Best Spidery Poems
wind whisks smoky veils
sun’s dust on spidery silk~
gossamer dreamscape
sky undresses gold
filling the air with roses~
an opium kiss
trees adorned in brown
mirror the silent corn moon~
fallen escapade
Categories:
spidery, nature,
Form:
Haiku
Wondering how fairies obtain dresses?
It's because they have fairy seamstresses
Sewing with pine needles and spidery
Gathered from spiders fine web filigree.
Pretty petals for fabric, leaves for shoes
Smelling of sweet fragrant floral perfume
Flowers to adorn their flowing tresses
Crystal star droplets sown into dresses.
Gossamer to turn into fairy wings
So fairies may fly in sky, revelling
Sprinkles of fairy dust, a wand for luck
When all dressed up, so pretty fairies look.
When you find fairies in a fairy glade
Recall how their lustrous outfits are made.
Categories:
spidery, fairy, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone
This was the first time I’d laid eyes on your final resting place
In front of me stood a grey granite slab covered in emerald moss
Green ivy clung to the stone and snaked round the nearby yew tree
It was evident your grave had not been visited for many many years
In fact, until ten days ago I didn’t know you existed …
A family secret kept hidden from me by my elderly ‘mother’
It wasn’t until her recent death I discovered the real truth
At the will reading the lawyer presented me with an envelope
Spidery handwriting revealed that my real mother died in childbirth
I discovered that I’d been adopted; my real name was Sara James
Seeing my original birth certificate for the first time was a huge shock
Now I know the reason I felt that I never belonged
With my raven hair and pale skin I looked very different from my sister Beth
I’d been told I looked like my great aunt and I’d never queried this
Now I stand in front of the plot where my real mother is buried
I spend an hour weeding, tidying and cleaning the gravestone
Rivers of tears run down my face when I finally reveal the inscription
Carved in the decaying stone I read
Ellen James - died 17th April 1953 aged 33
Fell asleep with her tiny angel
Susan James - died 17th April 1953 born sleeping
Family secrets kept hidden in the graveyard
Sobbing bitter tears I kneel down and leave a red rose
For my mother and my twin sister that until today I never knew existed
Fictional write for Camouflage me a Poem Contest Sponsored by Broken Wings
Theme 1 chosen - Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone
08~04~16
Categories:
spidery, death, grave, loss, mother,
Form:
Free verse
It stood there
looking empty and old,
neglected and sad
with windows shuttered,
covered in shadow
both day and night,
hovered over
by trees whose branches
disguised the house
and made it seem
a part of the
overgrown landscape,
completely surrounding it,
keeping strangers and unawares
at bay.
It stood there
shrinking from the present
almost lifeless,
a house with no soul
no face, no breath,
as if it started out as a ruin
and was determined
to remain so for all time,
unwanted, unkempt,
shunned by passersby,
its roof looking tortured
its doors uncertain
as to whether they opened at all
and no one knew
and no one asked.
It stood there
talking to itself
in a silent conversation
that no one heard,
talking about things
that used to be
as though the Past was in the Now
and the Now belonged to the Past,
and who would dare
to knock on its doors
or tap on its windows
to see if anyone would answer
or show their presence
to the world outside,
a world gone by.
I stood there
on many a night
along the side of the road
just endlessly peering
at this lonely old place
wondering, waiting
for a light inside
to be turned on
at the same appointed time
emanating from behind
heavy and yellowed lace curtains
that looked like tattered spider webs
in only one crooked window
and one window only
hung with spidery lace.
I stood there
on those moonlit nights
bewitched by this house
listening to calls
and breaths of wild things
that roamed all around me
under ink-black star-filled skies,
but no light from moon nor star
could illumine
this clapboard-covered curio
from another day and age
concealed by branches, vines
and bramble,
bushes and nettles
and mystery.
I stood there
wondering
who turned on that only light,
who roamed the house by night
who walked its tilted floors
who locked its uncertain doors
who hung the curtains of lace
who built this unsettling place
who called this abode their home
and how many hallways would they roam
and are there secrets that lived inside
and what was the bramble trying to hide,
was there anything for it to reveal
anything for it to tell
this house haunted that knew me so well?
copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte
Categories:
spidery, halloween, house, mystery, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
Wood Carving
He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul. “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?” The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him. The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be. Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness. One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother. “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?” They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults. That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”. “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”. The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here. “I know, Mommy”. She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”? “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?” The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed. The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.
John G. Lawless
9/27/2014
For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest
Categories:
spidery, childhood, grandfather, nostalgia,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I remember, back before puberty,
and all concomitant complexities,
visiting the pond behind our barn,
to watch water spiders.
I wondered what we would like living on thin transparent skin
between two equally visible universes,
one below, and one above.
Below,
life would be somewhat darker
but unlike soil.
I would look down into flowing water space,
watching other little pond insects and amoebas, and lichen,
and occasional predator fish or water snake,
or frog.
