Call me deadly nightshade
Poison in my blood
Anger sparks cruel words
Inspired desperate actions
That cannot be undone
The weapon my tongue
Bloodsports for the soul
Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.
The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral spirits.
The silence of the night breaks, with chants of *Burn the witch* filling the void.
Leering eyes and foaming mouths scream obscenities my way.
But even among this fanatic freakshow, I hold on to my dignity.
I do not let them see the fear festering beneath my eyes,
nor does my lip quiver.
With insurmountable strength, I hold my head high
as I watch the torches preparing to set me ablaze.
Closing my eyes one final time, I breathe in everything I have ever held dear.
Memories flood—of loves lost and gained,
of the changing seasons,
of my connection to this glorious earth.
I can feel the flames licking at my feet now.
But I will not scream,
for my resurrection will come soon enough.
Weightlessness
My soul floats "along with the thunder,"
Saturated with impending rain,
Scattered back throughout the earth,
Lost among ancient ruins and countless seas.
I awaken, feeling hollowness within my quivering heart.
Frantically getting dressed,
The front door blows open—
Listening to its siren's call.
Piece by fragile piece, I must absorb it back into my mortal coil.
Hike through deadly nightshade-tangled forests,
Sleep amongst somber bones in graveyards of contrition,
Push through arid, combusting deserts,
Swim through the waters of paranoia—
Riptides of mentholated melancholy.
Watch as the embers of dawn settle into the ashes of dusk.
Build a golden pyre upon the jaded shale,
Lay my weary bones on the cleansing flames,
Until I rise anew from the ashes,
Never again to be confined within corroded psychosocial cages.
As strangleweeds ghost life manifestly,
caused by an Atropa belladonna
exposé mind-bending, marijuana
bears parallel outcomes, yet, it's deathly,
Greek myth Atropos cuts the thread of life
belladonna, a woman of beauty ...
Italian. If eaten, highly deadly,
or plant scrapes open cut, certain wildlife
are unaffected by its consumption ...,
pupil highlighters, cosmetic usage
and medicinal, named Deadly Nightshade
an earmark for historical function,
for it enhances the beauty facials,
and in parts of the world for medicals.
Oh, belladonna, deadly bloom,
Potent in your smile,
Bold, the dew-drops in your eyes,
Bewitching in their guile
Blazing with a brazen nerve,
Your irises aspire
To burn the embers of your fire
In flames of our desire –
Deal your deadly night of shade
Let it, with stealth, conceal
Your flower fruited to appeal
– A thief set out to steal
Dispense your tonic potion,
In lethal doses drip
Your biting kiss upon our lips
– A bite we can't resist
Oh, beautiful lady, femme fatale,
Seductive in design,
Your bite of berry, toxic wine,
Is not the glory we divined
Your deadly nightshade, deadly guise,
Which takes our breath away,
Reveals in beauty's masquerade
A belladonna that betrays
glow bugs in eerie
summer marshes add twilight
sparkle to ink blot
welkin, fireflies red heart flash
deadly nightshade clicks scare bats
Posted and created : 11th March 2022
Contest Name ; FIREFLY TANKA
Sponsor ; JCBBRUL
Suggesting a new plant based diet
She’d leave me if I didn’t try it
In that quarrel she was the winner
So that evening I cooked the dinner
The table was laid and the soup that I’d made
Was Hemlock and Deadly Nightshade
I knew
she was poison,
but
as a young man
with jug ears
and pimples
I gladly held out my glass
for more
deadly nightshade.
She said
she liked poetry
but
it was obvious
she had no taste
for mine,
nevertheless
I give it a shot
and when
I had done
I sensed a door
in her
mind
slamming shut
She was a
beauty
and far too
lovely
to be seen
with me
so
we ended up
at her place
a small
apartment
saturated
with the funk
of joss sticks.
She read me
some poetry
of her
own
occasionally
glowering my way
to see if I were
paying attention,
it seemed obvious
that I had failed her test.
No
- no sex
we had
a 1 on 1
counseling session,
I was the hapless client,
and
quickly judged
unfit
to imbibe
her special
shade of
toxin.
Beauty bows and surrenders at her bare feet,
The gold glitters jealous of her glowing skin,
Her bright eyes light embers of passion within,
Men yield to her will!
