Best Unworldly Poems
In the dead of night veils uplift on Mid Summer's Eve,
still a time for a few live sacrifices, so tread warily.
A time when briefly the gates of hell can open
and unworldly things spew forth intent on evil.
Mid Summer Night dreams can come to pass
most oft to those who's hearts are true and pure.
A night of extremes, of evil versus good, and
of the fires of covens and black magic.
A night where Pan himself comes forth
playing his Pipes with gleeful skirls.
Tempting and enticing the unwary souls
with false promises and exciting dreams.
Goddesses of Light dance around in circles
their task to push back the evils of hell
to allow departed lovers to hold their beloved
for a fleeting moment to love once more.
The joy of birth, the growing up,
leads us to adore our lovely babies.
But not, alas, without the toils of life.
Because we experience a lack of sleep,
contend with baby vomit,
or idiotically putting on his boxer shorts
completely the wrong way around.
Yet all is part of being loving
to a newborn child. Sometimes
I get the weird, unworldly feeling
that I'm the worst grandpa of all.
Perhaps it's just that I'm getting old.
Try lifting the chubby scamp a little while
and oh my poor back simply aches.
And if he cries I must find out
what ails the urchin, my dearest pet.
A dirty nappy? Someone take care,
mother or granny, it's their job I'm afraid.
But if it's a bottle of milk he wants,
or nibbling a few small pieces of cereal,
then I am game. Bring on the glorious food.
And when he sleeps, I'm just in heaven,
contemplating the profound miracle of life.
For though he's not directly mine,
he's the continuation of my genetic line.
And so I worry if he coughs or wheezes,
or falls whilst crawling, adding to his bruises.
Awake he's smiling, a gurgling bundle of joy
that makes me proud, he's Nicholas my boy.
NB Nicholas, my grandson, is now 18 years old, studying dentistry at University (first in class) and has a driver's licence too.
"Dark-heaving . . . boundless, endless, and sublime . . ."
Lord Byron 1788-1824
_____________________
I am the wordsmith, guide and editor of this narrative,
this epic chronicle and story of abysmal dream love;
my fingers are ink-stained and worn from writing,
this account of my journey is both tragic and dreadful;
it is a ghost story both poetic and darkly painful.
I awoke one night to find a gossamer shape watching,
it was vague, misty and hovered vapor-like;
the form soon became a phantasmal beautiful man,
ethereal and cloud-born, unworldly and spiritual;
he floated about my bed whispering my name endlessly.
His face was noble with a smile dazzling,
fathomless eyes made me feel so calm and wanted;
when he reached for me I felt glorious and filled with love,
his touch was sublime and he whispered I was his;
at that moment- I was whirling into darkness.
I gasped and realized his skin was corpse-like cold,
oh, was he the spirit of a dead man- an apparition;
a ghostly shadow come the take me to some deathly destination,
but when the specter spoke it was like a warm wave;
washing over my soul and I found my arms embracing him.
All night I lay in his celestial strong arms kissing his lips,
it felt both heavenly and decaying and I had to escape;
I had to leave this divine desire- and this beautiful man,
so with all my strength I pushed, pushed him away;
and his arms became threadlike reaching out for me, reaching.
I woke in the morning in my bed with sun shining brightly,
but my blankets and feet were grave stained with mud;
and I fell back weeping for this love boundless, and endless.
______________________________
May 14, 2019
Poetry/Narrative/I Am The Wordsmith, Guide and Editor
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1144-258-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Epic Ethereal Editor
sponsor, William Kekaula
Second Place
___________________________________
Submitted to FGI Blog Series 20 - Epic
Brian Strand
Podium Place 1
The Night beguiles and bewitches me
as shadow deepen and lengthen
The moon shyly peeps out at me
then bursts out in splendid stateliness.
Now clouds drift across its beaming face
causing shadows to change their shape
I see first a unicorn dancing in the night
Followed by a trio of old haggard witches.
The night sure belong to unworldly things
goblins, elves, pixies hobnob in its darkness
and shadows leap and dance in moonlight
rays of gold, silver and blood deep reds.
Soon. too soon the night will give way
and all the secrets hidden by darkness
will slip away and leave me wondering
were they ever displayed in the darkness?
Where the wild waves crashed
I saw you, standing upright
Blond long manes, proud lion
Arms stretched and face lit
by sun
I stopped, couldn't breathe
Constricted, no voice, no sound
Mesmerized, absorbing your
strange beauty, unworldly
attraction
You turned with eyes closed
Wind lifting that silky shirt
You ran and jumped and
I caught you and whirled you
around
What did I do to have you
In my life, where did you
come from, incoherent thinking
while I kiss you, won't let go
Not ever
***
Meme by Mel
Poem by Darren White
January 25, 2017
Wisteria grows rampant its beauty displayed
Lavender clusters of perfected flowers
Forming an archway an ethereal display
Their elegance unworldly admired for hours.
