catacombs of fear
lost in my own illusion
a downward spiral
Stone staircase winds down into gloomy murk
Curtain of cobwebs festoon ancient door
Spiders abode well hidden yet, they lurk
Curiosity wins, cannot ignore.
Silence profound as darkness invades light
Ossuary resides behind portal
Hollow eyes empty, sadness at their plight
Realisation I am mere mortal.
Labyrinth of catacombs under street
Untold stories like a library here
Aeons of sadness neatly placed to greet
Tourists who from time to time venture near.
Ossuary's air filled with the dreams of man
Yet, immortal hope reigns since time began
Catacombs, slumbering dead
Slipped from life emotions shed
Blistering dark, insects creep
Dead will all their secrets keep.
Concrete world laden grey
Occupants have had their day
Guardian angel made of stone
Feelings nil for those old bones.
Silent wait 'til judgment day
Undertone of great dismay
Dust motes dance display macabre
Ghostly song from long-dead bard.
Tourists come they're not naive
'tis their fate they do perceive
Footsteps shuffle then they run
Eager for life, air, and sun
My apologies but I am taking a trip down memory lane with this poem . The piece was written after a visit to the Capuchin Crypts in Rome. I took poetic license with this piece it was not a typical subterranean catacomb. However, It made a lasting impression.
Eerie voices underground
strangely invite
yet they are nowhere to be found.
Broken bones, broken souls
Lamenting memories
Lost in the catacombs.
Dark elegies written on walls,
Unheard songs that were never recalled
The hymn of unfortunate souls.
The truth will likely be hidden
in the dark alleys where questions remain unanswered
Now, Then...Forever
LeiStrauss2020
Constructing Catacombs
Desirous death, a submersed breath, the walls in a carious crumble
Living life, a surgical serrate strife, as we stand surreal and stumble
Baneful blood, a feverous flood, the temerarious towers will tumble
Terranean tears, fertile fermenting fears, a famished fatalistic fungal
Corpses mounting high, Angels in the sky, reuniting dead and divine
Perpetual praying, love’s lost laying, as we build their sacred shrine
For we question why, we deceitfully die, within the abortifacient vine
Blue clouds of clay, casually chip away, as the minstrels drink their wine
The new Babylon, do we belong, beyond death's door is still unknown
Faith be quick, do we get to pick, a heaven or hell that we have sewn
Odious obstruction, of deaths destruction, mankind comes to mourn
Caught in oblivion, a denunciative delirium, and thus we are reborn.
Nov.08.2017
PREMIERE CONTEST NO 110
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Sunlight we merely dream of
here amongst the bones
with the memories of the past
these haunted caverns
dank in their prisons
Acceptances specter
teaches our children
there before the pulpit of skulls
deaths contract is written
Reincarnations end pays the toll
rigmarole I see in their eyes
praising as such, this dry arid dust
for in the gloom of their minds
a festival of cadavers
explains their lives
Built to the walls these bodies piled
sacrificial font filled with lies
lay the drudgery
interminable
in this church of the night
The catacombs
devour
there is no light
In pale and empty form of soul
thus the habit of breathing
is the only goal
and here amidst the ancient bones
lays the memorial past
of these haunted caverns
The catacombs
devour
there is no light
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
DEATH IN THE CATACOMBS
Beneath the gloom of Paris streets
where death's the only game to play;
the light of Heaven never meets
in time of night nor time of day;
down in the catacombs I roam
and here I call this dark my home.
This place is where my need runs free,
to search for souls lost to the dark
not caring if the likes of me
might lay in wait to leave my mark
upon their neck to reach their vein
before they even feel the pain.
The limestone seeps recycled vin
from life above that lets it pour
and what's not drained into the Seine
drips from our ceilings, evermore;
'tis here death's meaning is made new
and welcomed by the likes of you!
But I, and all the undeads flock
have made this place a place to live
where death's a time that we can mock
well knowing death can never give
an ending to the days we'd planned
unnumbered by the falling sand.
© ron wilson arbuthnot
aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
The rottenness of it all is no less foul for having been bleached white. This is the conclusion I come to. I walk with a scarf covering my mouth through the dimly lit catacombs of the faithful. The arched ceiling holds a dangling string of incandescent bulbs which cast a sickly yellow glow on my shoes and the cavities full of thighbones. “Why are all the bones the same,” I ask. The guide smiles. “Tens of thousands of heaven seekers wish to be buried here. There’s only so much room,” he said. “Even today people pay for holy ground.” Ghostly, armless, rib-less, headless, specters seem to rise un-braced, oh the indignity of it all. I picture them searching for the missing parts of themselves. I sneeze through my paisley scarf, stumble back; back, following the arrows in reverse, seeking the way out; just as frantically as they had sought the way in. The rest of the group trudges on; after all, they had paid their coin to Charon.
First Published in Inwood Indiana January 2014
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron Arbuthnot aka Ron wilson
Melted butter
Missed crumbs of toast
Blue-ribbon cooking
In dishwasher catacombs
Remnants of delicious memories
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there lays a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
FEMMES FATALE OF THE CATACOMBS -Monsieur L'Vampyre
Beneath the gloom of Paris streets
where death's the only game to play;
the light of Heaven never meets
in time of night nor time of day;
down in the catacombs I roam
and here I call this dark my home.
in search of femmes lost to the dark,
not caring if the likes of me
might lay in wait to leave my mark
upon their neck to reach their vein
before they even feel the pain.
The limestone seeps recycled vin
from life above that lets it pour
and what's not drained into the Seine
drips from our ceilings, evermore;
'tis here death's meaning is made new
and welcomed by the likes of you!
But I, and all the undeads flock
have made this place a place to live
where death's a time that we can mock
well knowing death can never give
an ending to the days we'd planned
unnumbered by the falling sand.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosaq the Doylestown Poet
THE CATACOMBS OF PARIS
Their skeletoned remains, in disarray,
are numbered more than any count can say
and from their numbers, Paris grew
to be what she has grown into,
each stone's been cut and raised from where it lay.
Down in the dark, beneath each cobblestone
there sleeps a death that no one should have known;
and their remains are dried, to last;
to be reminders of the past,
lest we forget what's raised the cornerstone.
And what has made all Paris so discrete
is every stone they raised up to the street;
and every bone that's stripped and bare
by time that's left them laying there
in their sarcophagus beneath our feet.
Related Poems