Best Sepulchral Poems
Winter’s cold chill cuts through my chin.
Within its bleak and brazen embrace,
My brisk days are turned brief and barren.
They are lengthened into sordid sepulchral insomniac nights.
I slither and slip and am hurled into hibernation.
Once I stood with you immune to wanton winter’s wild whiplash.
You wrapped me warm from the wrath of winter’s whirlwind.
Our life moved in homogeneous harmony.
With one glaring glance from you, my heart hummed halcyon tunes.
I danced blissfully in tandem to your sweet soulful songs.
Your luminous, lambent light shone brightly,
Blazing the dark and desolate caves and crevices within me.
Now I stand and stay rooted like the trunk of a leafless tree,
Giving no shelter or shade to anyone.
With despondent dread and disappointment,
I watch the sap and serum in me going dry,
And the feathers on my wings wilt and wither like dead leaves.
With the flaming fire put out, winter has brashly barged into my life.
My lips once so eloquent now have fallen still and silent.
All the words I have carefully gleaned and garnered,
Have slipped and slid into a bottomless abyss, never to be heard again.
My lulling lyrics are replaced with the reverberating refrains of a lament.
An icy crystallization is speedily spreading,
Through my sentient soul like an ache, I have never known.
Grey cumulus clouds of pain have rolled into steal,
All light, luster and luminosity from my bright sky.
Now my world has cracked and crumbled into a bleak void of grey.
I twitch and tremble in cold as you have withdrawn your warmth.
A late realization has now daringly dawned outside my door.
I am not to perish and putrefy in this cold,
But be dauntless and dashing to fight, thaw and tread my way,
Battle the intense cold in flaming, flaring fires.
After every frosty and freezing winter, other seasons will arrive .
Summer is an inviolable and unassailable power within,
And in its warmth I can vanquish the chilling cold.
I shall wake up with a syrupy sweet song in my lips
And find myself in the luminous light of a dawning day!
Now that I'm not your beloved,
and you're no longer my loyal lover,
I've scribbled a graffiti of butterflies
upon a velvet catafalque,
where the headstone resembles our memories -
such is the fragility of an accursed affinity.
In this embalmment of emotions,
the heart beats like a funeral drum.
A repeating, reverberating requiem,
echoing in a sepulchral serenade -
a grieving gospel, slowly and softly,
soothing sorrows.
When waterfalls with spirits of sincerity,
fail to douse a smoky soul of embers -
only rampikes of ruin remain.
In the mirage of your promise of foreverness,
only obsidian roses bloom in a midnight mind,
absent of the blessings from light.
I gaze at dead leaves under fading stars,
whilst a new sunrise mentors your heart.
Our last paragraph,
recites like an autopsy record.
The muse is reluctant to write,
but I've memorised your metaphors,
that once confused the flock,
and bemused the 'beautiful ones.'
We were a vowel and a consonant,
unable to form a poetic word,
so shadows hide beneath my tongue,
grinding in the silence.
Remember when you begged to
"flirt with my demons,"
enticing me into the labyrinth of Lilith's lair,
and in my innocence,
the illusion of intimacy and infatuation,
became as destructive as Satanic symphonies.
The heart has no need
for the stolen Koh-I-Noor.
For, I'm content with an empty treasure chest,
seeking a vocabulary of love,
without an obsession for words,
where poetry is not a confession,
and Voltaire vows
give birth to virtuous devotion.
THE GATE OF DEATH
I will shut my gate; and no man can open it.
And if I open it; all men shall come in once because of hunger in their world.
The bodies that entered me daily is unbearable.
The entrance of my gate has been battered.
Come with your money; ye affluence that desire my beautiful gate.
The weeping voices , blood stain of the innocents and the curses that follow some death into my gates; Scared me.
I am only an entrance for your journey and not comforter of the bereaved.
I lift up my gates, for evil souls to enter without security check on them, yet they refused to enter.
They are waiting to snoop –on my gate; in my gate no detective enters and return.
The imagination of hell kept many souls from dying,
The gate of death where only the dead in Christ dances for eternity.
My entrance is a sepulcher of peace for those that come in full age and lived rightly.
Gate of death where entrance is optional.
