Best Post Apocalyptic Poems
As Pharoah thought
Deep thoughts on Thoth,
He became serious
And thought of Osiris.
What of Seth?
What do Anubis and Horus sayeth?
Of Amun and Mut,
And panoplied Nut?
It may take me forever
Mused the Pharoah -
To invent the Alphabet
To honour me and the rest.
So he hit upon a plan
From the carved likeness of man
In relief on a cliff.
Hey, hello - was born the Hieroglyph!
So excited was the Pharaoh
That row upon row
Of ideograms were made
For then and beyond- never to fade.
Way back in Antiquity
Was the hieroglyph's nativity,
From civilization's start
Great works of art.
After five millennia or more
At a light and sound show
The Hieroglyphs stand out
In splendor and shout:
Look on and wonder
On our days of thunder;
When great kings ruled the land
Where you wonder and stand.
Great things we'd tell you
If only you knew
To read papyrus and stone
Like your own Champollion!
Be that as it may
Setting aside our dismay
We venture to now and here
And our version of the ancient fear -
Athazagoraphobic
Is a form of being sick
Where you fear you'll be forgotten
As your memory gets rotten.
To overcome this fear
Modern science was here.
Came our Dennis Gabor
With the fruit of his labor.
- Hologram-
Now you can see light effects
Both form and the texts
With science of the day
Having had it's great say.
But think all over again-
Isn't it plain
Holograms in chips
Are but chipped hieroglyphs?
That some day in future
A post-apocalyptic preacher
Would try to decipher
The hologrammatic cipher?
A Rosetta Stone of old
A better story told
Than this obsolescent chip
Of a "modern" Athazagoraphobic.
Let me wind up this ditty
Of trying to be witty
Holograms and Hieroglyphs
Are both alliterative scripts!
~11 April 2016~
Contest Judged : 29 May 2016
A post-apocalyptic society shrunk from socialism at its worst,
Whence a wicked mechanical catastrophe confounded in us a curse.
The year was 3001 where what is has yet to be,
A thousand years ahead of us with horrid technology.
Each fetus is frozen beneath blue flames whose fuel,
Burns beneath the dissected ice as it melts and drools.
For a surgeon installs into the future infant,
A chip to ensure it is socially sufficient.
For in this year of 3001 all humans are programmed to be isometric,
With a neural net that shocks the brain when the body is asymmetric.
Now the year’s 3018, a boy of age eighteen,
Plays a game of sport upon a well-mowed green.
His body is lean and mind is sharp and better than the rest,
And has within him the strongest heart inside his broadened chest.
But when he’s better his neural net gives him a sudden shock,
To prevent competition between his peers and maintain perpetual deadlock.
A ballerina of the boy’s same year flutters on the stage,
With grace that grants her an upper hand against young ladies of her age.
But when she seems more perfect than the other girls she knows,
Her neural net gives a sudden shock to prevent a stolen show.
Little do these children know they’re made to be the same,
By those who govern with technology as if life were but a game.
Submitted for the contest “Science Fiction” sponsored by Deborah Guenther Beachboard
Future
Sentimental memories;
Dreams of yesterday.
Wishing for a better opportunity,
To somehow change our ways.
This is our life, our time, our day;
Seize it with both hands,
Because today will soon become a by-gone age
And you will not be given a second chance.
I recall the future, because history repeats itself;
We sit on our own hands and we have no soul left to sell.
Forward into the future, your destination is unknown;
Who are we that we could make a difference, when we are all alone?
The present does not exist, because now is always then;
The present has already gone to become the past.
Inside a split second, we are taken into the future once again
And everything we think we had, I guess we never had.
I see your future on fire burning away in front of you,
As the past is constantly fading away.
Who are you to think you can see further than they claim to?
A post-apocalyptic nuclear future;
This is all I can see and I have nothing more to say.
It is coming like a wrecking ball,
Heading straight for your door;
Your future is on its way so you had better face it head on, or…
It will hit you like you are a baseball and knock you out the park;
We are all blind as to what is to come and we are all lost in the dark.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Has Granny gone batty?
She tells us of love,
Of flowers and trees
And a thing called a ‘dove’.
But none of these things exist now today,
Since the world heated up
And the lakes turned to clay.
The deserts are barren
Around our estate,
It’s a fight for survival,
A fight against fate.
We hear England’s legends
Of a pleasant green land
But the truth that we’ve known
Is just mountains of sand.
It is said it was greed,
A disdain for the Earth,
That robbed this poor planet
Of its greatness and worth.
We hear these old stories
And yearn for those days
Where living was easy
Beneath the Sun’s rays,
We starve now and bake
If we venture outside
And they claim again oxygen
Prices will rise.
We fight for survival,
We fight just to live,
We fight and we fight,
There’s no love left to give.
