Best Medium Poems
Hashish smoke trails her
along a dusky corridor
Aka the hall of fires
where mirage chimeras unleash
Encumbered with hands splayed
her crystal ball lumens
wires ghostly apparitions
mnemonic attachments
What mystery ensues
a phantasmagoria
of horror nudging
the demonic
Sitters drenched
in profuse sweat
fainting one by one
Alas unconscious
their fate met?
Coroners couldn’t ‘ve clarified
Described as an arctic chill
bolting across the sector
through each limp body
claiming mortality
As icy temps rise
Hypothermia responsible!
for the fatality, for their demise
Latter days professing onto
recordings of a gathering that took place
confessing that a séance
performed by a mysterious woman
in a trance—was the case.
The
Moon is waxing
First quarter crescent
The beckoning begins
Nodding, gurgling
Opening realms unseen
to the naked eye
Madame
Mystic, psychic,
a beguiling storyteller
and Medium
Down in a cellar, along with a Ouija
volumes of her writings discovered
delving into société espirita
The Goldilocks of the occults
Esoteric subjects,
a burgeoning interest
Astral travels,
unexplained laws of nature,
powers latent in man
Madame channeled
ascended masters
The Voice of the Silence
The Two Paths
The Seven Portals
"gifts" from the specters
This time Madame stands
to receive between intervals
and only he is seated
Warning him of dark spirits
a dimension outside
of our physical time-space reality
shadowing, making absence
of light a necessity
To invoke them
another nod
Continues unabated
Reveal the truth!
By sacred decree, by order
Behind the phenomenon
details of schemes came to light
Denounced as Black Magic
she was no longer to fright
Marked as a fraud
it all a façade
The moon is waning
Third quarter
Irrelevant anomaly?
individual autonomy
Irreverent reality
(consumate depravity)
Continuing disparity
divisive inhumanity
Nhilist demographics
insidiously tragic...
He chooses his medium and tools carefully:
It's oil and sable promise today.
He lays it on thick-haphazardly.
He folds then unfolds the unframed canvas many times
into the shape of a woman.
Squeezing out her dignity,
then reads what's left behind...
(his flavor of voodoo).
He fondles her entrails-shakes her bones.
That spill into the shape of.. "a little less than yesterday".
Picked over prey, he frames her.
Hangs her in his fun house tilted mind;
Then he buzzard hops away, taking to the sky.
Circling above, searching for another pair of wide soft eyes.
He chooses his medium carefully...to fit the deed.
Today it's his black clay heart that changes shape.
From a soft nest- to a cold, cackling cage...
The bunny takes the musky bait,
he spits gasoline on the bars.
Runs metal talons against a dying star...
igniting her.
He waits till her ashes cool.
He inhales deeply, puts the rest in a mason jar.
...proclaiming victory
he slithers away...
He chooses his medium carefully.
Today it's his stained-glass smile....
"His heavenly mirage".
A magnet for the she doves
which fly into it, heart first.
They're diced with shards from a toxic rainbow.
But there is no gold at the end.
Only hollow caves and poisoned winds...
He dons his cape and crown of dying doves.
Which have since turned from white to red.
He lounges around, buffing his trophies with a split tongue.
He chooses his medium carefully...
********************************************
anxiety insinuated pressure
denigration isolation,
spiritual deflation
all of today's ingreidents beyond
our needs,in abundance,
from (where?) does this all come.?
THE MEDIUM
a simple soul
the medium
with more clean awareness
no intellectual tedium
when he goes within
when he speaks in tongues
reception is not clouded
by collegiate 101s
he needs no crystal ball
his vision has no surface
but is blessed with depth
with endless purpose
I would assume
Images within appear
sound filters in
music of the spheres
but in trance
there can be cost
trick is in coming back
many merlins have been lost
Dave Austin
We each must seek to walk our very own walk
Although most getting stuck inside its box
Through the door of hate well learned,
Another tear drop subsides;
For each table has been turned
The interpretation of a dream,
She was living on a wing and a prayer
Other matters of the heart may have caused dispare
Through shadows in her head;
A cause of panic feelings of dread,
The interpretation of a dream;
Out of mere madness sprung its inner silence
As in caged barbaric schemes...
Through a base of triumph shadows felt its gear toward silence,
The interpretation of a dream
Fought back its silence from within.
The medium:
Sun has risen, it is another day.
On the surface everything seems normal.
Those ghostly lost souls, can't keep them at bay.
In fact everything is so abnormal,
your life controlled by the paranormal.
You see daily what others cannot see.
The departed communicate with thee.
Steven Beesley (c) 2005-10-17
Rime Royale/Rhyme Royal:
A poem containing 7 lines with 10 syllables per line. The rhyme scheme is ababbcc.