The faces of sepulchral, gloomy and somber tone voices of farewell never seize.
Foot prints of the dead has broken my gate.
But the architectural splendor of my gate which split personalities;
Whenever they come in contact,
I will shut my gate against unhappy faces; and corpses will walk freely with the living until the time appointed.
Written by
Pastor Emmanuel Brown Omojevwe
Written on: 4th and 5th April 2012.
by : sashi.prabhu
The beaten path seems sinewy lean but somnolently long,
In my life’s journey, forgot to whiff sweet fragrance flowers beside these paths as I walked along.
But I have reconciled and solemnly pledge not to ever repent,
nor Cry or weep over my life’s time aimlessly spent
Will strive tirelessly to work on creative pursuits,
To those conniving rascals standing beside my life’s pathway care two hoots.
On my gifts talents and skills focus and resolve,
My heart and mind deeply involve and take myself to the next level and I profoundly evolve.
Life it has begun to seem to me now very much brighter,
My body, mind and heart they all feel joyous nimble and lighter.
Have changed myself like the astute breeze,
Harmoniously and with simplicity have begun to live my life with ease.
Now, I seek inward courage to emphatically say,
Looking into their mind’s eyes “please make way”.
I have got stuff to do and keep life’s somber and sepulchral processes at bay,
My desire now to change is ever firmer than my wish the same to stay.
Now I have made up my mind to let them know the truth,
I really would not bother if I shatter their “illusions” and sound terribly uncouth………….
I am not what happens to me
I am what I choose to be…
I am me………
M FOR ME
By: Sashi Prabhu (zeauoxian)
Around this globe American heroes rest in hallowed grave,
Fallen upon the field of battle, our precious liberties to save.
Most have their honored names forever etched in stone;
Other stones display that simple phrase, "Known But To God Alone."
Who could that gallant warrior be? we will ever wonder,
Why him, Lord, who in the heat of battle was torn asunder?
Whose precious son, brother, father was this valiant son,
Tenderly laid in consecrated grave, his laurals bravely won?
What could he have become, Lord, had fate not dealt him so?
Contributions he could have made to humankind, we will never know.
He gave full measure of devotion that others may live free,
Upholding the Constitution, guaranteeing freedom and liberty.
The young soldier was laid to rest with the somber notes of "Taps",
Awaiting Gabriel's clarion bugle call to shed his sepulchral wraps.
To once again march with comrades on that final patrol,
And stand formation for that terminal call of the roll!
Even tho' the soldier's name was lost upon the field of strife,
The Creator has his name eternally scribed in the "Book of Life."
The Omnipotent One e'er so compassionate, e'er so kind,
Will ensure when the last roll is called, he won't be left behind!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I read the burn to hand-feed
the dark with pills of pleasure ~
twilight entombed
within troubled walls,
swollen and sore,
throbbing with ache,
an insatiable appetite
to relish the realism
of your silhouette of sapience,
a breathing poem
with metaphors in motion,
meticulously merged
with the musk of euphoric musings…
O bronco wild, white force,
the bona fide heat
heaving in bedazzled breeze
around the fragile fingers
of my unclothed heart.
Walk me out of the devious
doors of demented dreams;
free-flow me to a realm
of quenching quiescence,
where condemnatory pupils
do not imprison
the tongue that savors
the flavor of foreverness,
with everlasting vapors
of pulsing peridots
staining these panopticon lips,
sealed with softly sewn secrets.
Serve me your sanguine silk…
They do not sympathize
with the bleeding thorns
painfully wanting ~
sleeplessly yearning
to trace the honest waves,
catalyzing the spark
awaiting escape,
away from the cross-eyed fables
fabricating the fragrance
of my zealous love ~
your rose lady,
restless to bloom as one,
rooted to the runes written
across your ambidextrous armor.
I am tattered and torn,
stuck in a scrutinized cycle,
yet still I refuse
to let these petals wilt.
