Best Stolid Poems
Once upon a midnight, ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
White eyed werewolves gorged, engrossedly.
In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly)
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.
Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.
Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.
As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.
If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...
Categories:
stolid, fantasy, horror,
Form:
Rubaiyat
again …
here I am -
a glum ghost
a somber shadow
I have come to dream
to pledge duty, your gleam
to venerate your foreday liturgy
ah, and mend the mist - the magical mist
another mercurial morn creature such as we
ever cautiously coy in its dark, shifting purpose
with foggy fingers it creeps shore-ward
tickling the rocks and rills with vexing facility
its dew-dripping appendages grasp the bluff
and cloak it in a brume shawl
sea's briny breath
braided to a blanket
covering all in a supernal spell
as if we haunt some lofty realm
paused between stars and steeples
to dance for the dawn's enchantment
but I am here for longing's sake
to entomb my pallid pining
priceless little maudlin chunks of my life
that I must forever let loose
whimsical moments spent here, made precious by another
a sweet syrup called "her" that drips from my being
and dribbles its way to my visceralities
where now it turns rancid with nostalgia
poisoning my spirit
you ...
with your winking perpetuity
shall be the last witness to my remorse
you - my lonely, reticent, stolid beacon
shall be the final testament
to every tear let in her stead
to every hapless heartache rent for her
to every soul-wrenching dream torn from the night
and to every last hush of her name on the wind
I throw it all down now
to crash on these jagged cliffs with the morning wake
to end where it was first entrusted
with the shutter of your winking eye
and the first misty beams ... of a new day.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Lighthouse" Poetry Contest, Eve Roper, Judge & Sponsor.
Categories:
stolid, analogy, appreciation, beauty, goodbye,
Form:
Free verse
CAR COURT
Enter, the older heavyweight steel giant,
The bailiff, a 1954 Hudson, reads unhesitant :
On the docket for this morning : guilty by implication - a Trabant,
In close custody with a Cutlass Supreme for supervision.
Next on the docket: a Pinto for likely gas-tank explosion.
Third on the docket: an English-made car (any marque) - body corrosion.
Lawyer for the prosecution, a pretentious character, a gas guzzler SUV
4x4 off-road with winch - for Saturday use on driveway only -
Hangs out with Vettes; and uses NO2 in fuel. Who?Drugs? Not me!
Downbeat guy as the defence counsel , a solid no nonsense Hummer,
A real enviro-bummer,
Klutzy ugly and personality like a mack truck in summer.
Trabant coughed its way to the stand.
Clerk of court Volkswagen, order in hand,
Read the indictment quietly, efficiently, bland.
Prosecution began with noisy opening musical-horn tunelets
The jury, all serious-minded stolid Volvos and Toyota Starlets
Were not impressed. Hummer clumsily interrupted with an objection, “Let’s
Stop, on the grounds of precedent,” but at this point Pinto reversed,
Crushed its trunk and its gas-tank exploded, and worst ,
Hit the the English car : and into flames they both burst.
Cutlass argued with the SUV, which was winched away pending sentence.
Case against the English car dismissed from lack of evidence.
Trabant was deported back to Germany: no import licence
Overseeing all these proceedings : the ever-reliable, I-won’t-budge,
The I-have-a-spotless-reputation, I-hold-no-grudge,
The mechanical virgin, the silent Rolls Royce as judge.
...........................................................................................................
Categories:
stolid, allegorycar, car, drug,
Form:
Verse
angst settles in
within the cracks
of darkness
as night falls
beneath the lunar rise
of crescent moon
its lackluster glow
reflects upon the lake
in the swirls of cat's-paw
as i cast stones
at mind's haunts
in hopes
to slake pain
as it falls
like soft rain
fulgurant memories
beneath thunder
of emotions
slam against me
in stolid thoughts
while i try to weather the storm
as it falls within
again and again
i see you there
momentarily
and feel the lash
of your tongue
in unconscious frames
of mind
i am tethered
on the edge
of night's breath
as it mists
through my pores
and day's break
as i bleed its dawn
in the folds of my flesh
i awake
unsettled
in the angst
of yesteryear's pain
as it echoes
within my mind
again
and
again
before
fading
out
8/12/2019
Writing Challenge 1, August 2019 - Just Write - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
Categories:
stolid, abuse, angst, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
Delilah: Samson! Why do you imprison my love in the dungeon of mistrust?
The hypnotism of my succulent breasts, and the soothing soft feel of
my moist lips, your stolid heart betrays.