In soft summer rain, they grow refreshed
Luminous shade that catches one's eye
With gentle motion, they sway and impress
Exquisite moment relished we softly sigh.
Clusters of blossoms heavy on vine
Blissful respite soothes weary mind
To enjoy and wonder before its decline
With summer wisteria is eternally twined.
underneath
his trenchcoat
he was
in possession
of a bent quill
he used it to tickle
words out of his
avaries of birds
moon-eyed and
sucker-punched
they adored the
dripping honey
he spooned
into their
unworldly
wide-open bills
his avarice
for swollen
notoreity
observed
by the dark
night-eyed
hunters
while he,
unsuspecting,
stalked
newly commissioned
clean and unmarked boxes
with his know-it-all
best bumbling
holy-roller turns
the nights
are full of obsessed
decent hunters
lit matches
with an arsenal
of thoughts
and a granary
of words
ready to burn
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved
against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved.
Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday
with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.
Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes,
which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes
with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons.
Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.
Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain
reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane
which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete.
Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds.
No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm
nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.
Continued in part 2
In the moments of missing time, I’m unable to
Clearly define what is real, fact or fictions of illusion,
Bright, bright is the light of delusions, but I know
One thing I’ve been touch by the other side
Of realities unknown!
Sheer is the curtain between space, and times
Universal continuum, a fine thin veil pulled backwards
By unworldly hands, investigating chattering’s voices
Which Echo within my head, probing mine own version
Of sanities awkward view of life, and deaths
Context of truth!
Burning embers of reddened eyes, sizzle into my
Skeletal perception of panic, fear, this is a nightmare,
From which I cannot awaken from, me the abductionary
Victim, sitting on the stone cold table of realism,
Unable to move, and muted unable to scream!
Side to side, my captors do so move, whispering
In a language unknown to me, their prisoner,
What do they want from me, their caged
Animal, an earthling of mortal flesh, their
Creature held, an entrapment’s futuristic web!
Locked down are my wrists of humanity,
Unable to struggle free, a passive resistor,
Controled by these little green man tormentors.
As if these thoughts are read by them,
One turns and looks at me, a mental whispering
Do I so hear, me the abducted, be still now,
We mean thee no harm, just curious!
Almost tenderly does he whisper within my mind,
As I fell within a deep, deep sleep, suddenly I am
The dreamer awoken, drenched in sweat, shaking
Unto my own inner core, what time is it, what day
Is this, was it real or just a bad dream?
My clock radio, says only a moment has passed,
But I know something has happened,
I’m not just having a bad dream!
So I shake my wife lying next to me,
Obviously spooked beyond belief,
She says, I’ve had a similar dream?
In the moments of missing time, I’m unable to
Clearly define what is real, fact or fiction of illusion,
Bright, bright is the light of delusions, but I know
One thing I’ve been touch by the other side
Of realities unknown!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I know of, and I rest in awe of the illimitable greatness of the river Congo, and the Yangtze.
I know of and I rest in awe of the brilliance and grandeur of Mt. Everest and Mt. Speke.
I know of and I rest in awe of the beauty of the Aurora borealis and the hop-skip terpsichore of the wallaby.
I know of and I rest in awe of the splendour of the sun setting in the fall sky, casting its aluminiferous orange and gold rays over the descending life of the maple, elm, birch, oak, and the willow tree, and projecting it"s image over the vast sea.
I know of and I rest in awe of the magnificence of Giza Necropolis, the Great Wall of China, the Taj Mahal, the Grand Canyon, Machu Picchu, the Galapagos Islands, and Serengeti.
I know of and I rest in awe, as an awe-inspiring tears run down my face at the strength and the greatness I envision with daylight reverie. The reverence of your sepia beauty, your hair; the effulgence of a raven's plume. The grace and unworldly wisdom of you, my grand-girl, my little Nhandi,
copyright 2007
The ink in my pen writes and demands to be heard
It screams peace, justice, and hope as it pens God’s word
As my ink flows, there are too many days that I cried
From the truth of my past pain I witnessed my words of poetry haven’t lied
But I’m a man who was beaten, and his insanity denied
I never gave up my will to survive, so every day I tried
My fear of not knowing fueled my weakness but; it also gave my faith strength
Jesus’s love swathed my soul, his mercy and grace healed my body at length
The lies of disease and defeat that served as unworldly stimulations
The words of Jesus gave me encouraging hope, which healed my past
condemning revelations
With all my life’s tribulations and experiences that I’ve witnessed I know that
Jesus will heal this nation
I write this poem to God to show my appreciation
The ink in my pen will never run out
Because Father God will never forsake and leave me without a doubt
I
At the innocent age of sixteen I was sinless,
Pure as driven white snow and totally trusting;
And I fell in love, oh, it was more than fondness,
This was true love, my soul and heart was yearning;
I was smitten, besotted, how I longed for his soft caress,
We would walk hand in hand with such wide-eyed innocence;
So clean and fresh, unworldly, inexperienced and so full of purity,
Our world was small but our endless, devoted love was so immense,
Naïve, gullible and demure, how I blushed pink when he said I was pretty.
