Best Wake The Dead Poems
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
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, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.
Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.
The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
He was asleep on his stomach.
His snoring could wake the dead.
She glared at his sleeping back
wanting to push him out of bed.
She covered her ears with a pillow
trying to block out the sound.
An evil thought ran though her head,
"There were no witnesses around".
She crept out to the kitchen
She could have stomped ... he wouldn't hear.
With the largest butcher knife
she returned to her husband dear..
Right between his shoulder blades,
one thrust ... he snored no more.
She gathered the blankets around him
to keep the blood off the white shag floor.
Then the snoring started again.
She let out a startled scream
and sat bolt upright in her bed.
It had all been just a dream.
He was asleep on his stomach.
His snoring could wake the dead.
She stared at his sleeping back
and wanted to punch him in the head.
10/07/2012
SPOOOOKEEEE
Lost in the woods
On All Saints Night
Chill in my blood
Moon’s a fright
Its ring around
Is red as hell
And distantly
The doomsday bells
Eerie bongs
Tis truly said
One short two long
Will wake the dead
Hark those strains
The dies irae
Tell of pains
On judgment day
Oh where to go?
At last I fear
The rooster crow
No more I’ll hear
Dave Austin
It was my first summer job
I didn’t feel quite ready
but I tossed all hesitation aside
it was time to stretch my wings
I felt lucky and tried to measure up
as summer camp counselor
on this beautiful woodsy island
where nature abounded
I was a full week into it
things were running smooth
I was starting to fit in as best I could
until it happened late one night
In the deepest darkness I met my nemesis
a teenie weenie itsy bitsy mouse
I let out a scream to wake the dead
that echoed clear across the lake
Coincidentally soon afterwards it was decided
they didn’t need quite as many counselors
I’ll always remember them polite as could be
as I was being thanked for my services
Read on air by invitation ~ May 19, 2021 'WORDS & MUSIC'
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Posted on April 15, 2021
A maiden’s crown of ivy
Entwined within her hair,
A sweet come hither smile
That warms the very air,
Her scent a wild perfume
That drives sense from my head,
Her lips like two rose petals
A kiss to wake the dead,
And each time that I see her
The yearnings once more start,
This pretty little elfin miss is
The thief who stole my heart.
Her laughter so like music
Which sets the soul to dance,
Her eyes so bright and sparkling
Hold the promise of romance.
Should I give my heart over
With no struggle or do I fight?
But how does one fight a spirit
That comes forward bathed in light
That outshines the sun’s own glory
Though ‘tis more like pale moonbeams
That glisten on a lover’s skin
In my most secret dreams
Shish, don’t wake the dead!
The sculpted angel holds
Her finger to her lips and
Whispers..............
Lichens on her limbs attest
To the time she has spent
Tender breathing silence.
About the gravestone
Graver still, little trinkets
Rest; gifts that stay
Tranquil .
The silent scene is set
But in my mind I hear
The sods of earth upturned
By the diggers spade.
I hear the sculptors
Chisel chip marble
Away to reveal the
Angel’s skin .
I hear taught ropes
Slide beneath the casket and
I hear the sobs of loved
Ones in the breeze.
.........................Shish!
When I was a lad, we had a dunny out the back,
just a hundred feet away from the house,
down a little narrow track.
I never paid a call, as often as I should,
because upon opening the door,
the smell, boy, was it good.
Once inside, it was cold, dark, and clammy,
sitting there with my parts all bared,
sent shivers up my tummy.
At night, with the blankets over my head,
I would give thanks,
for the chamber pot, stowed under my bed.
Once, while in the toilet, in the rain,
a large spider, bit me on the leg,
jeepers, what a pain.
I was up, and out of there, as fast as I could run,
screaming, dad, dad, dad,
a bloody great spider, just bit me on the bum.
"Quiet, quiet, son" he said,
"you are making enough noise to wake the dead."
Now, when I am in the toilet, with its air conditioned heat,
sitting ensconced upon my china throne,
my mind drifts back to that old bush dunny,
with its solid wooden seat.
Continued from Part 1
The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
for churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.
No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.
A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, all alone amongst the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.
Stray footsteps swarm through church no more (apostates that profane)
though echoes in the nave still din and chalice cups retain
an altar wine that tastes of brine decaying in the rain.
Coiled candle sticks, with twisted wicks, no longer 'lume the cracks -
their dying flames revealed the shame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
when deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.
Six steeple towers, steel though now drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.
The chapel chimes? Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillon, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.
No saints will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor bless pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm.
Continued in Part 3
am not going to talk about it!!”
