Best Misbegotten Poems
Madame Mistress, ebonies princess,
Southern comforts golden jewel,
A golden beauty down south does dwell.
She hides many secrets beneath her,
Glittering mask of mystery's mystic spells.
A dark priestess is this Cajun queen,
Black widows magic women,
Known as Ms. New Orleans.
In her crimson gown, trimmed by
Velvet's purple hues, she smiles
Behind her white lace fan.
A beguiling angel is she the devils
Own kindred.
The voodoo queen of the swampy delta,
Ruling over the shadow demons,
Whom guard the everglades.
Underneath fancy face and social grace,
Lies the misbegotten heart of a
Witches soul.
Here the trumpets sound at,
La Carnival as minstrels stroll,
Down Bourbon Street with rhythmic,
Precision's precise step.
Come join in celebrations grand parade,
The Maude Gra. Where anything goes,
Here things are forgotten as the sun rises,
This grand lady of beauty's legacy's charm.
Presses one finger to her redden lips,
Speaking not more than a hushed whispers
Sigh carried across bayou.
Thus does the Spanish moss weep, for
Those lost souls swallowed whole,
Beneath nights dark covenant of death.
Ghostly images walk the muddy side shores,
Phantom spectators existing as prisoners,
Trapped in limbos web, a thin fine line
Between the living and the dead.
Beware lone travelers, those for whom,
Seek mysteries glamor and mystic,
Of the southern by ways.
All are welcome to taste our spicy
Hospitality.
Yet beware pay homages respect,
To Mz. New Orleans, she after all takes
Great care of her own.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
misbegotten, adventure, beauty, fantasy, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
Our dark founding father, of American literature,
A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way
Into the darkened abyss of mankind’s soul.
Within the galleria of madness, he is the
Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's
Written words of terror.
In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit
Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear,
A fine thin line, is drawn between reality,
And fictions illusionary world.
Life's a shunned, abandonment’s creation,
The lord's misbegotten son, embraced
The night's cloak, in it's power
His only salvation unto history's
Remembrance, is found a truth's
Justice and notability's respect.
Loves passionate compliant servant,
Dashed against the rocks of life itself,
Broken and damaged, he rose above
The waves of poverty, and the under
Current of tragedies broken
Heart.
Some may say he wrote from the after
Effects that laid, at the bottom
Of the bottle.
Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling
The emotional nerves concept between
Right and wrong, the social exceptionable
Norm.
But we care not what others wish to believe,
For we honor him, those of us the dark poets,
As the father whom lead the way, between
Light and dark.
Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man,
A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed
Ink at his command.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
misbegotten, character, dark, history, imagination,
Form:
Free verse
Father it’s me again. It’s been too long between talks
Days, years: restless lost wasted years
Choices made based on greed, pride, arrogance and misbegotten dreams
It’s difficult at best to understand how You can still love me
The blessings continued throughout it all
I had Kristofferson on the stereo asking Why Me Lord
Now I know I just want to come home
One more shot at doing it right, conscience not materialistic ideals
Finding peace within myself, empathy for those who cannot.
The journey was a bit different than I imagined
Detours, lost highways, dead ends. Many roads. Wrong ones
More light at the end of the dirt roads
Than the ones paved in gold
Harder to reach your destination
But the accommodations were better in the end
One more thing I meant to say and never did
Thank You Father for the hard times
Thank You for the trials that helped strengthen me
At the time, I didn’t understand
Now I see. Tears can cleanse the soul
Only when they are real.
Categories:
misbegotten, faith, introspectionlost, lost, me,
Form:
Free verse
My eyes have not grown too weak or dim
to ignore what they've long been seeing
pretenders who wear a mask of disguise
like a skier who's not proficient at skiing
Everyone who labels him/herself a 'poet'
thinks he's composed brilliant words, versed
but lacks ability, and some of us know it,
and receives high praise; payback reimbursed
Is it because some seek insincere empty words
to gain a like response as a misbegotten debt?
Could it be they want undeserved admiration
for posting things a serious poet would regret?
And what of time consuming contest entries
that tower in skilled verse above most of the rest,
only to see everyone received a first place finish
when theirs is ignored but clearly one of the best.
IT'S A SLAP IN THE FACE!!!
Let's not overlook when the final results are in
those who give nods to each other as number one
It's obvious they don't always deserve the win.
