Best Shrilled Poems
"When pain, rage and screams buried in the asylum of your heart start to poison your heart slowly and surreptitiously, you become a living ghost." - Anne Winter
Last night I had a dream,
I was a ghost in an asylum,
So many unheard screams,
Intelligence turned into something dumb and numb.
I looked at me,
Her hair frizzy and frazzled,
The ghost looked back at me,
My hair, soft like silk and dazzled.
My eyes, brimming full of life,
Her hollowness of face,
Her eyes dry like a dull knife,
Just like my hollow heart days.
“What did you do”she screamed,
Glass shattered and clattered at my feet,
Her crumpled ghastly face, tears gleamed,
My lips sealed, my heart scared to beat.
Should I tell her it's not her fault,
But my throat is closed and tight,
“It is”said the tears soaked in salt,
My eyes shrilled “Look for the light”.
She was about to throw glass shards at me,
I woke up before she could do it,
I apologise I couldn't set her free,
My room and bones, dimly lit.
Taste of my tears opened my eyes,
Self neglected, broken one always dies,
Fair or unfair,
It was just a nightmare.
I couldn't understand her, I'm not that deep,
Maybe Sylvia could understand the girl in my sleep,
All I could do was weep,
I couldn't fill the gaps so steep.
The ghost left me howling
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry”,
My heart sinking and drowning,
Her eyes, dull and starry.
Murder at the Prom
Frankie Lyman shrilled his falsetto.
Gwendolyn Gould danced in stilettos.
So callously smothered,
they never recovered.
Poor little piggies, scrunched little toes.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
March 11, 2012
Muddy Water's Gramma gave us licorice
I walked the old Kenwood neighborhood with my twin little brother and sister in tow,
'hold there hands and look both ways before you cross the street'
No use trying to talk my way out, knew it was the only way mom would let me go.
October's new moon, peaked in and out of passing clouds,
leaving the night gloomy in stygian darkness.
Faces painted, carrying our paper bags, dressed in raggedy linen pillow case shrouds.
Low sad sound of a guitar's slow lick, pitch in open E, played a few doors down,
accompanied by a soulful song sung:
'Well, my mother told my father,
just before hmmm, I was born,
"I got a boy child's comin,
He's gonna be, he's gonna be a rollin stone,
Sure 'nough, he's a rollin stone..'
I knocked on the door, our shrilled chorus trio called out Trick or Treater's round,
Clutching a Bible in her hands 'to ward off evil spirits'.
Gramma Della turned on the porch-light, framed in screened doorway,
emitting a joyous whooping sort of laugh, invited the three of us in.
The bright-eyed man sat at the kitchen table, looking up from his guitar emblazoned in Formica reflected glory.
In the corner, a pretty girl, dressed as Cinderella, sat cross-legged on the floor..
with what looked like a million dollars worth of candy.
Muddy, who had ceased his song at our knock, nodded our way.
With curious smile that was both happy and sad, in smooth, measured voice said
'Oh don't you look a fright'.
Della handed out licorice that year, the same as all the years we once knew.
But what us kids remember best, and last, the man who sung & played the Catfish Blues.
What I didn't learn 'til later, a picture placed in Muddy's view of the living room.
Little Walter, with his harmonica cupped in hands,
who died just a year earlier, a day after Valentine's moon.
Inspired by McKinley Morganfield and his Grandmother Della Jones
You get a heck of a sound from the church. Can't you hear it in my voice? -Muddy Waters
HELP! HELP!
She is sinking,
Sinking into the abyss of despair.
Her brain is striken And her mind is stifled.
She has been enervated.
Her integrity is being manipulated,
Irrationality acts as spring board to moral decadence,
Opacity then entangles her efficiency
While her eminence sleeps.
She became vulnerable.
Poor thing, she is raped, maimed and looted.
Has she not been violated?
Does her plight warrants a revolution?
However, she demonstrated.
She shrilled,
"No!", "No!"
She pleaded with her predators.
All these were to no avail
Her future seems gloomy
As the predators succeeded in orchestrating yet another tragedy.
Engulfed in this evident realm of adversity.
She sits and ponders
With tears flooding her miserable cheeks.
She then cried,
HELP! HELP!
I am sinking,
Sinking into the abyss of despair.
I passed by Old Man Banksia, a wonderfully gnarled tree,
While trekking through the Jamison, a bushland pedigree,
I saw the broad leaf of the Geebung, with its yelow frill,
The distant sounds of Katoomba Falls with its water spill.
Suddenly excitement grew, new noise, a whipping sound,
Its shrilled call pierced the air, the unbelievable was found,
A lyrebird with all its beauty, elusiveness personified,
Stood before me tail flared,my mouth was open wide.
It was clawing in the leaf litter, with insects being found,
Its ornate, opaque tail swished on to the ground,
It hopped around in the mulch, paused then moved on,
I was waiting in anticipation for another whipping song.
My encounter was a brief one, for as soon as I got near,
It decided to fossick elsewhere without the risk of fear,
But I had seen this ancient animal with vocal chords unique,
The world's greatest mimic, its repertoire so complete.