Was the last thing that he said,
He shouted it so all could hear
The noise so loud it could wake the dead
I told myself I would not to cry
There was no need for a tear
No telling how much he had to drink
But I am sure it was more than one beer
Oh, it isn’t always this way
We love each other dearly
Then I noticed that he had changed
Yes, I could see it clearly
Today I asked him what was wrong
But he refused to say one thing
I told him he should talk to me
Just think of the peace it could bring
But then I saw the letter
I couldn’t believe the words I read
The diagnosis could not be wrong
It said my husband would soon be dead
It was then I felt the tears come
I had to go and find him
No wonder he was so upset
Life had just turned completely grim
He needs to know I will never leave him
He has to know how much I care
I vowed in sickness and in health
That I would always be there
Connie Moore
2/10/14
Make it not secret
I am your loyalist friend or your deadliest enemy.
Sky writers write my name among the clouds.
I am everything.
Nothing you have ever seen
Nothing you HAVE IMAGINED.
And yet I see all thoughts.
I am the remedy for your wretched sickness.
UNDERSTAND I am the king Of mountains.
I am the lump in your throat.
I am your grace
Be careful
I am the faithe you must face.
I am the fate of all EXISTENCES.
MY heart is pure
Kiss the CROSS.
WAKE THE DEAD
Tears UNSHED
I am EVERYTHING
I am here
I am the sorrowful feeling crowding your chest
The Sun the moon
I am the grief of these dressed In black.
The vagrant of the Ville
I am the creviced creeks.
The river the ocean flowing DEEP.
I AM THE one in the crowd
You MAY NOW BOW DOWN
DO not FEAR.
I HAVE made this DAY.
I AM THE NEW BORN who knows.
I am the righteous
One who have been RUMORED TO COME
I am many
I am ONE
I AM HERE
the mighty MIGHTY KING of everything
Let it be PROCLAIMED!!
You SHALL take no further steps
Until you have SPOKEN MY NAME
What will you say of me?
TELL THEM
From here on ALL STEPS SHALL BE FAITHFUL.
OPEN THE BOOK
turn the PAGE
TELL THEM I am the ONE WHO was proclaimed
Tell them NOW.
I AM HERE.
EASTER MORN – from the chap book,
From Childhood, by Dave Austin
Wake up! -
overnight – soft bunnies
yellow chicks
crawling the bed covers -
Brain an eggshell
In an old, stained tea cup
Wake up!
Bright, white Easter morn -
Silent bells toll invitation to the hunt
The bowl of eggs is gone,
Table strewn with dyes.
Cottontails climb the walls
Before my very eyes
One nest right in sight
Fuzzy-spills its sides -
Candy beans
Blue egg dried
SHOUT!
Mom in housecoat,
Dad in terry robe,
They’ve heard.
Brother? Sister? Still asleep.
I shrug, eat a loaded chocolate bird
SHOUT!
I’ve found a nest on top the piano,
Another on the fireplace mantle.
I break a blue egg’s shell -
Careless of the face, lovingly traced.
SHOUT!
Cries to wake the dead,
I should care.
Joy loves company.
Wake sister, brother
That all might share.
Oh, to rise on a feathery Sunday’s morn,
Break colored shells,
Eat chicks before they’re born.
Well some they say though straight or gay
Get fun from innuendo
While others wait ‘til dark
To get their kicks outside your window
Some do the deed without a sound
Some labour in the dark
While others roars would wake the dead
Some sing out like a lark
Variety’s the spice of life
And while there’s a great selection
We’ve all been screwed from time to time
At every new election
There’s watersports and bondage
There’s even golden showers
Beware though not to mix the two
Or you’ll stay wrapped up for hours
Some wear a mask with eye-holes
Or some dangerous protrusion
Some sport a tail or riding crop
While lost in their delusion
Some women favour veggies
To chippies sparks or plumbers
They relish every celery stick
Or juicy green cucumbers
There’s tales that tell of fishermen
Quite partial to a skate
Though fond of fish I always was
I prefer mine on a plate
Some wrap up like an onion
For fear their skin is showing
While some rush in all fingers and thumbs
With boobs and buttocks glowing
There are those without a conscience
Who swear they’re not the owner
Oh deary me it had to be
Someone elses *****
Though some would up and go all night
Some finish in a minute
While others just the thought alone
Would push them past their limit
While girls dress up as men
And Lads like Cinderella
It takes a little work sometime
To tell female from fella
Uniforms are common place
Considered rather arty
A sturdy pair of coppers cuffs
Are the rave at swingers parties
There’s beads and balls and bangles
They may become a habit
And a whirling whirring weapon
They call the Rampant Rabbit
When picking out a present
For your partners Xmas box
Have Duracell a plenty
In her little Xmas socks
So while sex it has its ups and downs
Even Daniel would agree
It’s a sure fire cure for unwanted frowns
And it beats a cup of Tea
My Big Dreams
sleep on the wings of saints.
