Best Scepticism Poems
There's an obscurity on the threads of darkness
dare I peer beneath the starless shroud of midnight's veil
as I walk through the misty breath that beclouds my vision
in hopes it leads me to the temple of your soul? My dearest
my comfort is there, yet I feel a quivering in the flames
beneath these gusts that prevail through inaudible voices falling
winded in the distance where these shadows walk between us
I feel discernment in memories as these bony fingers reach out
my heart shudders beneath the orchestra of night as it beckons
a samba from the angel of death as it spans its wings before me
I shiver breathless in its cold as the flames grow dimmer
yet this time love, I fear for you as dissolution ascends above me
Muddled mind ventures through vivid vales of scepticism.
Slowly subsiding to my knees under the shadow of moonlight,
crows gathers as helpless hands clench decomposing soil.
Sapless lips gasp for oxygen, shivering in illusory mistiness.
Death's harbinger stands before me, an uninvited hooded eclipse,
holding me prisoner, strangling my soul with naked tree tendrils.
In silent steps he walks towards me, I have no will left to fight.
He has no mercy, content on me kissing the mouth of the earth.
Words hidden behind metaphors, surface upon shores of regret,
flashbacks are like daggers, reminders of unspoken, unwritten words.
My love mourn for me not, as I fall into the graveyards of poets,
in death we still connect, as my words will always live through you.
Silent One collaboration with Sandra Adams
13 October 2019
Categories:
scepticism, analogy, death, lost,
Form:
Free verse
There's an obscurity on the threads of darkness
dare I peer beneath the starless shroud of midnight's veil
as I walk through the misty breath that beclouds my vision
in hopes it leads me to the temple of your soul? My dearest
my comfort is there, yet I feel a quivering in the flames
beneath these gusts that prevail through inaudible voices falling
winded in the distance where these shadows walk between us
I feel discernment in memories as these bony fingers reach out
my heart shudders beneath the orchestra of night as it beckons
a samba from the angel of death as it spans its wings before me
I shiver breathless in its cold as the flames grow dimmer
yet this time love, I fear for you as dissolution ascends above me
Muddled mind ventures through vivid vales of scepticism.
Slowly subsiding to my knees under the shadow of moonlight,
crows gathers as helpless hands clench decomposing soil.
Sapless lips gasp for oxygen, shivering in illusory mistiness.
Death's harbinger stands before me, an uninvited hooded eclipse,
holding me prisoner, strangling my soul with naked tree tendrils.
In silent steps he walks towards me, I have no will left to fight.
He has no mercy, content on me kissing the mouth of the earth.
Words hidden behind metaphors, surface upon shores of regret,
flashbacks are like daggers, reminders of unspoken, unwritten words.
My love mourn for me not, as I fall into the graveyards of poets,
in death we still connect, as my words will always live through you.
A Collaboration with Silent One~
Categories:
scepticism, death,
Form:
Free verse
WHAT IF?
What if you were the brightest star on the solstice night
Would you feel antagonism from the sparkling maze?
Or would Love dismiss uncertainty to the query you raise
What if you were the softest snowflake gentling drifting down
Hearing the soft gasp of exhilaration from Mother Earth
with all ephemeral scepticism gone
Would you be part of Love's united sound?
Hearts submerged in Love do still entreat
He loves me. He loves me not
What if you were the last petal left?
In a quandarous quagmire of uncertainty, you feel
Would you experience a sense of reprieve or a sense of defeat?
What if you were the most vital branch of an old Oak tree
Gentling cradling a nest ever so sweet
Would you also feel the Love of parenthood
from the first baby tweet?
What if you were a rock lost for words
With Love cleansing you of earthly weight
from a stream's soft gush?
Would you abandon attachments with a tasteful rush?
Feel in the sweet imprint of its absence, a comforting hush?
What if you were the gentlest breeze that whispered and sighed
Would you be a transient carrier of Love of a different kind?
As the year draws her curtains at midnight's call
What if you were that very last resolution you stall?
