Cobwebbed Poems | Examples

Life as a Book

I had glorious plans for my life. 
Warm ink transforming blank pages, 
destined to be a best seller! 
I felt specially bound. 

Printing press cranked out 
a glossy-colored cover, 
my name plastered 
in bold black letters for all to see. 

Signed inside by my creator 
I only rested on the bookstore shelf 
for three bitter hours 
before someone adopted me. 

Held gingerly each night by gentle fingers, 
eagerly offering my very soul 
until snores dropped me 
on soft, disheveled blankets. 

Word by word and line by line, 
page by page, and chapter by chapter. 
Night after night, I was dynamite 
till shut tight. 

Is that all there is? 
I've slept for ten years now... in a box, 
in a cobwebbed corner of a cluttered closet, 
dressed up and no place to go. 

I'm suffocating!

Cherry

I write my ‘i’s differently now
—your letters etched themselves into my blood
I eat everything with chili
that burning sting is close enough to your kiss
I abandoned the blade. You’d be proud—
though only because we meet 
every night, dream or not

Why do you haunt me, why?
but still, I tail 
behind your cherry mirage

Lost
in this desert, I crawl
beneath a sun that brands skin
your smiling eyes lurk in the harsh glare—

ghost-lit nightstand in my tonic gin
billowing gray of exhaled nicotine
cobwebbed corner in that one drawer
only you and I know exist

Museum of Me

Diaries left open and letters framed,
chronological ink waving from a horizon, gone.
Clothes hung to recreate a wedding, a dance, a touch – 
enclosed in glass cases to trap the scent inside.

There’s a recording of his voice that skips 
back through time. Her handprint in clay, cracked.
That first glass of wine, now cobwebbed, stained red,
next to teenage car keys rusted.

A prescription acts as evidence I tried.

Sawdust forms a path between pets
and my Walkman makes youth balk; 
to them my VHS collection is alien.

Postcards curled from saltwater offer perfect snapshots
years before we scrolled for one.

A mortarboard on display alongside a bus pass, front door key and bank card.
A blade of Sefton Park grass pinned down like the wings of a butterfly.
Receipts of apologies. Candleholders waxed in missteps.

Maybe, one day, there’ll be a travelling exhibit where I finally get to meet you.
And the curator will add you, title card and all, to this museum of me.

Creative Creation

Zygote ideas crowd cobwebbed thoughts.
Foetal creations evolving...
Yearning for life.
Crammed in empty wombs
Contracted by phantom possibilities 
Gatekeepers to life
Aborted hopes and dreams
Fear laced life blood...
trickles away with the sands of time...
Again.

Eternal Embrace: A Love Story

Beneath the moon’s haunting silver sheen,
Where whispers of cold night winds convene.
In dreams’ labyrinth, we’ll intertwine,
Amid shadows cast by the pale moon’s sign.

Across the veil, our spirits entwine,
In a macabre dance, your heart in mine.
In a spider’s loom, our destiny spun,
In cobwebbed bonds, our souls are one.

So fear not, my love, for I am near,
In every sigh, in every tear.
In the darkest depths of Gothic night,
I am your phantom, your guiding light.

Beneath the ivy, where passions lie,
In cryptic vows that never die.
Haunted chambers of ancient lore,
Our love endures, forevermore.

Where tombstones mark our resting place,
Locked in love’s eternal embrace.

-Edward

The Minds Shrouded Catatombd Vaults

Yesterday's passing drifted shadow
Added to our eclectic collected hoards
A bittersweet cocktail of events and instances
Confined captured and tangled cobwebbed corridors
Of to the limbic labyrinth 
The older the memory
The darker the recesses
The further back filed and stored 
Within the canyon of the catacombs 
Where piled high-skeletonised cognitions and permutations 
Reside resulting in a sea of feelings and emotions
Getting deeper as time the thief moves on

Some memories are unwelcomed and dislike to visit
Too painful to view
Are confined to the back of our minds
Reside behind locked doors marked 'No Entry'' 
Bolted padlocked and locked 
By a lost entry key

Some doors are open wide
Not only in our minds
But also within the album of our hearts
That makes our hearts smile upon reflection
Release warm cosy spreading soothing waves 
Of a deep consoling of flooding emotion
Spreading through our souls and very beings.

Margin

The sun will rise like a golden fish
over the far bank,
but for now
a cobwebbed sky
clings to the curling water.

This is the margin
where dawn issues
through nights last gleam
in ghostly drifts.

The dewy daylight arrives
a veiled lace flecked with gold.
Reeds rustle, stir a dark mud
into green ripples.
Dragonflies climb stems
to dry damp wings.

A standing heron appears,
its eyes are star-bright.
Mallards and Coots,
pluck mist from their plumage.

The day floods up
to paint itself
beneath high flying feathers

the hunter waits, gun at the ready,
but he will miss,
for the margin has hidden his aim
and it always will
in such magic moments.

The Door Wolf

The Door Wolf.
And, what of the waxing Moons
Its flood, of relentless tides, that time
of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed,
their belly grumbling handlers, eager 
to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard.
While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies,
babies must wait, in so many ways they  are a benefit, against the door Wolf.