They become vaporous
and airborne
colliding with
baptismal raindrops
balancing themselves
on a million
patterned snowflakes
to only then slip, slither
and snuggle
into the bosoms
of future white rosebuds.
Burning dreams
glitter in cahoots with Polaris
creating a brouhaha
loud enough to wake the dead.
Their dressing rooms
may be seen in the tunnels
of L. Frank Baum's
ebon cyclones
or possibly meandering
between the fragmented lines
of a Lewis Carroll novel.
Carefree and capricious
I see them
listening to the silence
near twilight;
secretly conversing
with rainbows at dawn.
Those precocious pixies
seeing me laugh aloud
during unexpected sun showers;
as I gleefully observe
a smattering of umbrella-less fools
being gloriously
splashed and plunked by
My Big Dreams.
The evening dark and foggy as the children in their guises
with Mums and Dads in tow; collecting trick or treat surprises.
My porch, festooned with spiders, ghosts and ugly-looking gore,
signalled that I’d welcome them if they knocked at my door.
I watched them move along my street, in groups of two’s and threes,
their lanterns lighting up the darkened branches of the trees.
Barking dogs and screeching cats, bemused at all the noise,
continued to berate these oddly scary girls and boys.
Stooping down to check that I had my supply of sweets,
I shivered as a gust of wind blew right along my street.
Catching me off guard, the bowl of sweeties overturned
and knocked a candle over, whereupon my hands were burned.
Not thinking of the consequences, I let out a yell -
just as a mini monster raised his hand to ring my bell.
And though not known for swearing, nonetheless I hurled a curse,
tearing clear throughout the sky - and mini monster dropped his purse.
The raucous discord, mini-monster, me, the dogs, the cats,
did not quite wake the dead ( but several witches lost their hats )
The flaming contents of my porch was tossed into the air,
but the children saw this only as a vain attempt to scare.
The parents, standing some way back, delighting at this sight,
could not see through the fog that my front porch was well alight.
As the monsters and the witches threw their arms up to the stars,
the Mums and Dads just clapped and chirped up with their ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’
I grabbed a blanket, managing to kill the growing flames,
but the smoke cloud brought a new dimension to their creepy games.
My face now blackened, arms aloft and clearly in pain,
I must have looked horrendous - as the parents clapped again.
The kids, unfazed, picked up the smouldering treats and bagged them all
and through their plastic teeth declared: I was the scariest of all!
These two poems composed to honor this truly great poet,
Elinor Wylie....
(1.)
Heaven Smiles And Its Light Awaits
Icy winds have died, winter fled
Hope has sung, Spring has sprung
Love and promise have wed
new life's radiant glow has brung
music to wake the dead.
Faded are snows that graced the trees
white colors that adorned
forest glens far from seas
Nature's gifts, its dear christened born
cast from Love's seeded pleas.
Icy winds have died, winter fled
Hope has sung, Spring has sprung
Love and promise have wed
new life's radiant glow has brung
music to wake the dead.
As Life and Love, partner with Fate.
Heaven smiles and its Light awaits.
Robert J. Lindley, 3-27-2020
Rhyme, Lin 86686 form
( Wherein Life And Spring This Dark Racing World Renews )
Syllables Per Line:8 6 6 8 6 0 8 6 6 8 6 0 8 6 6 8 6 0 8 8
Total # Syllables::118
Total # Words::::::96
Note- Tribute poem composed for fourth poet, ( Elinor Wylie )
in my, -- "Lesser Known Poets Series".
See my new blog on this majestically talented and amazing poet.....
(2.)
From Within Earth's Red Blooms, Love Quickly Flew
Of those sweet tender kisses-- I recall
Images that set fiery flames a'leaping
Warming hearts in truest love did swiftly fall
While Cupid through keyhole was a'peeping
From within earth's red blooms love quickly flew
As both yellow moon, twinkling stars did glow
Our eager hearts and eyes meeting we knew
Chained in golden paradise sent to grow,
In romance wedded to be great treasure
Nights of bliss to be our glittering gems
Time setting pure joy well beyond measure
We to become intertwining rose stems,
Flowers shining in garden of true love
Two cast into one, by Heavens above.
Robert J. Lindley, 3-27-2020
Sonnet, ( Depths Of Love Those So Truly Blessed Know )
Syllables Per Line:10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables::140
Total # Words:::::100
Note-
Tribute poem composed for fourth poet, ( Elinor Wylie )
in my, -- "Lesser Known Poets Series".
See my new blog on this majestically talented and amazing poet...