You really do have the strength of a God, but even a God is subject to
the mind blowing caresses of a goddess. Prove your love to me by submitting
to just this nagging request, and our much anticipated wedlock which you very
much desire will be certain.
Samson: Your words turn me on as much as the moist feel of your honey gate. How could I
ever resist thee Delilah? Certainly at your behest, I bequeath my awesome and
divine strength.
Delilah: Then rest your troubled head on the comfort of my massaging hands, and see that
there never was nor can ever be, a warm resting place for your wearied head like
these lovely hands of mine designed like a pillow fit for a Prince.
Categories:
stolid, bible,
Form:
Prose Poetry
This one’s a castle; that’s a customs-house.
They’re stolid, listless, just a little dull.
The sky supports an arbitrary gull.
The languidness of Liszt, the style of Strauss
are wholly absent. Colours are metallic.
The eye sweeps over cornice, turret, steeple,
then it dawns on us – there are no people.
Clock towers, mountains, minarets, all phallic,
are void of human life. Stark, empty chairs
adorn each arid, motionless interior.
As we apprise, eyes sneeringly superior,
we note acerbically his love of stairs –
A Will to Power, ever pushing up.
One daub there is, however, gives us pause:
it dates long before Enabling Laws,
before he dreamed of Kesselring or Krupp:
a bridge that’s quite impossible to cross,
going nowhere, has never carried traffic.
With a boy sitting on it. Startling, graphic,
without a hint of Schadenfreude or Schloss.
Self-portrait, this? What features may we trace?
What’s here vouchsafed? Incipient racist brute?
Hardly. A disarmingly awful suit,
and most revealingly of all – he has no face.
Categories:
stolid, history,
Form:
Quatrain
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped
By three dainty pairs of deft hands
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
Clotho spins life with a valiant grip,
Her spindle ablaze with gold strands.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped.
Lachesis measures without pause or slip,
Deciding the length of life's band
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
Atropos carries the scissors that clip
The thread where her sister commands.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped.
Every last soul becomes a conscript,
Drafted to heed their demands
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
With each stolid snip, our free will is stripped
As Fate's fluid flames are fanned.
Life's thread is spun, measured, and snipped
To weave the cold words of life's fickle script.
*Based on Greek Mythology's "Moirai"
Categories:
stolid, imagination, words, , fate,
Form:
Villanelle
Behind the reaper, glistening beneath
the fading rays of light,
crude elements of happenstance
lie in its wake, passed over
and awaiting those who glean
the afterbirth.
Yes, there is that querulous
persistence of the poor,
that stubborn cadre of the prescient,
who will peer into our souls
and find us bankrupt,
mind and consciousness already unaware.
It is a curious, stolid procession
passing by--these ghosts
on their ironic quest into tomorrow.
No one may cheer them on; no one
may find a voice to hold them back.
There is no choice, for
we must be content to find ourselves
among the gleaners, though it is we
who sang our welcome to the reapers--
we, who watched the harvest come,
and hungered after it.
And it was we who faced the disillusionment
of barren fields with gleaming bits
of paper bibelot
to laugh and mock us
as we ploughed them underneath.
But fullness too, lurked there
in silent modesty behind the plough.
Patient gleaners know
that down the long, slow hall of history
there is a single echo:
Truth is unchanging...paradox!
There was triumph in the air,
and no man was a slave to it.
I deeply sighed and took a breath
and opened up my eyes.
And it was good.
~
Categories:
stolid, truth,
Form:
Free verse
My muse did her fealty recuse
My honor she did stealthily reconnoiter
My discourse was grounds for divorce
Finding my writing no longer enlightening
My blithe parlance no longer my mistress did entrance
With my prose she did forthrightly dispose
Each short she did subsequently abort
Each regaling verse did prudently disburse
Each perforated line truncated with lackluster shine
Each conjured sentence only increased my penance
Each glamorous byline she did smugly decline
Each dilated phrase with a bridling border did encase
Each gilded stanza a burnished extravaganza yielding no artful bonanza
Each tethered word coagulated into a stolid curd
Each bloated quote sunk my creative float deeper in the moat
Each lofty rhyme labeled too smarmy and sublime
My metric time no longer struck a concordant chime
Each literary device neatly spliced would not even a novice entice
Each repetitive, stagnant metaphor made my verse a bore
Each strained, tortured simile engendered no empathy
Each supplanted metonymy a shock wave lobotomy
Categories:
stolid, funny, metaphor,
Form:
Light Verse
scarcely noted tinge of moribund intent
in stealth advances to dull selene’s
full aspect with penumbral shade
luna’s wizened glow, its fate assured,
in grim surrender—stolid umbra
spreads somber cloak of death
benighted orb, a wound erupts,
suffused with crimson, yet artemis endures—
poets’ pens stilled by mid-april’s red moon
4th Place - Red Moon Contest
Click above on 'About this Poem' to learn more.