Spiritualist, Medium and Deceiver
What a wonderful gift he has,
Speaking to Mother who passed,
To reach her from the other side,
My troubled mind eased at last.
Clever Man, Oh clever man,
How you deceive these people so,
Bewitched by every word you say,
Tell them things they already know.
I know he speaks the truth,
He had a message from Sister Mary,
Chuckling she sends her love,
Recalling her nickname Contrary.
Deceiver, Con man and cheat,
For entertainment he’ll mess your head.
Manipulation of the living,
Because he cannot speak to the dead.
Mrs Bentley says he’s a good man,
Heart of Gold, compassionate, sincere.
Her old Dad is at peace, no pain,
The spirit world pure joy, no fear.
Clever tricks, dirty tricks,
Pay at the box office, Thirty-pound.
You may well have a wonderful evening,
But be sure; no Spirits will be found.
The man on the moon knew he could get ruined, if he couldn’t get back to his cocoon.
Was he maroon on the cocoon. Or just an illusion for a conclusion.
It could’ve been all a delusion without a conclusion. Said the Man on the Moon. Because, I just had a transfusion.
The man on the moon was late for his appointment with his pediatrician which was in prison with a dental technician.
Now you’re probably confused, with this, new news.
The man on the moon had news he was so confused. He felt like he was overused.
confidentially, Respectfully, I must tell you. What my pediatrician said.
I was a proud new father of a baby boy hemorrhoid. So proudly, he pulled out a Polaroid. And now he had a picture to share with his wife Sarah Lloyd
moderation is
the key to the vulgarness
of polar extremes.
it allows balance of mind
over matter and your dreams.
Pure white with golden font
Millimeters numbered just right
Thick enough only for distortion
Smooth to the tongue
Held perfectly at my fingertips..
But it'll slide right down your throat
A pill of death for a musician
The lump stuck for hours
Breakfast food fights it down
To the acidic pit
Hopefully melting away
Releasing the inner toxin..
The beginning of a bad omen
I swallowed a White Fender Medium
Late night communications
The girl of my thoughts for weeks
Happy and comfortable
Accomplishing a beautiful feat
Secrets become unsurfaced
Everything that flourished is dead..
I swallowed a White Fender Medium
Cold weather ahead
Windows shattering at great times
Gusts of air paralyzing our bodies
Vacuum the sharp remnants
Frozen hands with an aching soul
These shards are just the beginning..
I swallowed a White Fender Medium
They were always special to me
A musician's charm of good fortune
Karma despises my weapon of choice
Instinctive feelings are nothing
Plastic, rounded triangle with letters engraved
So much for the lovely theme..
A Fender White Medium..
I swallowed that stupid guitar pick..
My palette is my imagination.
I paint pictures with my words.
Swirling colours of composition.
Mixing metaphors - agitating them
with the paintbrush in my mind.
My vocabulary is my keyboard.
Trilling notes of expression.
Crescendo of composition...
tumbling, falling....allegro, or
andante, and harmonised in my creativity.
My glossary is my tapestry.
Fixed firmly to the frame of verbal
inventiveness. Stitched in synchronacity.
Cross stitched sometimes - or
tacked in draft for later publication.
I cannot sing to you in thrilling arias.
I cannot paint for you on colourful canvas.
I cannot play for you in perfected pitch.
I cannot hang my works of art,
but I can write what's in my heart -
and, maybe, I'll touch yours?
I don't exactly know the how or why
I can't even explain it
But i have or was given a gift
I am a fortune teller / medium
I can read card's
Decipher tea leaves
Predict and tell the future
And converse with the dead
Wow can you talk to god as well ?
Or are you in fact rather a fraudulent snake oil griffter
con-artist
Who scrapes a living off the insecurities
and vulnerabilities of the longing and loss of the distraught
Because otherwise you would know what
lies ahead of you in your future
And if as the saying goes payback and karma is
a son of a dog
Then may i suggest you take an eternity
of treats with you for the journey because
you are bound for a long old stretch in the
dog house fed on a diet of humble pie
Rubbish is just something we don’t need
Or something not worth mending we believe
Where nonsense may be foolish talk or jest
Or English humour at its lethal best
There is no Judge, it’s people who decide
Whether it is nonsense to deride
The message of the media online
Which like the Consecration, is divine
Awesome now means medium at best
That is, you have barely passed the test
What a lot of stupid people say
Appears on someone’s T shirt the same day
Nonsense can give pleasure,make us loose
Sometimes it can make us feel confused.
refuse to cross her palm with silver ~ get the back of her hand instead
By
David Kavanagh