Above,
I could look up to see flying insects,
and grass forests,
rocks above, as below,
but dry, lighter, easier to maneuver,
to stick to,
to remember.
Again, the occasional predator,
like birds and again those pesky frogs
who also tend to live near life's bicameral surface.
Yet, in a way, this surface,
Boundary skin between two universes,
Prime Relationship limned barrier
between air and water universes
has its own specific unitarian traits,
responding to both air and water flow,
sometimes confluently,
sometimes dissonantly.
My own spidery journey along that surface,
looking in and looking up,
is quite different than looking out,
forward,
with confusion as I lose capacity to integrate down and up
while staring toward my independent
rooted past and crowning future.
So, my water spider grows three eyes.
Only supereco eye looks directly toward my future,
interpreting Prime Relationship between my right eye,
sensing water within below,
and inside
While my left eye,
looking up and out,
seeks to understand
what this huge mammal,
a red headed kid,
is doing with our fresh-aired day.
Categories:
spidery, earth, future, identity, memory,
Form:
Parallelismus Membrorum
The Great Plains
Vast expanse of land,
Virginal, pure, and yet shaped by man’s hands,
A rich and lustrous corn carpet,
An open land with distant horizon
Where man’s green fields and nature’s blue sky meet
Cows and deer fearlessly frolic
On man’s earth, bucolic
With the long spidery electrical wires,
The tall water sprinkler towers
That the cornfield requires
Lone truckers headed to distant cities,
With microwaves, shoes, juice boxes, and other nitty-gritties
Loaded with goods of everyday need,
Unable to ignore this picture painted by man
Cruising at a ginger speed
In this isolation, man’s cares are forgotten,
He abandons his city life rotten
Incredible peace gently seeps,
The deep, satisfying solitude
For an eternity in his mind he keeps
He will again roam the vast land with a new sense of freedom,
Re-live his life as sacred
Such are the magnanimous Great Plains of this wondrous land,
Which bring tears to my eyes
Dumbstruck, on this land of numerous possibilities I stand.
_____________________________________________________________
Inspired by a cross-country Amtrak trip from New York City to Kingman, AZ
Categories:
spidery, adventure, america, nature, passion,
Form:
Romanticism
The day to day today
A skein of yet again
Wrapped in thoughts of yester
As I contemplate the rester
And cuddle in to dream
As hidden feelings fester
To stretch this binding tether
As we face it all together
Hugging and holding
Enjoying the enfolding
Categories:
spidery, introspectionday,
Form:
Bio
Heart by © Theresa Rossouw
Marshmallows bright some are mushy, soft, weak, jellyfish swimming in a cesspool of uncommitted, unloyal, uncaring mud. Their kindness a show, a facade, a mask. They never finish a single task. Don't father or parent, of commit themselves to anyone or anything, hollow and empty they never like a rose will bud.
Leathery, cracked and torn, some or sacks of sorrow, weary
and worn. Leaking tears and sighs they hide behind barriers, windows and walls, their misery, an echo through its passages and halls. Never yielding or trusting they flower not, the reason for living and loving,forgot.
Dark, musty, and spidery are those who have sold their joy to fright and fear, as evil, they allow to move in and draw near. No caring, shame, or guilt, conscience or love will you find here. Only sulphur, and stench and joy in your misery and pain, there power, their gain.
Open, free, uncaring, always giving are some, like shops without doors, they allow one to take and steal, trusting too easily, ending up shattered, ruptured and torn. Mending fast, plasters all over their wall, they always get up and stand up tall. Forgiveness their greatest weakness.
Sunbeams, bright and shiny, lighting up the world, some are darkness breakers and happiness makers. Their trust, and loyal devotion, always put great and wondrous events in motion. Light and sweet, gentle and meek, they are the ones everybody wants to keep. Their gift an eternal one, they are the precious jewel, from the Son.
Categories:
spidery, devotion, joy,
Form:
Ode
Dear, dear lady, with crumpled
tissue paper skin and
spidery fingers fretting hanky,
'Couldn't find cannister,
don't know where it is, Em. '
Silent me knows is always in the same place.
Tea bag, two spoons sugar
in white half-filled china cup,
rose patterned napkin neatly
folded close by and ready
for too frequent spills ..
Safety first: neither too hot or full, m' dear.
Old phone trit.trit.trits,
her fingers fidget fear of bad news,
mustn't be, can't be..
I answer, 'Fine, yes,
you'll be here later? Thank you!'
Thank goodness, Norma won't be lonely.
How that small lined face pinks -
Unusually aware day and date,
second Thursday in month,
visitor visits, tea biscuits in larder,
hair to comb, best shoes to wear..
A sweetly smiling day to come..
'Do I have to have a bath?'
'Nurse was here yesterday, love,
you're fresh as a daisy.'
Fidgeting stops, smile starts,
'Thursday, Betty comes'..
Sad, so sad. What to say? Nothing's best.
Stir porridge, my tears trembling,
standing at Norma's side;
should I remind her that
sister Betty died near ten years ago?
It's so sad to be eighty..
and becoming more forgetful every day..