I let my thoughts wander
to the waking wilderness,
where gypsy blossoms
caress and nurture
the penetrating luster
of pearl-light sepals,
resembling my damask spirit,
unstained by the sepulchral ashes ~
dust-laden, kohl-corpse chains
of faithless society,
of blood serpents
masking malevolence,
pretending to be well-wishers…
I care not for their callous clamors,
cruelty caved
in charismatic lies,
deciphering my virtuous dawn
as dangerous delirium;
so take me away ~
to flawless fields
bathed in orange topaz skies…
~ I am yours to worship,
your masterpiece of paradise ~
***Inspired by the artwork; The Lady Rose, by Paul Delvaux
Denizen of abyssal labyrinth,
legendary ancient Wyrm seeks succour
within prodigious sepulchral cavern:
her domicile for an ageless lifetime.
Ethereal shafts cascade through ceiling's
stochastic rifts, piercing tenebrous tomb;
vicious viscous scarlet smears juxtapose
against shimmering iridescent scales.
Aeons past, Faustian pact formed with Man:
vow of harmonious co-existence
exchanged for fulgurant falchion forged in
the heart of dragonflame's conflagration.
Sacred covenant shattered this night by
myriad ironclad interlopers;
ruination's harbinger was strident
warrior wielding token of treaty.
Last vestiges of cacophonous roar
dissipate into the Stygian depths;
acrid stench of brimstone clogs the air as
remnants of vitriolic pyres linger.
Twin gargantuan fibrous wings contract
behind enormous muscular torso;
fulgurating talons sluggishly sheaved
as serpentine tail shudders and falls limp.
Priceless metals and prismatic gemstones
intersperse with charred and twisted corpses;
amongst detritus of mortal conflict,
majestic titan finally crumples.
Massive lurid yellow orbs exhibit
an unfathomable intelligence;
succumbing to the inevitable,
moribund colossus bows forlorn head.
Lifemate butchered by zealous paladin;
remains of final clutch just motes on breeze.
Burden borne by solitary relict:
regal behemoth was last of her kind...
----------------------------------------
(C) John C Michaels, 25th April 2017
Free verse, no meter, no rhymes - as per contest rules.
10 syllables on every line (howmanysyllables.com)
For the contest entitled "A Mythical Creature" sponsored by Julia Ward.
Jones, Jones, where are your bones?
I'd like to hear again your moans, your groans,
underneath loathed graveyard stones,
all with weird sepulchral tones,
me and all my friends, the crones,
wailing o'er the bones of Jones.
As I lay one sullen autumn morn
on pearl dew turf with the day unborn
staring at the grey grimacing sky
with the mood and moment not quite high
sepulchral static wherever I looked
when my dreary dizzy gaze was hooked
at a lone leaf's death-descent down
to join its wilted kin on ground
then a sudden silent slithering breeze
deprived me of my warmth and ease
and the disturbed withered shroud of Fall
hustled revived in a rustling brawl
hurled and curled in the fading mist
till the whispering winds chose to desist
but Nature lies dead once again
until the wind resumes,retrieves restrain
and I know this flight of life is brief
for I'm none other than a fallen leaf.
prosaic prologues bewitch
feeble minded scribe doth undertakes
tend toward lugubriousness ring tone
for goodness sake
echoing across,
a figurative lake woebegone, where quake
shutters latched storm windows,
clapped closed winter season didst make
physical environment lachrymose
analogous to imp pond durable dark lake
where sits inside secluded hut,
this fledgling author named Jake
a former cub (scout) at a loss
to string together an aria
tomb other nature and NOT FAKE,
sepulchral paeon to divine Gaea, Mother Earth
especially incorporating
mutisyllabic (sesquipedalian) words,
which exertion
on par with giving birth
(or so I guess),
a particularly heavily pregnant laden dearth
of help mates, doubling demonstrably
deadly duty devoid of mirth
totally tubular taxing toll,
an essentially unbearable
effort with bulging girth
whereat digestion consumes
latent mental ambition,
especially toasty warm near the hearth
which hitherto unknown to any reader
twas Xmas fabrication and fiction
no crime committed, nor animals harmed
in the making of diction
aery necessary entrapping unsuspecting intellect
to comprehend somber benediction
unless perchance one lone wolf
bait Oven English Major
with Westernization
topped off with a European
debunaire suave acculturation
even luckier if hypothetical personage
dips daintily into forays epicurean,
though careful,
and alert since church fathers
would frown on parsonage
whose natural born ardor,
a spiritual abduction
stealing austerity, complacency, and objection
toward forced irrational schemas
averse to abnegation
unfair imposition
to foist upon pruriant predilection
also impossible
to sequester arbitrary animal urges,
punishing call of the wild,
sowing seeds a beastial accusation
considered averse,
then imposition contrition!