When Love has found emotion in your daily inspirations
The Rhyme to your Reason in Love's inspired aspirations
What if the year ahead is all you've got
Wouldn't you give it your very best shot?
What if I could convince you to a mindset change?
In a transitional challenge to rearrange
words from…
'What If'~ to, 'I Will'.
MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ONE AND ALL
AND A WONDERFUL 2024 AND BEYOND
Categories:
scepticism, change, courage,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Some days poetry flows
sometimes it is just words.
In the final spring - a poet
yearned for an immaculate blossom,
for his fingertips to bring a painting into life - to
meticulously cultivate and craft a masterpiece.
I recall an opal oasis full of pearl petals,
glittering with rows of diamond orchids,
citrine marigolds, moonstone lotuses,
and garnet roses surrounded by
amethyst lavender and sapphire bluebells.
craving for his mastery.
In a distant meadow,
consumed with faithless flock
grazing dead leaves -
there you bloomed from bronze roots,
an enchanting flower held by an emerald sepal.
In your flattery,
he became a willing devotee,
seduced by the scent of your paradisiacal petals.
But in your admiration he neglected
his selfless blooms,
unaware of wicked weeds
wandering in eidolic fields.
At sunset he would mirror the stars
and follow you like fireflies at midnight,
Serenade you with mystical lullabies,
evoking a sense of serenity,
but in the deception of dawn
you prioritised the sun,
over his soothing moonlight,
so you wilted, withering,
dripping in dewdrops.
In your servitude,
he placed you in the
greenhouse of his heart,
to protect you from the arrival of autumn,
but gaslighting gardeners,
sliced all of his intimate stems,
allowing satanic rain
to poison your spirit.
In the darkness, which dilates his eyes,
the pain still penetrates like a bitter blade
and he has become a forgotten gardener,
with dead seeds of scepticism
sowed into his soul.
Categories:
scepticism, analogy, betrayal, heartbreak,
Form:
Free verse
Times such as these test body soul and mind
So should our thoughts be pain and dark confined
Or loosed to concentrate on brighter things
Like furry puppies, flowers and girls on swings
In this bright morning sun as I roved out
Past village houses waking to their day
With little gardens, blossoms all about
As all across this England’s pleasant brae
In scepticism native to my heart
With self restraint on humour that’s sardonic
Ever seeking inspiration to my art
I crossed heath margin gloomy and achromic
Then onward later passing black swamp marsh
Of putrid mud and roots round dead stumps curled
As sunlight penetrated tree top arch
I found myself in new and magic world
Tread higher then, along the wooded track
The earth grew ever brighter to my eye
The canopy now thin, then folded back
Til nothing seemed above me, only sky
A single buzzard circled in the blue
Then as my eye adjusted, were revealed
Another, then Red Kites made patterns
new
With searching eyes they scanned the sunlit field
In echelon of helix high then higher
More birds soared in great three dimensioned bowl
In choreographed flight dance; did they require
Direction by divine traffic control?
All Carnivores! life based upon life cycle
Thus nature’s way is seen in rhythm born
Seasons and the land each follow pattern tidal
(These barrows once stood bare in sand dune form)
In crisis deep we face a time of trial
Could nature’s message give a way to vow
Whether raged against or treating with denial
All cycles shall complete; as then - so now
25 March 2020
Categories:
scepticism, nature,
Form:
Verse
Sponsored by: Silent One
If this was the last
___________________
| If this was the last_goodbye |
But, what if this was the last time I cried,
Don't want to be hidden behind lying scrys.
The world forgotten on their prying device,
Humanity alone algorithmic thrice.
Heaven on you shoulder beckons you home,
Mirror-sucking marrow through soulless domes.
But, what if this is the last chance to thrive,
Society nullified blue tick uprise.
Locate my strength to become whole again,
Discharge into the torrent of play-pretend.
Am I willing to wonder the outdoors,
Bleak scepticism plaguing putrid drawbacks flaws
Pick up, put down, conscious cyber remorse,
No better a junky and their driving force.
But, what if this is the last time I lie,
Unsubscribe, double-click, shut device; goodbye.
