes to the beach
I'm like a kid at a candy store
My treats aren't in bins,
but glisten on the sandy shore
I scoop them in my hands,
still wet with the sea
Stick them in my pockets,
if the case need be
(and you know it always does
if I'm being honest)
Where it gets me, I don't know,
but, please,
just one more keepsake!
(this simple joy I try to harness)
I pick up a second then a third
while still admiring the first
A dozen or two, is only of mild concern
(a wagon-full is even worse)
Yes
It is an obsession through and through
I could be just as happy with one
as with a thousand
(maybe happiness isn't something
you can attach a number too)
And I don't know why I do it,
treasure to me (but not for thee)
And even rarity isn't an excuse
You can pick them up by the shovel,
they aren't difficult to find
You can count a hundred alone
within arms reach
(maybe joy doesn't have to be rare,
but can be as common as clouds...
maybe it's not something "out there",
but somewhere near,
even to the ground)
Near as an object
lying beside your feet
Near as a thought that came to you...
...while walking on the beach
A legend in our time,
Nessie lives in Loch Ness.
And while monster to some,
he is loved by the press.
Moonbeams gilded the waves,
like golden filagree.
And it’s beauty was such,
that he just had to see.
His head broke the surface,
leery of stray yachters.
And small ripples stirred,
in the placid waters.
Snout out of the water,
he soon started to choke.
And exhaled puffs of mist,
like he was belching smoke.
But it was well worth it,
to see the moon and stars.
And glimpse other planets,
like Jupiter and Mars.
His eyes aren’t use to light,
his world is inky black.
And after surfacing,
he now dreads going back.
INDIAN PIPE
(The Corpse Plant)
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
Like bagpipes they play, somber tunes of fear,
as doves do weep, as flamingoes bow down.
A ghost plant dirge, doth tremble dusty clouds.
The bells, they ring, intensely sing, slow-deep.
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
Like wax, their silhouettes a frozen mask.
A countenance, thus drained of chlorophyll.
The vampiric cold parasite craves night -
A leech, among the beech, with lovers scars.
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
A cold and clammy touch, doth turn a corpse
an inky black. A translucent pale ghost -
don’t touch, nor handle plant, nor creep too near
its eerie soil, nor step, upon its grave.
in the shadows
in the shadows
teardrop eyes
Original date : 5/11/2017
YOUR CHOICE FLOWER VERSE,any form ,any theme Poetry Contest
Brian Strand: Sponsor 6/23/2019
In limbo her soul breathes
The inky black of midnight crawling her skin
She watches his chest rise and fall
The rhythmic sounds lulling her to sleep
She pierces his dream with silent screams
Calls him awake with urgent longing
He stirs and twitches
But does not come to her
She fingers the softness of his neck
Coils them around it's length like a snake
His eyes spring open, prised from sleep
Silently pleading, what do you want from me
They meld together like scorching lava
To frenzy the passion they cannot speak
He reaches for her tenderly, offering his mouth in expectation
This time, she thinks, he has been spared
In the beginning
what we may call noumena
from a singularity unfathomable
the very first outpouring of God’s breath
created what we now see as vastness of space
but what space is we yet know not
the boundaryless inky black void of nothingness
a bubble of manifestation came into being
occupied by God motionless in stillness
He then created a pulse, the Word
that duality may herein pulsate
the Word is Om ~ sound of the sun
The womb of existence is space
liken it to God’s manifest omnipresence
unknowable, within all and yet standing apart
within which we’re localised as individuated entities
although in truth being inseparable from the all that is
the truth of ‘who am I’ we must discern
as such, since we are not this decaying organic form
to know who we are we must stop the flow of time
for which within the pause of each polarity shift
our attention if fixated in pristine silence
discards false identity revealing truth
that we’re living light in God’s image
10-May-2023
While drowning in a sea of sadness
I drowned a sea of sorrows inside me.
From the pools of ebony
I emerge anew as...
...A Black Swan...
...for I have discovered black pearls
hidden in shells of mysteries
between myth and truth
beneath a whirlpool of oblivion
that whirls within my core.
I will merrily swim through my tears
and I will boldly soar over my fears
for I have embraced my true essence
as I have eaten those black pearls -
the power of my discovered art
that now rushes through my veins
and gushes out of my heart
as inky black blood.