II
I waited for him breathless at my home,
On his motorcycle we would fly unguarded;
We liked to find little country towns to roam,
O, I adored him and I was fascinated, infatuated;
We drove the motorcycle on beaches through foam,
I dreamt at night that this true love would be my groom;
The days, weeks and years have passed since this pure love,
He was not my groom, he did not age one day, he dwells above,
I still hold this childhood love so dear and often go to visit his tomb.
______________________________
May 6, 2015
Poetry/Ode/Purity
Copyright Protected, ID 04-670-704-06
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, When Love Was Innocent,
sponsor, Justin Bordner, HM, Judged 2015
God is good to everyone; so when you love, be in love.
Said to me a Sable Hoplite in mottled clothes; guarding the memoir of his dead wife in Boston’s subway transit.
Robbing a pedestrian of a moment's time as he did from banks for fiat claims and capital climbs via violent crimes.
He intimidates the hive mind as well as mine, but we are receptive.
Like all under the devil's thumb, we wish to traverse the red wall.
I look to my side and see a cherub evolving into a matron of unworldly skies.
Her will soars like a whirlwind sword that scores the fabric of time.
She fosters the orphaned spirit and walks the literal and figuratively blind through their valley of darkness.
Her and I are vagrant and lost like nomads; but we find homage in one another.
Attracting like covalent and ionic bonds.
She’s an eclectic electric Aryan blonde with the constellation Pleiades in the lines of her palm.
The lines are in cursive and those who read and heed its words will hear the echo of the Celestine.
The Valkyrie, oh so cunning and keen; so intent to take me to Valhalla.
She passively leads the Liberation Army; to their respective terminals and posts.
As if to intervene.
Co-collectively, they carry the virtue of a justified rebellion in the form of a military coup.
Encouraged to face the truth even in her absence, a man finds he must transmute.
I went outside last night in my dream, into the dark cold night,
Winter still, surreal and unworldly, the snow falling;
I looked up into the fathomless night and snowflakes kissed me,
I held them in my hands to feel them melting away.
So silent were those perfect snowflakes.
My white gauzy gown trailed behind me and raven hair flowed,
Scarlet lips lush, a purple amethyst at my throat glistened;
Tinkling softly in the silence my horse white as white followed,
He stepped high as we traveled deeper and deeper.
Snow was falling and falling and falling.
The sound of a horse coming closer, yet I had no fear,
A man with a face beautiful and dark long hair waited;
His emerald eyes blazing and burning, he stepped toward me,
Cold lips and scarlet lips mingled as one.
_______________________________
August 2, 2013
Poetry/Verse/Dreaming
Copyright Protected, ID 08-496-536-02
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
We met and soon became good friends.
and I invited her home for tea;
where she stood in my living room with her eyes closed,
you have two ghosts, she said !
Well, I had suspected as much,
is it an old woman with a cat, I asked;
that is my grandma and snowball the cat,
and they sit in that chair near the window watching.
Soon, our conversation got deep and mysterious,
she told me could see the past and future;
I was fascinated and wanted to know what she saw,
she told me I had lived many past lifes !
But, I always died young and still beautiful,
some of my deaths tragic;
in one I was lost to the ocean,
and in all my life's I have been searching for love.
She knew things about me that she could not have known,
I could feel her ethereal spirit;
she seemed unworldly and puzzling,
and told me I will again die young in this life !
Oddly, I have suspected this for a long, long time.
I will never know old age;
she told me she had been a witch in one of her life's.
burned at the stake by frightened men.
Each time we met, I gained more details of my past life.
it was beyond explanation to me;
the details unfathomable,
I had no previous experience with clairvoyants !
Or any people with sixth sense,
but, I do believe there are things we do not know;
things obscure, veiled and concealed,
outside the scope of the known.
But, I do know for sure that Grandma,
and Snowball cat are my very own ghosts.
_______________________
December 13, 2021
Poetry/Verse/Beyond Explanation
Copyright Protected, 12-1412-840-13
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for Premier the contest, Paranormal
sponsor, Robert James Liguori, Judged 12/29/2021
Second Place