Doesn't that spoil both the challenge and the fun?
Go ahead and point out that I shouldn't complain
because I stopped entering contests months ago
and seldom post on a site where some would reign.
but I discover things that make me say, "WHOA!"
Not so many fake names appear by a cheating judge
and I thank all of those who plowed that farrow
There are times when we all need a bit of a nudge
to make sure the path we walk is straight and narrow
Now I've learned that the advertisement displays
are prohibiting Connie Wong from enjoying her part
in reading and commenting in her loveliest of ways.
Connie is a talented poet, with a pure, loving heart.
My premium membership is up at the end of May
by now you've gathered that I'll not be renewing
but I'll still occasionally post on any given day.
Thank you for reading what has long been brewing
Comments are welcome if you would like to share
your thoughts, agreeable and even if they're not
We all have opinions; a community should care
about problems...unless you just don't give a squat
and if that's the case, I totally understand that, too
Categories:
misbegotten, writing,
Form:
Narrative
Dark denizens of the night
gathering in ill-lit backrooms
haunts of the night
They tease each other with
rouged cheeks, their mascara
their pimply breasts, shaved legs
Some are known for tantalizing
tempting striptease, revealing
hairy chests and knobby knees
Their hardened faces greeting poor
unsuspecting 'straights,' who, horrified
run screaming off into the night
And now the Left has lumped these
misbegotten sickos of the night
in with today's 'civil rights movement'
of transgenders, kweers, and worse
too debauched to describe, to be
celebrated in 'Drag Queen Shows'
in our public libraries, where America introduces
her precious youngsters into the fraudulent
creepy cabals of Satanism, endorsed by 'leaders' gone mad
Categories:
misbegotten, america, betrayal, child abuse,
Form:
Free verse
Misbegotten pair,
two-faced condemnation,
the seduction of sweet solace
or the inarticulation of despair.
Uneasy 'neath the spell of peerless rapture,
false respite from the ravages of fear,
or defenseless and imperilled
by a sadness that is too extreme to bear.
Categories:
misbegotten, philosophy
Form:
Quatrain
Need a pill
Wanna die
Wanna hear
Pounding nails
Shut my eyes
Close the lid
Let it end
Please let it end
In my guts
My filthy guts
Poison rise
In my head
Dark abides
In my soul
Tantalize
Wanna die
Let it end
Please let it end
What has begging ever done
For a misbegotten rotten son
Saliva drips
From my lips
Eyelids flutter
Painful shudder
Smashing brains
Always pain
Let it end
Please let it end
Crawling
Towards
The
Meat
Grinder
Categories:
misbegotten, depression,
Form:
Free verse
I wish that I had cared enough,
to mention once or twice
That what I wanted now has changed,
old virtues turned to vice
The past left misbegotten,
and future long disclaimed
The present what I’m running from
—its hourglass in flames
(Villanova Pennsylvania: January, 2020)
Categories:
misbegotten, time,
Form:
Rhyme
Forgotten lie the graves of the forsaken,
long unremembered, strangled
by the grasses of neglect.
Misbegotten, forever mute they fester,
worm-mingled, mercy less,
with no vestige of respect.
Categories:
misbegotten, death
Form:
Verse
What a misbegotten soul am I, to be lost upon isolation’s paradise,
Marooned on desolation’s tropical island of plenty, except for
Human championship, humanities driftwood a captured cast
Away, from civilization’s socialization, thus I’m alone survivor
Of life’s shipwreck!
Collisions hardship volunteer trapped, upon the coral reef
Beyond stresses everyday reality, rocked by the sounding
Stormy seas here I’ve lain anchor, as the swift currents
Undertow heaved at my chains of living cutting at them,
Biting at them, until the metal broke apart, leaving me here
Stranded, naked and afraid!
Hail winds torrent clouds tare at my towering sails, breaching
The structure of my humble world of complacency, until nothing
Remained solvable, but a small piece of mine own dignities
Silvery pine beam, at the break waters merciful edge of
Existence I’m so dashed against the rocks of mine own
Oblivion!
In these dangerous waters treading I swim without
Life preserves protection, amongst me others are
Screaming, drowning beneath the crushing waves
Thrashing, I reach outwardly for these lost souls,
Yet they seamlessly slip away, on the tidal rips
Slanted curve!