Perhaps Granny is batty
With the things that she tells
Through a longing for legend
Of fresh water wells.
Or perhaps it’s a memory
That she holds so dear;
Yes – I see now the truth
In her lone dusty tear.
Through putrid post apocalyptic wastelands
I wander gun in hand
prepared to annihilate those critters
who dare to cross my path
then I press the pause button
and sip from my china cup
thankful that life isn't like
my console reality
whilst I flick through the channels
on my flatscreen TV
Game break over
back to fighting bad guys
in a pixelated land
I let off a round
a-tat-a-tat-tat
It kind of looks familiar
like an item on the news
but I know my mind's just playing tricks
Real life is bliss
(Idea engendered from Lombok earthquake: Indonesia)
Nary a chink of illumination pierces thru
thick cavernous rock solid chamber home
to this crepuscular anchorite,
who spent untold countless chunks of time
holed up deep underground
initially to escape deadly blight,
that afflicted vast swaths of
twenty first century
long fostered civilization,
the post apocalyptic scattered remnants
forced into subterranean redoubts
reliant on stowed away tallow
uber wax to forge poorly guided
niggardly flickering burning candlelight
where quotidian ritual entails doth dight
this Jainist Joplin ascetic, who
already donned the mantle,
sans adjustment to darkened eyesight
imposing keen aural habituation
to discern, and distinguish any fright
full scurrying, skittering,
slithering, unseen presence
triggering thine nostril to sneeze,
which nasal (gesundheit) claxon
serves to scarify shadowy silhouetted height
giving infinitesimal pause,
thence worry free insight
since my judicious jumbled
juxtaposed metaphorical jacklight
philosophies, viz Jainism, Jesuit,
and Judeo-Christian allows
no cavil, indiscriminate killing,
nor *****sapien superiority
toward multitudinous life forms instilled
into former existence as good Samson Knight,
now effectivel embedded,
entombed, and interred
within bowels of the Earth
hum canticle refrains
softly enunciating such psalms
to eternal night.
By Kevin Robey
February 24, 2013
This was my shield, now covered in rust
Laying in this dying field, collecting dust
Once it shined, and guarded my soul
Repelled the evil, from demons and trolls
I put down my shield for you it’s true
I freed my hands, so I could catch you
With open palms and steady arms
I fought to protect you from any harm
But it never happened, you never fell
I was not to save you, from your hell
I thought the demons, with grips too tight
That kept you from me, try as you might
Sadly I realized, this wasn’t true
You weren’t captive, the demon was you
I grabbed your hand, my skin burned black
Scarred head to toe, my soul taken back
Hollow and numb, I felt nothing from then on
I was too broken to even sing a sad song
I hurt myself to help cushion the fall
Just to feel something, anything at all
To my dismay, numbness ensued
I couldn’t stop thinking of you
So the war waged on, in my heart and soul
I fear my heart will never again be whole
There may not be hope, for someone like me
For whom death is the one way to be free
But I soldier on looking for that perfect song
To express what I’ve been feeling all along
Songs are brave things, courageous to embark
On bleak roads with no silver lining, no end to the dark
Stories demand endings, often happy ones
I’ll never have a story, when all’s said and done
I look to my shield, recall the warrior I used to be
But you took my fight, left my bones soft and weary
It’s all the same, for the battle has left this field
A place where long ago, I put down my shield
I turn away, and leave this hollow city of bones
With no weapons or shield, into endless unknowns
Down war torn roads from post-apocalyptic dreams
The skies forever grey, these are my new realities
This was my shield, now covered in rust
Lays next to my heart, now collecting dust
I’ll cover these tattoos and gaping wounds
Hoping to stave off my awaiting tomb
I venture into the abyss, never to be seen again…
[originally started writing this in a hotel in Alabama in 2012]
I'm in love with my post apocalyptic silence
I'm in lust with my darkless absence of violence
My island
My sun
Mind on the run
Nightfall is storm before the calm
The roof crumbles
The outside screams blood
My thoughts mutilated
So kiss my bleeding mind
And beat my stopping heart
Hold my love till daylight comes
For I never discovered you through the dark
You hit hard, you rape my heart
Till softly we do part.