Warriors clang their weapons to fight to die,
Flags with horseman fly, write history again,
While sat in emerald throne, she rules their minds,
With potion of love!
Is there a poison more deadly than such love?
A woman to whom the Roman empire bows,
Juice of poison berry* she put in own eyes,
He who loves her - dies!
Mighty Caesar or Anthony were like clay,
Their tirades, history fade in her presence,
They lost in war, lost in her love, end by knife,
She put Asp to breast!
Sapphic stanza Poetry contest
Sponsor Edward Ibez
Date 08/July/2020
Cleopetra used poisonous berries or the deadly nightshade juice( medicinal name Atropa belladonna) that yields Atropine which causes dilatation of the pupils. Was used in her time to make the eyes dreamy, innocent and beautiful! Hence the name “Bella = lady, Donna= beautiful)
A demure damsel, her prussian blue eyes.
I astray all blurred, in subtle catalyze.
High cheek bones, beneath her caramel hair.
My purple veins pulse, in red wanton flare.
The pretty Belladonna smiles in cold blood,
Venom frolic my veins, they wilt in lava flood.
Extravagance of heaven, in blink of an hour,
I see lavender and lilac, in the toxic purple flower.
(Belladona in Italian means "beautiful lady",
it is also a harmless looking poisonous plant with
purple flowers,.known as the deadly nightshade)
19th January, 2019
Submitted to Kevin Shaw Purple poetry contest
Adamina and Everitt
Her rib it was before the Master lost the plot in evil Eden
when Bella Donna Adamina handed the fruit to her man
Deadly nightshade Everitt sensed he did not take God’s bate
‘I know my place she fights for women’s equal chances here’
Hell came first before the hedonistic pastures but the story
was fake narrative propaganda misconstrued representation
Wishbones candy apples fortune cookies when she climbed
his mountain unperturbed by twisted concubine conceptions
No blasphemous satanic verse but pages turned the roller coaster
and history of world ensued with passion’s flowers blooming large
18 March 2017
Narrative Two-liner Quintet from the Ministry of Truth
hello, my name is deadly nightshade
and I bring the nightfall of scarlet fever
down the endless winding stairs
I am the cause of malice in Paris,
tentacle spectacle and bullet ballet
fear my endeavor, this is my caprice
through shifting mirrors
I'll vanish in Venice
on eve of delight
I realize, tottering
scarce but not fanciful
starlings are on their way
starlings with green irish eyes
blazing upon me as witches sing
that art of war is not the same
as war of art (among the insane)
and so crooked count sleeps unaware
through the night shift
till the dawn of flames
D on't do it
E ven the Gods will cry
A rt is only illusion
D espite your pain
L oneliness is human
Y ears melt to one
N o need to sip that cup
I nternal storms
G row into calmer seas
H earts that bleed
T ake time to heal
S hadows forever lurking
H oping to conquer
A nnihilation the only cure
D eath the final solution
E radicate their cruelty in the cool breeze of the dawning sun
He lingers there, suspended in air
with one eye blue and one green,
bulbous nose, long pointed toes
and nails shaped like castor beans.
His see-through skin is so thin
it glimmers an eye-popping sheen-
resembles whey, neither white nor grey
but shimmers somewhere in between.
Intestines twine like twisted vines
backed by a neon purple spleen.
His chest is bright, flashes a light
with a rotating, multi-hued beam.
His mouth, a red smear, wears a leer.
One eye shines with a feral gleam.
My throat is tight, frozen in fright,
momentarily unable to scream.
My mouth is so dry I can barely cry,
"Oh God, let this be a dream.
Please . . . let it be a dream."
Even Devils couldn’t tempt or soothe as sex and wealth they offer me.
These things are meager swings of mood – its witches' tools I want for me!
Henbane, hemlock, liverwort,
the left foot of a crow,
Saturn’s fumes and sulfur dust,
an image of my foe.
The withered pose of petal rose and Vervain’s vile tea,
the spider’s leg and lizard’s tail with deadly nightshade seed;
such salts and stones and baby’s bones,
bloodroot, bat, and bee.
These little things the Devil brings
are all I want for me!
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