We fought as one,
the blood it run,
All around our feet ,
Our bronze age swords ,
Were not ignored ,
We sliced and diced so sweet,
The dragon came again,
again,
it’s Stinking breath remained,
remained,
Like sulphur as it chilled,
the best of brains,
We tottered on our feet,
When we beat it back,
t’was bloody lame,
Still it fought just fought,
the bloody same,
Our sanity remained insane,
No quarter no retreat,
Its blood all the hollows filled,
We fought, yes fought all day,
Till finally a death did play,
Its part so sorrow-full,
Greybeard lay in the hollow way,
My friend was by the Dragon killed,
So I slashed some more,
and foully swore, *%@!!-
My blade would bloody spill,
His blood and gore, for bloody sure,
Until,
I did that Dragon slay?
I thrust some sure,
my anger raw
At its throat with careful skill,
Blue murder,
I aimed for the throat the more,
I hacked and punched and shrilled!
He reared up in awful pain,
Almost drowned,
by the red blood cloud,
as I stabbed for its heart again,
Through the sticky red blood shroud,
he fell on me teeth a biting see,
I hacked and sliced his throat,
My one good arm and blade were free,
Till crimson was his coat,
The death rattle came to he,
The eater of our sheep,
His spirit soared away from me,
Till,
Death on him did sweep,
So in legend, speak they well,
Of mighty men these two,
And how the warrior Greybeard fell,
When he the Dragon slew.
….
Don Johnson
All the noisy critters, warblers and the morning, young horse rider
have taken with them spring's harmony;
no longer can galloping beats and songbirds make this black, forest
echo with their delightful sounds of felicity;
winter has indeed stripped it of every beam of light and lovely flower.
That handsome troubadour who came from France was happy,
too anxious to get to Florence and live in courts of prosperity
and galloping on the unpaved roads below the majestic Alps
never thought of his mademoiselle who was also dreaming,
drifting to places where true romance lived in sincere hearts,
but sadly this was done on wishful thinking
from a rose-bloomed balcony as Juliet did...
without the intention of ever being wed;
hear her loud cry, " Troubadours don't remain faithful
for long...their desire for adventure makes all null! "
From that castle where noisy ravens gathered,
and shrilled, Marie with tearful eyes looked
over the enchanting black forest dullest than a grey, swelling cloud
which blocked the sunlight from entering her cold window
not frequented by a thrush that stayed behind
for unknown reasons and took shelter in the tower below;
" Poison is a sweet drink and when one is denied love! " she declared.
Copyright ( c ) 20015 by Andrew Crisci
Between the blue sprawl of day
And the expired light of night,
A seductive winding-down
by a sky no longer drawn tight.
Clouds wisp across a molten orb
Like fingers over an amber eye,
Steal sapphire from the sea,
Leave a long spill of golden dye.
The beach sips lapping water
Lacquered in gray and white,
Shows a slick of sand glowing,
paved with dusk’s lamplight.
Sun-shrilled colors muted
by the moon’s proximity,
Voices join a murmuring tide,
Floating snippets of clarity.
At water’s edge, two people
Gazing out, front-lit, backs black,
Moving to a spacious rhythm
hidden in the waning sun’s slack.
Scattered notes drift unhurried
from a guitar strummed unseen.
Or is it music only I hear?
Ah, yes, so it would seem.
The koels’s shrilled song followed me
As I turned towards the dark path
In muted silent tones...
The frogs croaked along
The darkened flowers in misery
Hung their tender necks~~
Only the ivy climbed
This moonlit chateau
As my soundless steps reached its ancient arch
**The creaking door welcomed me in
And there amid the silent shiny dust
He waited for me to heal~~~~~~~
As his boring eyes entered my soul
My bleeding wounds disappeared***
I followed him into the chamber
Amid the stony effervescent ghosts
The chateau a silent testimony
To this union of the worlds...
16/09/2011
By Tahera Mannan
For Constance’s “ Creepy, scary haunted house poem, please” contest
the roots – i.e. genealogy of words long held me
(no pun intended) held spell bound
e'en upon fertilization of ova and sperm viz – conception,
an acute sensory means n'er got drowned
out via the bubbling, dribbling, huzzahing...
(from within and without the womb) while in utero,
especially when me then young spring chick hen ova mum,
and cock strutting cock
(doodling his due tee) oft testes handsome dad found
their coop t'would be increased by another
(at that time no means prevailed to foretell gender,
but an old wives tale hatched
since time immemorial stubbornly persisted
if the husband put right heir (ear) to the ground
accompanied with petsmart skills of a blood hound
a close approximation could be discerned,
whether the swelling abdominal mound
would yield a son or daughter,
which second guess passed thru
the umbilical cord shaped grape vine as re noun
splendor – giving participants planning a baby shower
purchasing and showcasing an infant gewgaw
costing no mo' than a best seller by Ezra Pound
or a couple rolling stones,
preferably those flat versus being round
with assessment sans prediction per sex of offspring
offered slightly greater hedge Tibet
with recent introduction of ultra sound
nonetheless genesis (unbeknownst to either parent –
trapped in that role for a life time)
this fetus took a fancy to imbibing verbalization
that transpired between when shine
warmed the cockles and muscles of this parasite – ha –
expanding his vocabulary prior tummy birth in nine
teen hundred and...(th beh so thee ya haint tell in –
go ask aunt Roadie) or...find someone name Stein
beck, and give yaw self a pat on the back faw trine
plotting a tentative addition to family tree or
(what would turn out tubby more apropos) a vine,
cuz ma late mum referred tomb me as her little monkey
who when born deeply engrossed reading about urine
thence, when the pediatric doctor snatched the book –
BOY DID I WHINE
which out shrilled any wailing police car,
or emergency hospital siren
thus...i got christened RED (for short), yet code named 120 db
which translates as the decibel threshold for pain
even afflicting the dead poet Byron.