Awakening from this living portrayed of a nightmare,
I cling to the dream of an off shore utopia, yet in
Poverty’s deficiency’s my iron clad shackles remain
As retrains locking bars, and left in tarots armaments
I know this is my only lot in life to bare alone!
A beach comber of yesterday’s remembrance, I drift,
Watching through my badly damage telescope,
Waving in retrospect motion, hoping for rescues
Leveling hand of salvation!
What misbegotten soul am I, to be lost upon isolation’s paradise,
Marooned on desolation’s tropical island of plenty, except for
Human championship, humanities driftwood a captured cast
Away, from civilization’s socialization, thus I’m alone survivor
Of life’s shipwreck!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
misbegotten, adventure, conflict, emotions, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
The Yellow Head of the Hummingbird
Yellow hummingbird head,
Lopped off by feline fangs,
And left as a gift
On the welcome mat.
Short sharp black beak
Arches downward hopelessly
Like the collective heartbreak
Of a million lost souls.
Misbegotten and forgotten.
Lacerated and left for dead.
This continuous marathon dance.
This never-ending lunge.
This eternal stroll in the park.
This incessant spasm in the dark.
I close my eyes and reach for something ahead of me.
I don't want to see it.
Because I am afraid,
Afraid of what it might see.
Afraid of what it might say.
Past my eyes
Past my soul
Past the lost days and nights
Of an entire lifetime.
Look.
I hold in my hand an empty bottle.
It once held the liquid refreshment of my youth.
Now I see the scum marks
The black residue of a thousand forgotten thoughts.
I throw the empty bottle down
Down into the darkening maelstrom
Of rippling voices, screaming and crying,
Like gulls in the afternoon
When the sun compels the vulnerable to the surface,
And the feeding frenzy begins.
The yellow head of the hummingbird
Is swept up with the shattered glass.
Now, there’s no more emptiness.
Categories:
misbegotten, introspection, lost, lost, yellow,
Form:
Blank verse
THE DEVIL'S WIND-CHIMES
Beneath the dark abyss, in the realm beyond
Hell's blackened gates, a haunting music is played,
It is a sounding's evil of supernatural rhythm, with an
Eerie quality of the ethereal, unleashed unto the underworld,
A tormentor's punishment, to plague the souls of the damned.
But the dark lord, it so calms his malevolence vengeance,
Soothing the savage anger, of the beast within.
Let the devil's wind chimes play on eternally,
If it so pleases the grand dark master, of this unique
Orchestra.
Twinkling gems, dried pieces of organ flesh, covered
In ember light, dried in the everlasting fire's within,
Hardened and smoothed, to expose the elongated faces,
Of the deceased, entombed within.
Thin chains connecting forged links, by sinful acts of the living.
Suspended and hung, are fittings fastened ever tightly,
From the devil's throne room ceiling.
These single slender slices of the undead, remain
As Satan's personal trophies, glittering in the bowels
Of Hell's fire, and sparkle in the twilight hour of midnight.
Clinking, clanking, between the forsaken screaming, and weeping,
As the witches icy winds blow, against the tormented souls trapped
Within the devil's wind-chimes.
No mercy's redemption can save them, or salvation's name given
In vain, for they so belong to the lord of darkness for all eternity.
Oh do the howling children of the night accompany these
Voices, that echo from down below, so sweetly do these
Hell hounds, add another lovely texture, to this melodic
Blood chilling song.
Behold the black hooded maestro, whom waves his baton of power,
Leading this misbegotten orchestra, it is the Grim Reaper himself,
Thus to please and appease, his highness and master.
From down below, what price is to be paid in mortal soul?
Remember this my friend if someone offers you a token's
Promise, that you feel you can't refuse, the sound you've heard
Tonight, for it may be the devil in disguise, wishing to add one
More chime to this his evilest of collections.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
misbegotten, dark, evil, fear, gothic,
Form:
Free verse
Bring me a cup of Java, honey, and put some coffee in the water, will you?...
Whoa there! Bet you can feel the withering sarcasm in that simple phrase...
People, I welcome you to the world of crime novels by James Hadley Chase...
With cryptic titles like I'll Bury My Dead, it's a crime novel befitting even the dead...
The protagonists in every novel, Mr Chase humanized each of them in good stead...
