Hardest to reach type.
As self effacing
Dimmest, deadest hideaway place
Lives as deep within.
Unvoiced, as leaves shut
True feelings, a door.
Eyes'shutters, whilst across them pass
Quick frights' silhouettes
Its outlook betrayed, whilst crass besets
His world's, a world for.
The sodium street lights
Your few striped freckles
The makeshift tattoo on my palm
A couple? Never. It's always been a triple or even a single at best,
A circle of medics healing medics.
This distortion is fine
It's a revolution of entrancing revolts.
Relics ignite for every star in the ground,
Scattered upon my brain.
To my pressed, dear, deadest flowers...
You keep leaving me out!
Crystalise for me, so I can die again for you.
My precious opalite,
Your purity is a miracle.
My beloved flaked obsidian,
Your impurity is a fiasco.
Both are much to be worshipped.
But now what am I to you>
The myriad, or the clone?
You keep me enshrined.
You rekindle yourself.
You say the circle is perfect, but it ends 4 corners behind.
I guess I'm only history.
Set me alight
If you dare.
The door doesn't shut
The windows don't open,
But, give it some time
Some wishin' and hopin'
Creaking floorboards
And the coldest drafts,
Occupy these rooms
With echoes of laughs
Only a house rundown
Is what the eye sees,
Yet, the deadest place
Is alive with memories
The lady in the cellar
The man in the attic,
Shrieking and calling
And stomping erratic
Below a leaky roof
My feet still roam,
No, it ain't much ...
But, still it's home.
Who is the deadest
Now that Israel has published horrific pictures
of slain children this as an explanation of why they
so cruelly bomb Gaza
where about 500 children have been victims
of relentless bombing
one hopes the Palestinians will refrain from publishing pictures of their dead children like it should be a competition
My child is more horrifically dead than yours
The Deadest Hope In The World
The deadest hope in the world to hold
To be truly youthful when one is old
To race about with eager quickened pace
Innocent smile upon a softened face,
Willing hands to love yet again,
The envy of many jealous, fellow men
A finer vessel sleek, pure and true
Charming lady dancing along with you!
Adorned with steadfast heroic words,
Flying free of earth like the birds,
Wandering into majesty of the clouds
Far away from teeming earthbound crowds
A God sailing alone in the night sky,
Enjoying a blessing, not asking why!
Robert J. Lindley, 05-30-2015
A story man will run out of stories.
He's deprived of oxygen
a lusterless butterfly
chained to straight paths
the deadest of ends in sight
a fading dreamer in a burnt-out lullaby.
Funny thing about a story man...
Although he always has the belief
that another story
Nestled deep in the throat
of a mountain top crag
You just had to dig it out.
He moves on down the dirt road
(at periwinkle pace).
Conversing with dusty birds begging for neon crumbs.
Then out of the deepest kind of blue
the puncture wound in his balding tire
turns into an angel of fire.
No longer oxygen-deprived.
Out of chrysalis bondage.
Following the path of hieroglyphs
chanting
"Be grateful- pay attention
this could be your last
story
man".
The finer you draw your measurements,
the further away you fall
Each number squared and time compared,
deafens out the call
Your techno-dialectic,
data piled upon itself
A trash heap at the deadest end
—where folly stacks unfelt
(Haverford Pennsylvania: July, 2019)
I cried when my brothers died
When my heart was broken
and when i broke another's
not a good man
but a bad one trying
Trying to outrun uncatchable mistakes
Cried in the deadest morn
and night
when darkest shadows act as flares
Not concise but shortened
Shortened names joined by the i do
And the first time sight of newly born eyes
I have cried
without her
without her
i
will
never stop
I love the Scottish nights
Where the cold nuzzles
face and soul
Not silence in its deadest form
But in murmuring demise
An an an echoed lovers small talk
A revving engine rainbows overhead
An breath hangs in cold cut
A mist mirror that uncovers
ethereal truth
Soft the night
blur the light
I love the Scottish nights
Soft the nights
blur the lights
I love the Scottish night
Lost all feeling, nothing left
Words lost on mindless thought
Daylight darkens the light
No sound but the deadest thumping in my head
All beauty torn assunder
Lost with no goal to reach
No glimmer, no hope
My soul has died within
And left me on my own
The Deadest Hope In The World
The deadest hope in the world to hold
To be truly youthful when one is old
To race about with eager quickened pace
Innocent smile upon a softened face,
Willing hands to love yet again,
The envy of many fellow jealous men
A finer vessel sleek, pure and true
Lady of charm dancing along with you!
Adorned with steadfast heroic words,
Flying free of earth like the birds,
Wandering into majesty of the clouds
Far away from teeming earthbound crowds
A God sailing alone in the night sky,
Enjoying a blessing, not asking why!
Robert J. Lindley, 05-30-2015
A sonnet, simply because I have not written one in a while..
The turn of the century
It was hard to fathom
But I had the sagacity
Of one side of the chasm
To realize it to be more
Than a promotion of the first number of the year
And knew too well
To have no fear
I felt like a quondam psychic
Evolved into a genius
Myself and those alike, - Stoic
Whilst battling the deadest of brains
We weren’t
Victory was ours
At the turn of the hour
But now I feel like the taste of my words have gone sour
As I now look at the 21 century,
What I initially viewed with a certainty of happiness
Is now perceived with ambiguity
My optimism is fading slowly.
Flames flicker in the deadest part of night
Making shadows on the cabin floor
The time heartfelt dreams take flight
Who knows what the morning has in store
Will a certain path become more clear
Perhaps we'll hear the lonely tiger's roar
Face our tomorrows with no falling tear
Find strength in the last glowing embers
Together we have nothing more to fear
These hours are time for us to remember
Before the light of day appears once more
For soon come the storms of late November
Hold my hand and watch the dying flame
Tomorrow, I will love you just the same
Dead, dying, deadest
All security is broken.
Warm sand wrapped in seaweed
Your smiling face
Goose bumps in hard, playful waves, washed by
Laughing foam, watched by a
Dancing sun
Drips of ice cream trickled down sandy arms
As flip-flopped feet swerve Shelob
Sleeping in her glittering lair,
Sung to sleep by the lullaby of semi, mosquitoes, traffic, and waves.
Slap, slap, roar.
Slap, slap, roar.
Slap, slap…
ROAR.
Silence.
Cheap bullet holes
Through cheap souls
Make rich ones!
Aimed at them with no college, no future...no funds
Have fun with guns?!
And be all you can be?!
And so, we shall see...
But bloodied clouds will garner
When all is dead and calmer
Bloodied history shall not be missed
But feeble, blood lust men will clench a fist
The invalueable commodities sigh
All lost...at cost from those up high
The mosquito men who fly by
For young to fight and die
Mosquito men sucking dry
With leanest, redest eye
To meet the keenest, deadest guy
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.