Best Skull Poems
Our voyage begins holding each other
slowly captivating space filled magic begins
warmly with glory be sings under spells
Grace is blessed always
with deep warm joy kissing beats
the true love inside fails to die
A hunter's moon smiles in the Heaven's
under the cradle of thoughts over and back gently whispers
your starlight gives birth to beauty gentle dove
Entering the soul kingdom opening chambers
adorned tourmaline inside this rainbow key of divine colours
a treasure uniquely true rare shines through pure
unrhymed tercets
Give into pure thought, I'll entice you a spell,
Extracted from fear, fear my own hell.
The trees, they fall, the air, it drowns,
From beasts of skin, these earth-dwelling clowns.
Stuck in my mind,
Thoughts confined,
Of a life lived purely; a being redefined.
So I slip on my thought cap,
A brain full of tears,
To express all my feelings,
Few cheers - no cheers,
Jeers, the jeers.
The savagery of melancholy,
Befits of thee, a contrast to me!
Diluted eyes make everything fine,
Even through qualms,
Of spilled red wine.
If wine be thine own,
Yourself to condone,
For the seeds of pain already be sown.
No nature to blame,
Your soul to shame!
For life is more than only a game.
Blow your head off with solemn conviction,
Nought was heard save one conniption,
A cry to thy god,
A blatant ophidian.
A human unfit of a life coexistent,
Fear of slipping, running so distant.
Human, none of nature,
Just a foul spirit, a damnable creature.
O cruel confinement, I so wish I could live,
In a tale of nature,
True, righteous existence to give.
But such is the fate of all human being,
Of a life of eyes, prone to not seeing,
Seeing the pain of mother nature's tears,
For shame to you all,
You have become your own fears.
Skeletal treetops rake a Wagnerian sky.
like fingertips, chasing Valkyrie’s,
through cirrus clouds;
conducting the winter wind,
across the cerulean blue tarp
of early evening.
Bare beds, a mass of fallen leafs, shiver;
above bulbs of tulips and daffodils
which rest like skulls in a grave.
The sullen light of late December dusk,
pierces the scene with shadows,
sharpening the edges of brick walks
to bloody wayward knees
frost crusts, scabbing over the vacant
graves of long lost pets as
the day ends.
pale naked head bones
grim remains of sacrifice
the horse heads hang low
Ancient timekeepers
tracked periodic cycles,
symbolic meanings...
Thirteen crystal skulls
sixty-five total completes,
precession cycle...
One bone equal too
twenty-six music boxes,
Chapel stone story...
The venus transit
Aztec solar calendar,
cycle near complete...
Apocalypse of
the reoccurring events,
Patmo's revealing...
Nazca mandala
pattern in the mountaintop,
soul's maturity...
Himalayan form
buddist wheel of becoming,
the building of self...
Ka'bah inner self
first house that Adam built,
cube of perfection...
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones,
like yesteryear’s
fading souvenirs,
I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.
Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers,
packed tightly here
despite once repellent hate?
Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.
These arms and hands, they once were so delicate!
How articulately
they moved! Ah me!
What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?
Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls!
Deprived of graves,
forced here like slaves
to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!
Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained?
Except for me;
reader, hear my plea:
I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!
Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir
here, where I stand
in this alien land
surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!
Even in this cold,
in this dust and mould
I am startled by an a strange, ancient reverie, …
as if this shrine to death could quicken me!
One shape out of the past keeps calling me
with its mystery!
Still retaining its former angelic grace!
And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...
Swept by that current to where immortals race.
O secret vessel, you
gave Life its truth.
It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.
I turn away, abashed here by what I see:
this mould was worth
more than all the earth.
Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!
What is there better in this dark Life than he
who gives us a sense of man’s divinity,
of his place in the universe?
A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse!
To The Muse
by Friedrich Schiller
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I do not know what I would be,
without you, gentle Muse!,
but I’m sick at heart to see
those who disabuse.
Keywords/Tags: Goethe, Schiller, German, Germany, translation, skull, bones, body, charnel, house, grave, best friend, friendship love, funeral, souls, soulmate, ghosts, spirit, flesh, dead, death, shrine, divinity, universe
The cold blue waves move gently with the surf
The azure ocean is deep like the soul
The wind murmurs above the ocean
Whistling in gaps of granite rocks it causes commotion
Further north green sea waves
Are in insipid correlation with expressive blue
Of a nearby glacier
But here water is warmer
Like the heart of the Earth
As sunset slowly turns sky
From blue to gold and violet
The clipper ship sails forward with the wind
The beacon shines like the second moon
Guiding the vessels around sharp rocks
Jutting out to sea
Under the water coral reef dazzles with beauty
The mist of stars
Suddenly surrounds the ship
The mist is full of color and light
Like crystals in kaleidoscope to the eye they are delight
The mist is magic
Writing the very laws of abstract
As deep as the soul
It makes the ship fly
As ship sails through the clouds
The phoenix appears on a left of the bow
The dragon on the right
Both guide the vessel on its flight
Here is he stuck, within an icy skull.