From my heart I will pour out
the pain that will beautifully paint
papers blank white
with my doleful poems and songs.
My quills are my feathers,
I will shed while I dance unabashedly
to the rhythm of my soulful tune.
I will create art out of my broken heart
before forevermore is forever gone.
On a prickly stem of thorns
a beautiful rose blossoms and sways.
In a mine full of drab coals,
under pressure and heat
forms a shining bright diamond.
Larva is what grows out to be a butterfly.
From the womb of pain art is born.
My sufferings cannot cage me anymore
for I am...
...A Black Swan.
Date: 08/29/2022
Note: For the contest (Free Verse - Old Or New) by Joseph May.
*Placed First*
Year five of the Great Depression.
April 14, 1935 another Sunday of church services praying for
The rain that wasn’t coming.
And the sky turned mean and angry, as daylight was obliterated into The blackness of night. The wind scoured the land, sweeping
Everything in front of it like a plague of ancient locusts.
A great migration of dust lifted up, blowing away a swath
Of the American dream, leaving only memories before 1935.
A relentless burning wind emptied out what little hope the
Migrating towns had left.
Every inch of top soil was devoured, while dead cattle were strung out Against the barbed wire fence line; marked boundaries didn’t count for much anymore.
A blizzard of death coated whatever was in its way, across the
Empty fields of the Great Plains, the haciendas of New Mexico, the Empty towns of Oklahoma and everywhere it touched.
Black Sunday’s revenge was absolute, falling black snow, six feet deep.
Dust coating the lungs, blinding the eyes, swallowing the homesteads.
An inky black wall spawned from hell spread its wings, soaring Hundreds of feet high. When it ended, nothing would be the
Same in these places.
The barren Dakotas.
The endless plains of Kansas.
The mountain peaks of Colorado.
The great dust bowl of Oklahoma.
The arid lands of New Mexico.
The vast Texas cattle ranches.
America, Sunday April 14, 1935
Hard times.
A rising moon marks the end of the day:
as a spectacular scarlet sun sets.
And as a spent sun slowly slips away,
subsequent shadows, swallow silhouettes.
Brisk breezes blow, swaying the tallest trees;
their gilded beauty, bestowed by moonlight.
And as Luna's golden glow tints the leaves:
green conceals itself in the dark of night.
As twilight triggers flickering fireflies:
innumerable twinkling stars blink back.
And when ebony engulfs seamless skies;
descending darkness dyes dusk inky black.
Somber, sullen shades saturate the night,
encompassing every shadow and crease.
And though brazen birds balk, dusk dims the light
till ubiquitous utterances cease.
I Think, Therefore Am I?
Neck cracking penumbra
shines on starlit mundanity
ebon macabre epiphanies
fogwebs of my morality
my tongue twists ceaselessly
trinkets of truffled profanity
dearest mirror, mirror reality
has humanity cursed me?
For the fatality of dreams
bared in broken bosoms
of madness and brutality
masked by faux urbanity
crowns like a dead infant
delivered from its womb
into the arms of inanity
a morbidly, tragic formality
But still steadfast I warrior
heart held bleeding in hand
cur-sed whispers of volcanity
bent echoes of forced vitality
to sever the seams of malady
and hand scribe the braindust
of my cursive minded mentality
upon reams of papered therapy
shrouded by inky black misery
of things thought but never told
to a world swilled in sugar beliefs
of dappled sun and spun parasols
rainbow thoughts and red carousels
while I continue to wander down
this darkened tunnel of insanity
January 27, 2017
Empty carousels, windswept,
Echoes of pattering feet fading away in the dirge-like wind, mourning like doves.
Empty swings in the park, a waning sun looks mournfully at the little eddies of sand here and there:
All lacking the soft peals of laughter, the chuckles of the innocent...
Where have all the children gone?
The yolk-coloured sun, sour tasting,
signalling the end of a long, dreary day. The fluttering, whimpering,
weary limbs creaking,
the end of an era, only reminiscences of vigour
when hoary white was inky black...
Why, have all the children gone?
The Generation Gap
The fragile, flawless ice encased
the crumbling soil below
And with it brought bitter winter’s taste –
the seed that wouldn’t grow.