Natural serenity prevailed in the garden
That evening,
A warm light breeze blew
Interweaved with the sounds of
Crickets
Chirping their shrilled symphony,
And occasionally interrupted by
The haunting cries of wild peacock.
Bathed in pale moonlight
Stood a man
Dressed in a simple cloth robe
Wiping beads of sweat
And blood
From his brow.
Peering at the slumbering disciples
Huddled together before him
He sighed,
Ad then spoke the following
With compassionate disdain.
“Away but for a short time
Beseeching my father,
Only to return and find
My brothers asleep,
A moment longer
You could not wait?”
Nearly tempestuous
Was the wind,
As if God himself
Were attempting to wake
With forceful breath
Those who pledged to share
His sons’ every trial.
And in the twilight hours
Came the
Dutiful military denizens,
Guided by
Ulterior treachery and
Sworn to fulfill their mission.
Remember me my
friends,
when the trees bask
with delights
when the waves whack
the rock
when the fair
weather whispers.
Then know am close
and I need a touch
Remember me my foe
The stainless
pathway of our duel
the ravaging rift of
our skin
the cries of each
blooded strikes
when the deep
ancient scars nipped
Then know this my
foe
That am close by
and I need to strike
Remember me now
When the corona
strikes the amazons
As the Halloween
nights of lust
Where all spasms
are expelled
Like a vintage
tornado rocket
With a wild cry of
exoticism
Shrilled with a
chilly blast
Then know this now
That am the next
bang
Remember me always
When the birds bask
on trees,
the wagtail screw
for hideout,
like when whirlpool
whirls
as the wader wades
the mud
like a dancing night
ecstasy
then know am close
and I need a mate
Remember me often
times
When the waves rip
its lungs
When the breeze
whispers eastwards
When the cockerel
clown its crown
as she announces the
morning post,
Remember me always
Oh my memories
Oh my victories
Oh my footed armies
of duels
My believes untapped
My hopes unleashed
My lust exorcised
My greed farced
My shame eclipsed
among the stars
And my humility
nailed to oblivion.
Remember me again.
My love that floats
the bud
My hate that holds
the hades
My dreams that
torment me
My grief that frill
my final abode
My pains that sprout
my exits
My cries that echoes
to abyss
Remember me for ever
My hands that grief
with sadness
Unleashed your paw,
frittered me with
your pegs,
defiled my
defenseless dune,
snatch my unborn
from the cradle
erase the face of my
returns
close the torches of
my paths.
That my breathless
veins
rise no more
But remember
My flights now
My battles
My pains
My fears
Remember my
goodbyes,
then I live again.
Written by Benny
Isibor
A Word-its an remark or statement
words when spoken can make or break relationships..
they hold our thoughts and modulate into emotions,
they inspire at times or break you badly.
if said from deepest part of our heart, they melt stone hearted person too,
but if cursed or choosen carefully, words lost when intent is forgotten they are powerful enough to knock one down...
no need of physical harm, words are enough to kill you.
soothingly nice when whispered into ears,
but shrilled enough to deafen someone..
words are nothing but thoughts unveiled into emotions, flowed like river..
they connect fast giving rise to joy,
disconnect faster leading to sadness.
words either written or spoken, are bitter-sweet words are our way of expressions and feelings...
its how one chooses to use them.
Worn gloves we donned, took to our knees
Black soil we turned, for bright pansies;
As tulips spied, rich loam we tilled,
Then spread thick mulch—a robin shrilled.
The sun beat down, not cloud-deterred
While, from the south, warm zephyrs stirred …
Then pause, I took, to watch my wife,
Her face carefree, unmarred by strife,
And, from a squat, she glanced my way,
Our eyes engaged, a moment’s play,
At last I winked, my love to share,
That garden day in fresh spring air.
A wild pagan, the wind, a spectral masseuse,
Blunt cudgel and claw dipped in liquid frost,
To corrupt and ravage the pit head columns,
As black trees threshed and leaves were tossed;
Slapped against satanic steel mill backdrops,
Thrust over crusty cracked fissures of rock,
The rattling rain gunned down the mountains,
Scattered the sallow, forsaken flock.
In the forks and tines of lightning stabbing
To bomb the moon and shivering stars,
Ivories tickled by ozone and aftershock
Shrilled in a sky of splitting white scars;
The harpsichord played on a stormy night,
A melody wracked and cracked with disease,
Jagged enough to split open the heart,
For nothing and no one were sat at the keys…