His cooling core yearns for the warmth of sun.
He sits and sees the snowflakes blend and dull
The rocky walls that trap the frozen one.
Does he succumb to numbing apathy,
Or fight winter, a battle for the daft?
December flowers wilt like his decree
To break the walls with fists and stabbing shafts.
His shaking fists make weapons hard to wield.
The beating turns his wrists to rigid casts.
A golden ray leaks through the wall that shields
And gives a glimpse of brighter sunshines past.
Always his arms grow weak, his strength gives way,
But still he tries again another day.
His eyes were totally devoid of empathy.
No one has eyes as vast as all humanity.
I've been living in denial that he's the Red Skull.
Rebuking that my vexing foe has lived but is dull
From a plane stuck on the Arctic ice during WWII.
Schmidt was the Red Skull, the Nazi commander.
The rare celestial artifact Tesseract was taken too.
Sought to funnel harm into the world through slander.
Hitler, who saw him in his rage, was his evil mentor.
Led Hitler's global espionage and terror strategy.
If Hitler was hailed, his crimson skull mask just tore.
America built a chief rival to the Red Skull's raggedy.
Steve Rogers was a plebe with military dreams.
He was selected after a number of initial setbacks.
This US military endeavor is unique in its deems.
Serum and premix made him Captain America hacks.
Rogers displayed prodigious acts of heroism.
When he alone could free all the prisoners of war.
By lurking inside the armed Nazi camp of terrorism.
Infamous Red Skull had built in the Hydra lair.
To prevent Schmidt from using nuclear weapons.
The superhero assaulted him in his airplane.
The device's mystic force created rift beckons.
That screwed in the torn body of the Nazi brain.
3rd place contest winner
Written: March 11, 2023
Contest: Marvel Supervillains Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Captain America also known as Steve Roger,
Fought numerous battles as the first Avenger.
Once he was a tiny little boy,
Who had a big heart and strong will to bring justice and joy.
Soon he was given the super serum,
And became the symbol of heroism.
Once he was frozen in the ice,
For the complete 66 years with no choice.
Yet, He fought the evil with all his will,
Like Hydra, Thanos and even Red Skull.
He always carried his shield that has a star,
Made out of Vibranium gifted by Mr. Stark.
Never knew Cap could even age a day,
But he comes back all old and gray.
After placing the infinity stones back to their place,
He gives his shield to his friend Sam with grace.
And now he lives a normal life,
After marrying his beloved wife.
Written May 24, 2022
5th Place
in Captain America Poetry Contest
sponsored by Robert James Liguori.
The sleeping lambs nestled in the
Silver bullet,
Hot from the gun.
They slumber through the sketches
Of Spain until finally
The veil of moisture meets plum lipstick
And it’s time to depart;
Time for the slaughterhouse.
They scurry out from their earthy tomb
And venture to what’s beyond the gun’s chamber
And easy womb.
Beady eyes flinch-
I want to be part of the herd!
O
but that is only possible
In this foreign land
If your dust forms the bricks
Or your skull is being sold
For £16
And has its righteous place on the shelf.
Being used as an amusing bookend
Along with serene Buddha.
To accept this binding contract is to understand
That we must question our obsession
To look like children or a withered old hag.
Not many souls wander the labyrinth like mine,
I guess they cannot commit their essence
To the stables and chambers
Where one nibbles on the carcasses
Of forms and blinks
At the silent wide eyed lambs.
A Monk finds a skull
A skull finds a monk
Both exchanges death
5-5-5
The skeleton waits
Left some time by a killer
Rotting and decayed
Crying loudly as a ghost
Who will avenge my murder?
Here you lie
On a base
An eternity on
a pillow case
The bringer of joy
and love to all
The start of a holiday
In love we shall fall
How did you become the man
known as Valentine
Start a holiday
That would spur
quite a time
A mere a skull
stuck in a box
A martyrs death
You have surely fallen
The night comes down heavily upon the skull
In every fancies of wired images:
Lady Macbeth's dagger or Old Hamlet's ghost;
Or in my own term - ripped off from the organic herbs.
Yes, it came to be, a being
With conviction and character
Of a hullabaloo, buried in silence.
I fear the gesture, unwelcome,
And the pathos of lost self,
Tearing down the heart tonight
In benign pathos.
Havoc wrecking in my bio-chemistry,
Diluted in the solution,
As my corp cooling in the formalin-wall.