As a crime writer, Mr Chase has no master, or even an equal of his calibre...
Dialogues, suave and cultured or in the low life lingo, is excellence beyond compare...
Most of all, the many believable twists and turns in every one of his crime story...
You'll empathise with the hero and the heroine, and root for them in each story...
What Is Better Than Money is yet another master yarn uniquely spun by Mr Chase...
About how a piano player bidding time tangled with a junky beauty with trilling vocals ....
It is amazing how you will identify with the struggling two bit piano player as he grapples...
With the opportunity of a lifetime to hitch his economic wagon on a less than perfect starlet..
In No Orchids For Miss Blandish, I remember rereading the same book twice over...
To be thrilled and to savour how the master story teller spun the story altogether...
Mind you, I was back then just a little boy, given access to the senior section of the library..
Faced with rows and decks of all kind of books, I was a bewildered boy lost in the library...
Then I spied a rather worn out hard cover book entitled No Orchids for Miss Blandish...
Small in print, yellowed in pages and looked slightly misbegotten, but the title intrigued..
Reaching home, I could not put down the book once I started reading that slim book...
I was thrilled, I was truly engrossed in a fascinating tale of crime found within a book...
Etched in my memory to this day, I recall vividly the awe and the joy in novels by Mr Chase...
Little wonder through the years I often read and reread crime novels spun by Mr Chase...
James Hadley Chase, crime story teller supreme, without any cheap graphic x rated scenes...
He is the ultimate maestro for story characters and crime tales that electrify your senses...
Readers, Mr James Hadley Chase, he's The Man for grippping realistic crime stories....!!!
Categories:
misbegotten, community, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
We are the tintinnabulating trolls
To the rock rock bottom of our nonexistent souls.
Madder than the maddest hatter,
Hear us bellow, bray, and bleat;
And we prattle pitter-patter
In our jabberwocky chatter
To a bumbulating beat.
See us zim zam zoom
As we're going bim bam boom
In an onomatopoeia that so rhythmically rolls.
We're the trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls.
We're the truly tintinnabulating trolls.
We are the tintinnabulating trolls
With our xenophobic hearts lit like black burning coals.
Hate and anger are our teachers
So we squabble, squeal, and squirm.
We are misbegotten creatures—
With the ugliest of features—
Lower than the lowest worm.
In these premises
We're unrivaled nemeses;
And we burrow furrow mindless like some misanthropic moles.
We're the trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls.
We're the truly tintinnabulating trolls.
We are the tintinnabulating trolls
From compassion and goodness we're at opposite poles—
So devoid of any scruples.
On stupidity we feed.
As our villainy quadruples
We're the most attentive pupils
To insatiable greed.
See us bash bing bang.
Hear us clatter clash cling clang
As we crash upon the shallows of malevolented shoals.
We're the trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls.
We're the truly tintinnabulating trolls.
We're the trolls trolls trolls,
The incorrigible trolls.
We're the trolls trolls trolls.
We're the horrigible trolls.
We're the irritating, aggravating, fascinating trolls.
We're the wrangulating, jangulating, strangulating trolls.
We're the trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls trolls.
We're the truly tintinnabulating trolls.
– Harley White
[From my version of “East of the Sun and West of the Moon”]
Categories:
misbegotten, dark, evil, father daughter,
Form:
Rhyme
Embers of Time
As our time dissolves to embers, we reflect on what we have wrought.
Will we even get to Heaven after all the craziness we have sought?
Will our children and theirs’ try to follow in our misbegotten ways?
Or did we help to steer them to a far better and unerring way?
Did we teach them to seek a far better way of life?
Or did we show them the material one, built with so much strife?
Did we teach them to be kind and gentle, yet in faith, to be strong and true?
Did we help them open their hearts to others, or tie them closed, as they view?
Did we show them how to mend a fence, or to trample on everyone else?
Did we lead them on a path to Jesus or steer them away, somewhere else?
We know: as we sow… so shall we reap… but, yet, God is always at hand.
Reach out with an open heart and soul, as before him we always stand.
No one is perfect, so in the end… simply bow before the Great I AM.
In his eyes we were always his, yes… His precious little lambs.
Categories:
misbegotten, faith, forgiveness, god, inspirational,
Form:
Rhyme