Categories:
stolid, moon,
Form:
Free verse
Nascent dawn's pale omen loomed
and eased me from my pensive trance.
But I am stirred
beyond expression’s means—
my face suffused with tears.
Mercifully, stolid memory
desists in part,
dread recall’s threat
impounded by advancing age.
My conscience then begs destiny,
pressing to undo.
But heaven spares not its majesty,
and history,
ever breathing in,
refuses to exhale,
a broken heart to salve.
Grimly, I stand and take a single step,
and one more after that.
3rd Place, Giorgio's Impress me II ! ( Old/New )
Categories:
stolid, sad, sorrow,
Form:
Free verse
idealism of youth
mélange of
dreams and prayers—
disparate yet intertwined—
assembled in their thunderous ranks
to echo past myriad
gleaming colonnades that
buttress evermore eternity
self-betrayal and realization
stolid mind shattered
by coruscant might,
and one's irreverent yearn
in shards was rent asunder,
bereft of merit but who
transformed amid the filth—
banality dismissed
sorrow and reconciliation
grieving stream of years
torn from Chronos’
pavilions tattered—
first estranged but then
with fairness stemmed
life's passing entourage—
muted those who would upbraid
apotheosis
were you there
you might have seen
time begging after destiny,
which turned aside
what once had been—
transcendent he continued then
past worlds without an end
Click on 'About This Poem' above for additional comments.
Categories:
stolid, heaven,
Form:
Free verse
River romances the rock in its path,
flowing around and over, offering
its gifts in season, massage, fragrant bath,
spring lilies from upper reaches, singing
songs and riverine blues and always hoping
for some acknowledgement of faithfulness.
Stolid rock, in defense, never asking
for such attention, remains unmoved, less
concerned with things that flow and things that change,
all offerings its due. Occasionally
in a bemused way, its emotions range
from cool to cold, lets, fractionally,
parts into the flow, hardly noticeable.
Eons pass, rivers path now changeable.
Categories:
stolid, introspection,
Form:
Sonnet
Better to be bold in battle
then benign in retreat!
No victory comes from actions prattle;
May honor be found in refusing defeat -
My vaults will not be breeched
by faults,
may we have a merry waltz
devoid of all unsavory salts,
this of you I have beseeched -
On this table we have met to render fable
rich as ancient Babyl,
heralds of ancestral heros and our forces' label,
bulwarks raised above this field's haze, stalwart gaurds strong and poised,
daunting sounds of ritual carols, the primal ones that spirits praise,
what is this match but a moment for atonement,
trite tribute and humble homage if you wicked will foment,
my battalions and I are stolid, faithful, our souls not being rent,
the birds in sky like personal medallions signify for we, victory is meant,
in the center sentries stood,subterfuge, lethal blows I knew you would,
a Queen as envoy repelled rudely, religiously crude as you brood,
armistice you will seek knowing bleak the future be,
like battered egos quiet speak,loosing strength,you shall weep and sneek
to snatch the proud prey from eagle's beak, your pommel being sweaty sleek,
terrified of the Promeathean peak, of my glory you may peek,
The mellow march of my bagpipes,a pallid pitch that makes men creep
they like leary sheep my wolves will eat,
must you trust a God of glutton lust,and savor his decree,
of Athena I have asked,athwart this army made by brass,
as broken glass shattered fast it shall yeild to Her Mass,
shaken soldiers running past, your eyes will cry the slaughters vast,
pray not in vain to block our rasp, or for this fauna you'll be mast,
my blood as Emperor say you crave, oh how brave,
like a slave made the day his grave was paved,
such a man is never saved,
J.A.B. Part One -
Categories:
stolid, war,
Form:
Epic
[Re-posted]
From dregs
of twilight embers,
pale dawn’s embrace—
and naught but rusty glow
stolid umbra to banish,
in wan resolve,
from these, my solitary rooms.
Echoes.
Small children laughing,
afar and ago—
profound diminuendo.
Still, I grasp—
clutching sand—
a dying world to hold.
But pain’s recall
subsists—
and, shuddering,
ebbs,
into my eyes—
drips through my fingers
and onto the floor.
Categories:
stolid, memory, missing,
Form:
Free verse