Linden tree branches whisper your name
Cherished by flowers, blessed by the sky,
Carved on a stone. The sepulcher’s flame
Kindles and keeps my memories nigh.
When your departure day I bemoan,
Endless your absence seems to have been.
Deep in my heart regret you have sown,
Darker than weeping willows have seen.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
The bridge was built in 1892 across the gorge of Deer Lick Creek.
Many eerie things have happened since that time adding to its mystique.
'Twas built when men took pride in their guild of yesteryear.
Built of sturdy oak, it will stand for many years, that is very clear!
Eerie clip-clop of horses' hooves can be heard on moonless nights.
'Tis reported that darting to and fro are mysterious lantern lights!
According to local lore a lady in white emits a sepulchral scream,
As she leaps from the bridge with a babe in arms into the rushing stream!
On certain moonlit nights a specter is seen dangling from its beams.
He was caught in the act of fornication by an angry spouse, it seems!
Even to this day, horses are spooked as they skittishly cross the span,
And libidinous lovers avoid it as a trysting place when they can.
The old bridge has weathered many seasons with dignity and grace.
Once, horse and buggy crossed its oaken floor at a much slower pace.
'Tis pleasurable to stroll across its creaking planks and muse upon its past,
But best you do so during the light of day or the stroll may be your last!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
A Walk in Solitude
As I walk and linger the only baneful bringer banished from multitudes
For the sky is gone no more descending dawn engulfed by my solitudes
Much pain to bare a seductive scare as I stand on the lunatic latitudes
Thoughts in a storm a schismatic swarm like the permeable prostitutes
~
Singing songs of silence in my compliance upon a habitable hellion hole
Where demons dance with a piercing lance and I sleep on a bed of coal
Damnation to dreams only silent screams like a cadaverous caving troll
Where time never ends only bestially bends as a sepulchral for the soul
~
I continue to walk with a tapering talk following cryptic circles of mind
In a darkened nest I devour and digest sinking silhouettes a bitter bind
For in the company of shadows a wilted rose ransomed is left confined
Melting memories weep in solitudes we sleep of ambient anguish blind.
Music by Lake of Tears - 'Solitude'
Aug.01.2018
For Your Poetry Journal
Sponsored by: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
Placed 4'th
(Dedicated To Submariners All Over The World)
Dived deep in the bowels of the seas
My steely shell’s a womb.
Deep down amidst the oil and grease
I am at peace in the Lovecraftian tomb!
What’s with the antonyms, you may ask?
Two opposite words you’ve used -
One’s a warm and wonderful cask,
The other’s dead and worm-abused.
The words are apt, as you’ll soon realize,
For a sub’s a Faustian hell
Where the soul imperceptibly dies
A place where sub-human’s dwell!
Dimmed lights cast a sepulchral gloom,
Myriad machines sing Orphic songs
Of palpable peril and impending doom;
Each one of us a Houri’s groom!
To us’s denied the kiss of the sun,
Not for us the fresh blown breeze,
We know not when the day’s begun,
Nor when the night’s a-freeze!
Up periscopes and down again
The klaxons’ strident screams
Make us jump from where we’ve lain
To drilled duties in well-oiled teams.
The sighting of a laggard prey,
Spells sure a petard blown,
For a homing submarine fish tail spray
Brings terror to hardened men and grown.
Though through silent prowls of the deep we hunt,
Like coin could be our fate.
Our shell could crack with the depth charge brunt;
With Davy Jones we’d have our date!
But when heightened pulse and throbbing heart
Have ceased their labours wild,
Routine sets in and all is “back to start”
Each one an unborn child.
The sub becomes a womb, you see,
A place where your thoughts get sorted;
An amniotic envelope, safe and cozy,
With fair chance to get aborted!
So I hope now that my ditty’s run its course
The message’s plain and grim
That life and death share the same source -
For a submariner womb and tomb are synonym!
Sepulchral shadows
Like gargoyles laughing madly
Haunt the painted walls.