This lovely woman, this fragile shell,
drove ambulances during the war,
WWII was her hell on earth,
she lost too many kith and kin.
Her mind still grieves.
Many would might say that deceit is a sin
Her visitor - Betty's wonderful daughter,
brings flowers or a small plant
and sings songs that Norma - with
a little reminder, sings and sways to
For two hours she comes alive.
And the Lord understands and - forgives.
Categories:
spidery, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
For so long you’ve held the key, the scepter and the crown,
Harrowing the reality, the subconscious, the deep within.
Your voice was deep, poignant, forbidding. Clattering like,
The tumbling down of ancient and spidery bones, swishing
Like the dust raised by warm nocturnal winds above the grave,
Of underneath whose cold stone, you speak.
I’ve held on to these, the pain most notably, the curse of living,
Clung to it as one would a shepherd’s staff. I was bleating, you, stoic,
An anguished ghost whose wispy façade slashes through the ages,
Thru generations of minds in the offing of torment. The honored
Priest above my chasm and dreams, whose scepter whirls an order,
to the bottomless chaos, defining, refining.
Such morbidity, such dusky frights and ebon like chill, thawing,
turning ductile the mind’s seams to enable comprehension
of misery, for one, for two and for as long as dreaded numbers
Could gnaw, could go and would soar. And then dreadfully and
just as suddenly, fall. But always finds in the descent kindred misery,
Again and again spewing thermals for tattered wings.
Aye, my friend, you’ve enabled these, I followed your grim lead too,
Debauched a day, or two, or three. I honestly can’t remember anymore.
When you despoiled your body did you lose your soul? I asked this
Because mine never was. It was never lost. But you, aside from being
a friend, are a terrible despot. For you bound my soulful core, right
after you cried over lost grains of golden sand.
Alas, when you failed to save even one of these grains from your
Clasp, why the need to wail and ask if all that we see or seem,
Is but a dream within a dream? Why cast eternal umbrae over
Those sojourns which aside from your company lifts my weary
Psyche? Those twilight times when I can escape and open the
Drain in the reality of my life?
Categories:
spidery, dedication, depression, faith, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
When a Man Loves a Woman
He awoke, unaware of what ailed him,
lay blissfully stupid upon the bed.
They had exchanged numbers. “Perhaps?” “We’ll see?”
yet now, by trailing scent of her, he's led.
“Twas but the fleeting brush of flaxen hair
filaments of gold this spidery maze
soft pouty kiss left hanging on the air
stunned prey held motionless ‘mid moonlit gaze.
Yet deep within the urge to run, to flee
deny the heated blood within his veins
escape the tentacles of what might be
while on the wind the rapture slowly wanes.
And yet he'll search each night those depthless eyes
arrayed within the nuance of disguise.
12/15/2016
When a Woman Loves a Man
She awakens cognizant of love’s start
rolls lazily on pillowed fantasy
longing to hear the thunder of their hearts
walking the silent rim of ecstasy.
All else is but a dreamy Princess theme
cold rain become the dripping tears of joy
cavorting in the mist of passion’s scheme
short dalliance with longing’s clever ploy.
Retreat, defend the castle, lest it fall
become but subjugate to passion’s King
live in the shadow of love’s passing thrall
wander in search of windblown scented spring.
Yet does the fervor of her heart conceive
a love no doubtful passion can unweave.
12/16/2016
Categories:
spidery, love, men, women,
Form:
Sonnet
The Duke of Plouck surveyed his Duchy from the window in the tower,
Then he went to meet with his spies because that’s how you hold on to power.
And in his mind he’d developed a plan to gain favor with the King,
By uncovering a conspiracy and save Eric from meeting with death’s sting.
So when his spies brought him word and news of a possible threat,
The Duke made sure that it came to pass so the King would be in his debt.
His spies had learned of an outcast man who wandered from town to town,
Who brought misfortune wherever he went and was scorned when he came around.
So the Duke forged a letter to this man saying that the King would take him in,
Then the Duke could easily save the day before trouble had chance to begin.
Deceitful guile spins a spidery web and none it seems are safe from it,
Take extra care my shadowy friend because occasionally the spider will get bit.
Categories:
spidery, funny,
Form:
Light Verse
a
long
fragile
spidery
silver threadlike street
crossing in nature's G.P.S.
like those swinging bridges in gentle wafting breezes
temporary avenues to more hospitable environmental habitat
written January 3, 2022
Categories:
spidery, environment, insect, nature,
Form:
Fibonacci
Capri
roofless cubes, spidery with wire,
cakes of azure and enzian;
above at the Villa San Michele
Rilke smiles down at the broken beaches,
at coves of defiant waves, compacted sea
Pompeii
a chessboard of honest stones
open to a sky of hushed shouts;
we huddle in a boned frame
of another life, a stopped day
Napoli
warm and secret, olive-eyed
an infinite beauty makes a new face
as we gaze ape-like from our bus;
an act of moment
Categories:
spidery, travel,
Form:
Blank verse