Many a foggy year ago,
the father had bought the plant
Had carried it, through the ice and snow,
to his little son’s wish, grant.
Once again, the son was staring, eyes hollow,
at the seed that could not be a winner,
Wondering if fruitless years would follow –
when his dad called him to dinner.
The father nodded at his presence,
hen lowered his head at the thing
Staring at the lifeless, immobile pleasance
ike a puppet on ends of a string.
Email after email - would the work never end?
His fingers flew across the screen.
At least the son’s phone would make up –
material had to be the dream of every teen.
The son accidentally brushed the screen
and rock music exploded resounding
The dad jumped and yelled at the opposite teen
of the terribly insistent pounding.
The teen shouted horribly red-faced
that it was most heartbreakingly sad
That the rule he’d once taught - don’t work while you eat –
was forgotten by his dad.
The silence that hung impenetrable in the air
was broken by the sharp creak of chairs
As they were pushed back by the pair –
then the loud pound of feet on the stairs.
The dad shut himself into his room,
sucked in a lungful of air
Then lay down in the musty gloom
to, at his long-gone father’s photo, stare.
His young father winked at him through the glass,
a poster of James Dean on the wall
With a jolt he recalled that in the past
his father had loved James Dean’s bawl.
But then came the time when he grew mad
and screamed and yelled at stars
His father had then, disgusted, said,
that they should be put behind bars.
He stared off into the distant past,
staring at but not seeing the ceiling
Then drifted into determined dreams at last,
strong stirring emotions, feeling.
While the son gazed at a long-taken photo,
at the grinning father and son
Hand in hand and holding their motto –
“Our undying love makes us one”.
And he stared off into the inky black
at the far wall of his room
His heart seemed to jolt, and then to crack
as drops on his cheeks began to bloom.
He was once again gazing at the stubborn seed
when he was called for dinner, to eat
the stars high above
swim in the inky black sea
nudity and wine
A pair of blue wings is hovering
against the inky black covering
within ‘Little Fox’ constellation
of Vulpecula designation,
portrayed with stipple sidereal
in Hubble image ethereal,
‘Hen two dash four three seven’ labeled.
A hen with fox is Aesop fabled,
except it was really a crow
in that apologue still apropos
where pride overcame the bird’s good sense,
so fox got the food through the pretense
of disparaging its corvine caw;
thus the crow dropped the cheese from its jaw.
There are many stories much the same.
In Middle Ages the bird became
chanticleer; Chaucer’s ‘Canterbury
Tales’ has one that warns to be wary
of flattery false and specious praise,
since fox on inflated ego plays
with rooster to hear his special cry,
hence to distract and snatch him thereby.
Yet fox falls prey to his own conceit,
and chanticleer flees to tree retreat.
But coming back to high-flying hen
which Hubble’s scope brought within our ken,
this nebula with glowing surround
was by stargazer Minkowski found
then by Henize later catalogued
as nebula with the name befogged
in misleading term planetary,
for that title is quite contrary
to remnant of an imploded star,
which is indeed what those objects are.
As shown by the wings, it’s bipolar,
cast off from a star like ours solar
which nearing end of its astral span
swelled to red giant’s flash in the pan
then sent forth its layers into space,
as a white dwarf for core took its place…
And yet my inspiration’s essence
came from the alae’s luminescence
seen in this vast stelliferous sight
against the canvas of cosmic night.
Still, one might fancy those whizzing wings
borne by empyreal bird that sings
melodies wafted amidst the spheres
only a starry-eyed poet hears.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The image and info can be found by looking up Hen 2-437 on the net.
Selene's Nightly Ride
I can’t wait to see Endymion tonight
I don my headdress, a crescent delight
Then I travel across the inky black sky
Lighting each star as I pass by
Down to earth my chariot rides
To Endymion’s cave in the mountainside
Where he pulls me close, his eyes to mine -
Our love shooting stars into the night
Later when the sun threatens to rise
I put him to sleep with a lullaby
The stars wink out as the night dies
And a single teardrop falls from my eye
I grab my steeds and make them fly
Back into the sky, collecting starlight
2/26/12
for nette's "in the mood of imagery" contest
Susan Burch