Categories:
scepticism, allusion, anxiety, conflict, culture,
Form:
Rhyme
Where’s the stage set to dance today,
upon which nodes within will sway,
to the rhythm of bliss magnetism,
making light of life as they play?
As God’s light ignites body prism,
we discard each and every ism,
by vaporising lower mind,
ending our ego’s scepticism.
In staid stillness, divine aligned,
truth of who we are is divined,
which simply is, we’re living light,
so we become loving and kind.
Having being bestowed clear sight,
no longer fearful seems the night,
thus merging with the vibrant void,
we shine like a star, white and bright.
Categories:
scepticism, spiritual,
Form:
Rubaiyat
My mother had a treasured ornament
A big brown shire horse
To the mind of a ten year old
This was a toy of course .
It was a steed for my action figures
A target for my toy gun
It carried cavalry and Indians
Giving me hours of fun.
One day whilst playing with my plastic bow and arrow
I knocked the shire horse from the table
Two pieces broken from its mane
But superglue held them stable.
I never told a living soul
I was never asked, So I never lied
and my mother polished that horse every day
Right up until the day she died.
Last night at my mates house
He and his wife were entertaining a fortune telling friend
What she had to say to me
Made the hairs on my neck stand on end
I think all that stuff is utter rubbish
and I got up to leave
When the lady asked me why
I said, I'm afraid I don't believe .
I said goodbye to all my friends
Then I turned to go
The medium/fortune teller
Told me there was something I should know
She understood I was a sceptic
So I must leave of course
but I should know my mum had forgiven me
For breaking her shire horse.
No one but me knew about that horse
I have kept it secret for so long
This morning my scepticism about fortune tellers
Is still there but not quite so strong
As I've said I broke that shire horse
So many years ago
I never told a living soul
So how did that fortune teller know ?
Categories:
scepticism, mystery, mum,
Form:
Light Verse
"The Janus Sacrifice"
Janus
opens and closes
the ebbing time
greeted by
two faces
justice
on a coin
flipped
betrayal
loyalty
scepticism
trust
belief
disbelief
truth appears
through
those eyes
walk-ins
two mirror images
stand in judgement
like night and day
light and dark
leaping priests
embedded in the helix
of all of us
rationality and
the illusion of choice
free trials
to taste credence
a final meal
tokens waiting on a table
unconsecrated before a
sacrifice
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Ianus
doorway
Patultius
the Opener
Iancus
the Gatekeeper
Ianitos
keeping track of time
Categories:
scepticism, journey, muse, mystery,
Form:
Narrative
Distressed, I attest,
Like not blessed,
A voice in my head,
Said out of bed,
So I was led to
A quiet church,
As owls sang out,
Midnight gone tombs,
And my tears appeared,
Death beckoned long
finger nails of distraction,
And so I gazed upon an open Abbey, with folk awake that caused a shake, God botherers with likely guitars, a melange of niceness where only grief was sat. So I drifted in, hiding behind tissues
of my own life lies, and sat prepared to run, quite prepared and scared, from that worse than death, the well meaning Christian. Then as I sank into the pews, staring up from rotten shoes, my woes, my blues, I saw floating in midair, a man, with dark blooded hair, and I knew then I was crazy within my distress, not blessed. But as that thought, which came to nought, crossed my elitist demeanour, I shared everything he felt, and at that moment, beyond compare, exquisite agony my problems became less than my being, now seeing Christ. Never one to take miraculous moments without scepticism, I stood disbelieving, a rescued Thomas who had seen, unseeing, still unbelieving.
So I walked with much chagrin
towards the font my eyes had
seen, to find rational reasons,
A reflection, some explanation,
for why of all people this soul
of mine, might be saved by
one whose face I had denied
for so long, that no song could
ever write my wrongs, and there
in a Pentecostal moment, I
gained insight into the wind
that came at night, where no
delight was held for me,
an agnostic changed now for
all eternity. A man unworthy
of that name, came to faith,
kicking, screaming at how
unfair, it was to find that God
was really there, and worse,
so much worse, he knew my
name, and despite my attempts,
cared enough to save my day.