And what of pale,  deep eyed children
Barefoot in waste lands of snow
Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes !
Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within.
Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf.

And what of the well heeled lace lover, 
hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ?
With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum
Hum drum  stench, from a piss trench
soaked and brandyied to sleep.
Her blinkers finaly,  blinked blank.

Those waxed, and wained Moons !
Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.

Go Alone To the Sea

A briny wind and a shoaling sea shore,
and I sense a cobwebbed dispersing
the shredded unraveling of care.

Go alone to the seas edge,
take no thought or fret to that
swirling margin.
Let that wild alchemy play
as it dissolves your senses,
turning them into that sky phantom
you always knew you were.

See how the sandy pebbles
have no control as to where
the waves toss them?

Let go of your sea wall, be swept away,
rearranged,
something unplanned, unrehearsed.

Empty your vessel, be the rise and fall
of the waves and the wind.
Allow that new being to be
rediscovered.

Through the Flames of Her Blackened Heart--

A cobwebbed threshold 
of her festering wound.
The foul rush of shadow and abandonment
spoiled just beyond recognition. 

Embers of a chaotic ritual 
and venom searing vehemently
through the flames of her blackened heart
becoming death’s latest rendezvous.

Darkness has a tight grip on her
even light refuses to set her free. 
Her kissed curses were sinfully forgotten
though her lost heart still beats. 


*I wrote this poem on April 7, 2021, as part of a ’30 days of poetry’ challenge. This was day 7 and the prompt was:Write a poem that embodies a very strong emotion.  Can you guess the emotion I was going for? Let me know…

The Music of My Youth

The music of my youth: a capsuled find,
a dusty box of discs, a time machine.
A foolish younger self and I convene,
camped in a cobwebbed corner to unwind
the lilting, haunting tunes which fresh remind
that pastures parched and brown have turned to green.
The music of my youth…

Though they reveal the depths to which I, blind
and lonely, stumbled in despair unseen,
littered there were small hopeful bits to glean,
and so I think that I'll not leave behind
        the music of my youth.

----------

A Rondine: (Ra)bbaabR/abbaR

What Fascinates Me- On Seeing a Tiny Door

Who would answer if I knocked?
A little gnome in stripey socks.
Would he call out, “ Who dares to knock.”?
Or sic on me his pet blue fox.

Would it be a lonely hobbit
wearing cobbled boots he wears by habit
and a cobwebbed hat of furry rabbit
Sipping mead from a wobbly goblet?

It doesn’t look like a fairy would
for it isn’t decked how a fairy twould 
with childhood dreams and elfinwood
Convinced I am of the likelihood. 

Who ever lives in this tiny abode 
Their door to the world has long been closed. 
Where a peaceful meadow once outflowed, 
Paved up to the door by a busy road.

For the First Time In Years I Was Me

A classmate was murdered.
So I threw away my colors.
Because she was colorful, and shiny.
Dazzling, radiant.

If they were murdering yellows, reds and pinks.
I wanted to be grayscale, covert, hidden.
Nonaccessible. I released the colors I loved.
I threw away my favorite – orange. 

I lived for several years without colors.
My life was bland; I was fearful, and tame.
Too tame; sadly depressed. 
Living in cobwebbed corners, hiding in fear.

One day I attended a seminar put on by two women.
They were dazzling, radiant, and shiny, like the murdered girl.
They had not been murdered, and they were……….joyful.
Optimistic, hopeful, excited, enthusiastic.

I left the seminar at noon and slept four hours.
I was exhausted, trying to process this revelation.
When I woke up, I began throwing oranges and reds around the room.
I added yellows, purples and greens. 

Following my bliss was a giant relief.
I crawled out of the corners and began to live.
For the first time in years; I was me.
Rejoicing!

Ideas Spring Forth

I wander through its corridors
 And up its winding stairs
 I enter cobwebbed rooms
 And find the yesteryears

 I wander through its seasons
 And find my autumn there
 The leaves are falling slowly
 Yet there is no time to spare

 I wander through its canyon
 And find a river running deep
 There is no time to linger
 The subconscious never sleeps

 I wander through its pathways
 A never ending maze
 Ideas seem to spring forth
 Imagination has its ways!

1-3-2022

Geminis Are Special People

Tu Pac Shakur was a June Sixteen
And I, a June Fifteen;
Also, a full year my younger
But on our Third Planet didn’t linger
John F. Kennedy,
A bashed head, no remedy,
A May Twenty-Nine,
Like Tu Pac not a cat with lives up to nine.

Gemini Greats seem destined for the bullet,
Wherefore my fervent wish is that I remain a pullet
My everlasting consolation, our mercuric intelligence
The stupendous achieving with the poorest diligence.

Always The Ever Clever
To cobwebbed wisdom flinging 'A Never';
Of a soul crazily restless
With tasks striving even while listless:
Dying Laureate Yeats still pushing his poetic pen,
Perhaps thinking of  another impossible ten!

Geminis are special people:
Both  the seemingly simple
And the liable to cause a ripple...

Good bye to the late T. B. Joshua,
Whose healing of T. B. were sure.

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