Generating a ring
of bright waters, which
currently meanders, ponders,
and then streams - twitch
ching reflexively as flora
and fauna lap rich
text chard liquid
timelessly streaming, rippling,
and quivering pitch
sure risk gully confidently
babbling, bobbing, bubbling,
burbling loch a king
dominating his rill small niche
wade ding in the wings,
one doth espy, (sans oxbow lake)
analogous to an err
river rent sea sunned bay sic
wide whirled, whetted, webbed itch
perhaps berthed as a cripple creek,
and/or survivor of a kill
ling, which ordinary
happenstance attempts
to anthropomorphize
life giving resource hitch
ching various synonyms for water,
where sustenance to biosphere
can become flushed out
vis a vis via an ecological glitch
which dry dystopian scenario,
within the realm
of human activities circumstance
leaving most animals plants awash
bay sic lee lurching,
gasping, and choking
within an immense oceanic ditch
availing an alien landscape
awash with post apocalyptic
desiccated global cribbage
match, where the losing hand
would be a real ,
thus summarily, punctiliously, and merrily
describes the edifying whirlpool
life sike kill
where countless marine species will flounder
(literally like a fish out of water)
viz deadened ghyll.
they say i'm mad cynical , im down for the pentacle. all i see is you me, spiritually we've come to be .. different in so many aspects, that i expect, that you regret, you had the stones to make the step, that you now accept .. an eagles eye drops deep inside, and if you follow the tunnel ,you'll find your mind. nestled next to your sanity,insanity, post apocalyptic visions of the cryptic mystics, please regress they ramble there jaws as you battle your cause... they message your arteries ,as you fight to breath, taking everything ,take could, would, and should be.
am tryna formulate some lines
Since you told me that u aint gonna be mine,
You got my heart with a feelings that i cannot
define,
Love and live is all i have i in my mind
I love u do i need to say this in vernacular
Bany it hurts to separate doubles and make
em singular
I love u since u were a morula
Look now u hit me hard and made me look
like a dracular.
Baby u make me speak in mixed up tenses
Making me act as if am out of my senses
Our love now seems like a post apocalyptic
horror flcik
is this poetry?
ee cummings
darnit
they had time
to think of metaphor, allegory, imagery, rhythm, rhyme meter
I don't have time
this is poetry
of the apocalypse
poetry of the end
I don't have the time
lost at the end of time
at the end of property
wherefore art thou time
wherefore art tho anything
everything is going
therefore time to begin anew
time to wipe this slate clean
get that eraser
wipe wipe wipe wipe
dust of corruption
choking us
choking thoughts
choking creativity
choking emotions
transferring to rage
ptsd syndrome
afraid to leave my house
afraid to go to the store
afraid to go to the gym
21st century
post-apocalyptic
insanity.
FELINES
She enters into the bedroom in the dark,
After a secret take-out in the park,
Was it a mouse, a bird a lizard or a rat,
One of these she caught and ate,
That’s a fact!
She sleeps all day and hunts at night,
And what a pleasure when the moon
Is bright!
Our kitty cat silently preens,
And thoroughly cleans,
The tale-tale bright red blood
From her lips,
As she looks forward to her
Human mummy, feeding
Her cat nips!
She creeps up and onto
The duvet with silent paws,
And kneads a comfortable place
With her half retracted claws!
These cute furry cats have captured
Our hearts and our homes,
Cute, delicate, cuddly cats,
Who have small but strong bones!
Like to leap and bound
And do us astound
As for sure, they will land on
All fours with such flair
I do declare!
And if they occasionally don’t,
And lose one life out of nine,
Who cares, not them, all they do
Is think on what they
Will tonight dine!
All cats like to climb,
But coming back down takes skill,
And quite some time,
Many a fireman has broken a limb,
That’s re-known,
Trying to get our treasured
Kitty cat down,
From a tree,
And the service is free!
Anthropologists have dug reported and
Found,
That our furry family’s origin has been
Around,
For millions of years.
And these domestic cats which we uphold
As such dears,
Belong to the wild as much as to us.
They have a majestic look of grace,
Whether wild or domestic have a
Look alike face,
Which is part of their charm,
But believe you me, if cornered,
Will cause harm!
If there were no humans left alive,
Cats would certainly still survive,
They are independent and although
They enjoy eating our food,
It is understood,
That they could live in a post-apocalyptic
World,
That might sound a little macabre and
Somewhat absurd,
We don’t have to be here,
Forever, year after year,
So all cats might live one day in a
Complete new civilization,
As generation after generation,
We pollute our atmosphere
And face extermination!
In a world filled with despair
The smell of fear fills the air
The world we once knew is far gone
Debris from the blast litters every lawn
They forced us all underground
Advising us not to make a sound
We once lived the days through
But they wanted something new
A world with no war
That of which they swore
The world we lived in would soon be great
We thought of this not knowing our fate
We walk along the only street
The others are obsolete
The bunker collapsed in on itself
As if it was a broken shelf
With nothing left to give
We ask ourselves if we should still live
Storm
Black and gray mountains devour the sun
churning and yearning to unleash their rage
deafening roars bring forth their blinding fire
with a volcanic burst of hail and rain
as if they're striving for maximum pain
deliver their deluge onto the land
like a post-apocalyptic hellscape
was always their diabolical plan
that, along with the total destruction of man