@Andrew Carnegie, Bessay Lighthouse, 28th December 2016. A true story.
If you would like to know a bit about me and my poetry please click this link below:
https://youtu.be/Ic_V7aX4xbk
Categories:
scepticism, christian, death, faith, gospel,
Form:
Concrete
Spiritualist is what I’m not:
Trusting forces nonspecific.
For scepticism is my lot:
Anti guff non-scientific.
Categories:
scepticism, assonance, magic, science, truth,
Form:
Rhyme
I once had an office job sitting next to Miss Sunshine day in and day out. She and her 7th Day Adventist Jesus were always so positive and jolly about everything, it was hard not to smack her.
One day with syrupy sweet intonation she asked why I was so cynical and wasn't I an unhappy person.
I said, "Only a sociopath could be happy about the truth of things, but I'm just a realistic observer not hiding behind cheerful nonsense; there's no correlation to happy or unhappy. Look at you for instance. You are smiling and upbeat all the time. And I don't believe I've ever met an unhappier person."
She was stunned, momentarily silent, mouth hanging open. Then she burst into terrible wracking sobs of anguish.
Categories:
scepticism, depression, happiness, humor, religion,
Form:
Prose Poetry
The huddled elite of Europe were in an unprepossessing state
as pouring rain was damping their hopes for their future reign.
These were the best: brilliant, beautiful and young that we oldies
can attest. Their see through plastic macs reprising our youth on
a visit to the not groovy Leningrad where to the Russian young our
cheap copies of this attire were what the youth we met wanted to
acquire now it is St. Petersburg so rich and so chic that makes us want to tweet in awe.
In the bus shelter it was all helter-skelter, the EU's young elite showed
off their confidence in several ways: laughing and giggling, animatedly
talking amongst themselves, then they and we encouraged no Tower
of Babel because they all spoke uber English and damn it seemed so able too.
Some of us quipped the best with them showing that if they can speak our lingo
we would gently tease them in (mock?) envy: they retaliated by taking photos of
us together doing a Mexican wave (surely - well before their time) so history in both
the Yankee and Brit sense of the term learned by them and re-remembered by us.
We left them to catch our coach - leaving them their unknown futures that events will not
turn them into cynics even if grow a healthy scepticism of all isms - including this one -
that comes with age. We sighs - that their positive ideals will not be confounded and their
their hypnotic energy will not lead to a too leathery lethargy as they begin their voyage as
trainee advisers to the government of one of Europe's most tolerant and richest states.
Categories:
scepticism, youth,
Form:
Free verse
I write nonsense
I write nonsense, just silly nonsense,
Yet if you look deeper within the lines,
Sometimes, Just Sometimes,
It’s a statement of modern times.
Touches of Irony and scepticism,
You will find in subliminal verse.
But do not take it to seriously,
Even if it sounds a little terse.
I often write when I’m happy,
and occasionally when feeling tense.
But most of all, I just pen for fun,
I write nonsense, just silly nonsense.
Kevin Shaw 28/8/17
Categories:
scepticism, environment, feelings, how i
Form:
Rhyme
So fragile life and human conscious,
Mindful wander, erratic, of untold purpose,
Bringing shadowy foreboding,
To the depths of our spirit; a dangerous curse.
Tragedy is looming, catch your breath,
Two tonnes of weight upon the chest,
Pascal afflicts my senses, my head,
Silence scares and gravity flares: there can be no rest.
The toll hangs nigh, have you danced well?
Prior scepticism now awash with certainty,
Pray thee Lord, forgive me, I hear the bell,
Through my life I’ve been good, with mere lack of piety.
Alas, a break, judgement saved,
Fever unmasked, the evil plot twists,
From deepest despair, a way is paved,
Take control once more with clenched fists.
This fight over, prepare but not await the next,
Be strong, be happy, have faith, son,
Do not fear thought, health, nor text,
Then body, mind and soul may realign as one.
Categories:
scepticism, healthlife,
Form: