Best Runic Poems
Your lover’s drawing straws without you, better bid farewell;
he’d never time for rhyme or reason, so it’s just as well.
Slip out the curtained window quick, the future winks and calls,
ignoring paths of pagan gods, where faulty footsteps fall.
Identify faint flashbacks, cloaked and clustered in a heap
and sort out those you treasure most, you need or long to keep;
Forget about the epoch past, which wasn’t what you’d sought,
pursue instead remaining dreams before they come to naught.
Reflect no more on what it was he’d meant for you,
strike out ahead where something waits, has sent for you.
The graveyard night is haunted still, it hovers where you sleep
recalling souvenirs amassed, the ones that made you weep.
The poets poised in dungeon vaults, now growing old and bald,
retrace their palsied pleas in dust, like those that you once scrawled.
Except for runic proverbs carved on stone walls ill defined,
assumptions will not dog you that you dare to leave behind.
The fortune-tellers waiting at the moat for you
read tarot cards while setting sail a boat for you.
The road behind is empty now, the sky is painted black
so gather all the wisdom gained, no time for looking back.
Forego the prophets’ prophecies, so tempting to pursue -
although they might be asked advice, they seldom have a clue.
Reject the secrets they reveal, enveloped in their guile,
which be betrayed between the tombs in ruins of their smile.
They’re waiting with a fractured rule of thumb for you
while beating on a perforated drum for you.
A sand-glass dribbles distant dunes, the sun dial’s shadow’s late,
so now’s the time for slipping through the open swinging gate.
A joker wild defies the fools to read between the lines
in search of cryptic radiance the future world enshrines -
“the days ahead will wake again like waves before the dawn
when picking up the pieces left behind a passing pawn.”
A noble knight awaits to clear the board for you
when, soon, a cup of nectar wine is poured for you.
Written: December 09, 2023
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Honeyed gold pearled shades
brown ferns and aspens
into shadowed paths
lit embers and oaks
As darkness draws near,
with bowed tears of stark
runic streaks of light
dapple my sky
showing only maze
of black enigmas
crimson, lucid blaze.
leading to plum sky.
Swift shades drape my thirst
like dim-lit daydreams
that persist through time
niggling at my nerves
in sparkling strings of
stern frame blush skyline!
whilst glum chorus swells
in ghostly darkness.
Gloom morphs darned mayhem
veiled cinereal shroud
as she touches me
gazing with sleek sight
hushed tones, wan relics
of laid skyline bleeds
lost in shades of rouge
Onyx oboe chords.
The blaze has withered
oblivion crave.
Pathetic poems are parodies
Chopped and severed from mad trees
Which escape from limb and trunk
Then appear in books as junk
Transplanted in the minds they've fried
Transplanted till their poets have died
Echo in "ruinic" rhyme
That degrade through passing time
Written down as so much clutter
They find their way into the gutter
How hilarious these poems can be
Poems also known as parody
ruinic - a fictitious word derived from runic as obscure and ruin as degraded
- a degraded and obscure rhyme
I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.
A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.
Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.
Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.
Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.
Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.
I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.
Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.
Continued in Part 2
Underneath the stars and moon,
cast the runic stones tonight,
invoke the ancient spirits
with fires lit for magic rite.
We claver with all lost souls,
and cajole in joyful voice
of fiestas for the dead
the year ahead songs rejoice
As the Sun God bids farewell,
in darkness dwells 'til winter's birth,
and light returns in Yule's fete,
celebrate across the Earth.
The besoms sweep the home free
of malignant deeds and thought
upon the dawn of the year
with no fear we start with naught.
So charge the glass, take a drink,
on the brink of old and new
the dead shall dance for awhile
and Samhain smiles upon you.
Jesus in toga or tunic
Wrote notes that use symbols runic
But Trump Musk and Vance
Don loose yoga pants
To hide now each is a eunuch
The runic pattern cast upon the ground,
That calls wandering Celt to journey home,
To sacred lands where mighty kings were crowned,
And there hearts dwell while the feet may roam,
Ancient songs of Mystery once more found.
O Celt, now sing the song within your heart,
And love the fertile lands of Mother Earth,
But leave no lasting scars as you depart,
Protect her well for future love and mirth,
Respect her mortal realms of divine art.
Form: Sicilian Quintains
I am the birth of
an unholy emancipation,
watching dusk settle
upon forbidden shores,
unfolding sinister shadows,
while ravens gather
as harbingers of my arrival.
Tonight I am the seductress,
tempting temptress
of maroon twilight,
a midnight mistress,
scripting stygian sagas,
with ancient runic symbols,
consumed by the
fear they call Lilith.
Once blessed with
purity of lotus light,
I am now sensual suicide,
as darkness bleeds
through my sparkling spirit
into a rustic realm
of demonic drumrolls.
I see through the
ghastly gates of
my perpetrator’s hellish eyes.
I ponder: how can
an angelic silhouette,
a man who walks in
divine rhythm,
be the infernal epitome
of sadistic scriptures?
He's devoted to the
carnal cravings
piercingly echoing
through my heretic heart,
I’ll find his magical melody,
in sensual strokes,
as I stroke his soul
in sheer ecstasy,
engulfed in sinful symphonies.
My bite will plunge like a
bloodstained blade,
as I engrave my
footprints upon his heart,
to seduce his last breath,
but what if he is immune
to my ways, so I panic,
knowing I could become
his sacrificial succubus,
as his poetic trickeries
draw my demonic
nature into a deathless
dawning of decaying roots.
Thus, taming the
beast of gothic blackness
and halting this perpetual
destruction of my mind.
Whispers speak to me…
Gently floating into my still mind…
Guiding me like a beacon to stay on the truth course…
Whispers speak to me…
Ever so softly into my ear, as I sit quietly in silence…
Providing answers to questions of this life…
Whispers speak to me…
Within feelings, allowing them to be; not identifying them as who I am…
Whispers speak to me…
Within that my eyes see…
The subtle glowing of a tree’s life force…
Reminds me we are more than this society…
Whispers speak to me…
Within my energy vibration…
Awakening me from a forgetful sleep…
Uniting my soul to the place that created its beingness…
Whispers speak to me…
Someone gently rolls me over
Onto this white slab, belly down
And I wait ... like forever
Or at least it seems like forever, anyway
Above me is a mirror,
So, I turn my head and strain to see it -
In seeing Runic inscriptions there on my backside,
I try to read them but can't ...
I can't interpret their meaning
Then, this drill of light
Comes and hovers over me.
I flip like a fish out of water
And I'm blinded out of my body
I can remember it now -
I fell into a deep
Strange awareness
That I was being abducted by aliens
Or was coming to in the middle of surgery
I was exposed, naked, and scared out of my wits -
That's when I began to write
And I haven't stopped since ...
How do I acquire a place where I can forgive?
How can I stop blaming myself for my mistakes?
I can't recall the version of "Intrinsic", but it's conflictive,
None can quash them If you can't forgive rattlesnakes.
It's difficult to forgive wrongdoers who won't swage,
It's cruel to excuse inner suffering from a rapist's rage,
It's difficult to grace louts who have killed your family,
Spirits will not retaliate but can whip you clearly.
No, I'm not a saint; failure is not the same as forgiveness.,
That doesn't refer I must trust or favor the chorus,
He seems angel but he throws his seat through the window,
He is tiled with a shabby female tattoo on his elbow.
I felt vulgar, stupid, and useless,
Close to the leech and slimy worm, that's sageness,
Every smile contains a malicious chart, so I lack faith,
I endure on wobbly legs, wiping away tears and scathe.
How can I resist the urge to do things right?
Some people mind me a skeptic. My kids guess I'm bright,
In fact, they suppose I'm an incredible winner,
If they view suffering, it will improve my manner.
No one understands what I endure,
I am not in a position to reveal such rancor,
I'm tired of seeing and living a shabby life,
I wanted a widely used headline in some rife.
The tombs of our ancestors are everywhere,
Earth's soil is the body's dust, walk lento, and care,
The suffering of death is greater than the joy of birth,
O cooing doves bestow to the weeping, some mirth.
Some actions are held liable, but none are shrewd,
Every devout soul has a past, and every deceiver is lewd,
Who can you forgive if not the toughest opponent?
You are fully ungrown with this Atonement.
The blast radius of your grief can harm the soul,
What if the people around you are shown a rays hole?
What if you cling to someone else's roots to be injured?
It all begins with a runic visceral fear of the biohazard.
I select my destiny and discover myself,
Say farewell to my harsh youth with purity and pelf,
Today I saw the opposite of what you taught me,
I also forgive you for everything before I flee.
1st Place Contest Win.
Written: June 25, 2022
Forgiveness Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
Passion or Desire is not pure potential seeking manifestation.
It is the manifestation of Life's flaming sword, runic capital letter of the sacred word.
A spark that has been sparked,
the flint that struck it's mark.
A self illuminated Ray of light piercing the dark.
Of nothingness, it appears or so it seems, but the problem with that is you don't get something from nothing.
So what lifts on it's wing?
Is it the designation retracing its flight?
The deja Vu wizard at the crossroad,
that fights the good fight.
Against Apathy, to help the lost at sea.
Like a lighthouse at night?
Nonetheless, it is indeed of the light
visions designation, interestingly enough, taking flight, as
both path and destination.
The calling, calling the bluff
with no hesitation.
For when the going gets tough.
It is the drastic measures of the spirits measure plumblined sublime.
Subliminally flashing divine coat of arms of a kind.
Adventurer- nurturer- divulger of the sepulchre.
An endless quest fore-treasured as Holy Grail and counted by the heart's ledger like Braille is for the blind.
Of the heart's quill unquelled, determination at its behest, unquenchable fire.
That never fails the test.
Of time and
the germination of seed, against backdrop of dusts.
The Will's litmus test against need.
Activation or bust.
See. It is not potential anything.
It IS everything.
At least it's the best.
For in God We Trust. In deed.
~ Jude Fernando Herrick
The gray bearded wizard in its night blue cloak,
two ravens and a wolf are his recognition flock.
He has the ability to shape shift from the dead,
into animals speaking the language of same is said.
In midwinter nights he is leading a furious host called Wotan,
occupying ritual haunted burial cemeteries of man.
Legends proclaiming Odin’s procurement and decision.
giving his eyes to the underworld to gain mystical vision.
Laying with giantess and guarding the mead of inspiration,
teaching them the runes rock interpretation.
He paradoxical sacrifices himself suspended in a tree,
grasping from its roots transcendent secrets to see.
The seeds of the world tree itself crystallized,
giving those revelation when health is devitalized.
Wondrous feats of magic from the seat of the chanter,
divinations and prophesies by the runes enchanter.
The runic lore considered as sturdy essence,
pervading the field of divine consciousness .
The invisible soul of the world and its spirit breath,
the deep azure of infinite space and no death.
Embodying prana extended psyche,
divine madness by which magic is the high key.
Odin’s mind in humanity with godly revelation,
bringing fort the wisdom from Woden’s Wain constellation.
The hooded lord and animal whisperer of good right,
mighty Odin reveals the transcendent second sight.
Whisper secrets rune stone tell and knowledge to desire,
timeless runic myths through eternal ice and fire.
Winters moon called to the dark
Silver light shining
down on her
Bride to be, crafted with magics embrace
Runic lines emblazoned
under the stars
No warmth to be found in the cold
Glistening lips of shining
metals icy touch
Bare and naked before the fire of the forge
Burning desire to touch once more
my silver bride
(Inspired by the song "Silver Bride" By the band "Amorphis" Album: "Skyforger"
Oh Queen of night, thou art my dreams,
In dreams Lady of Death I see,
I see thy light to calm my screams,
My screams for thee to be with me.
The lily white of palest skin,
Inside my skin, my heart beats wild,
On wildest night I call thee in,
Deep within I become thy child.
Thy silver eyes reflect the moon,
The violet moon that haunts my soul,
O’er my soul marked by ancient rune,
This runic night my Queen shall stroll.
O Goddess of the dark divine
The divine flame that lights the night,
This night embrace my heart with thine
For thine is this, my sacred rite.
For thou art all before my eyes,
The eyes that trust your secrets shown,
Dark Mother show thy child the highs,
The wondrous highs before thy throne.
Form: Wreathed Quatrains