The Pro: "Timmies grow under the heather yes, we hear that too, the shale rocks earthen faults and spouts meters and rhythmic soornteens like ask the cold fall moon."
Samara: "Oldest wept upon bridge, the lovers crest cradles the lover's bridge, two brigades that hold together the trust of men and women at arms, like wings sent Demeter into the fog
Samael: "Came, went, it's always the same, the old lion's mane, the goat's beard is the fashionable game."
(Anonymized character) "Stellar! Like the fickle few! We shouldn't press too much wine to winny while we mew!"
Helel: "Tomorrow never dies, the like-minded sun repressed, never dies in the night twin flames of tomorrow's best."
Aurora: "Timidity be slow upon the river pale the horse-drawn carriage has foregone the bitter yales."
Uraeal: "Goosed up for the gander? Myne thyne fyne lynes are wolly and not prancer!"
Gladius: "Gooseflesh la'amore? Sinnder down the doors and let from that lovingly pour!"
---End of act I---
Filling me with anthems of days gone by,
laughter and the lick of a guitar’s kiss.
Music on the radio makes me cry.
I just think of what is gone, what I miss.
Grande concerts that I will never forget,
it was a wild connection with strangers.
Taking a chance for tickets on a bet
to hear the B-sides and all the bangers.
So hard to be filled with this nostalgia,
my heart continues to be left bleeding.
Each song played feels a little bit extra,
the dagger in a wound that keeps feeding.
What started as a camp out to get in
lives eternal in gooseflesh on my skin.
This feels too much like deja vu,
the days and nights of a biblioklept.
It’s what the book-bosomed must do,
taking in every chapter as you slept.
Being such an omnilegent person
it’s hard to run across something fresh.
Reading’s such pure introverted fun,
with each word I want gooseflesh.
I wander to each town bouquiniste
on the lookout for a page turner.
I’m hungry for a clever plot twist,
that story that’s an acid burner.
There is no place I would rather be
then inhaling the scent of this paper.
Serene and content in a lectory
escaping into a wild fictional caper.
I love to go running through my head
inside a space where I have no phobia.
While in reality I am filled with dread
suffering from debilitating abibliophobia.
Raised up gooseflesh dipped in metal,
a shiver runs right down my spine;
Every emotion they enshrine,
somehow the scream helps me settle;
Please hit that double bass pedal,
I’ll throw you a devil horn sign;
Raised up gooseflesh;
They view me as the jezebel,
a black fishnet flavored outline;
With a head bang everything’s fine,
healing factor with no equal;
Raised up gooseflesh.
Glimmers of glazed frosting levels,
enticing blissful specials,
scatters the blues of blue devils,
encased sailing vessels.
Rejuvenating windswept fresh,
limb held chirping bird thresh,
ever-changing flourishing mesh,
awaken breaths gooseflesh.
Spectacular melting winter,
beautician scene tinter,
the wood cord, no logs, just splinter,
skier last day sprinter.
This feeling...
feet fairly skipping
knees a bit wobbly
the lump in the throat
Heart pounding away
lips drier than crackers
arms cloaked with gooseflesh
head spinning like a gyroscope
If this isn't love, it is quite the distraction ~
~ Believe me, I'm feeling sheer stupefaction
I roam through this forest of vibrant hues
Lush plants of bright greens
Deep shadows of blues
I amble along at contentments pace
Soft moss on bare feet
Dreamy smile on my face
No sense of urgency swallows my steps
I wander freely
Exploring its depths
Sheets of sheer mist dance down a small path
the tickling sensation
making me laugh
Natures wet kisses upon my skin
Gooseflesh erupts
Tailing tingles within
I shake off a shudder running down my spine
Dew drops on my neck
Standing under the Pine
Golden rays dimming to crimson beams
Nighttime has come
In the forest of my dreams
13.04.2021 - In the forest of my dreams contest
As if with time I happen to see
a fruit of man's tempted fate -
for quiet words, deeds I seek
and a fruitful life the past ate.
As if Boreas gives gooseflesh
to my kindred sensitive soul,
as if balsam - heavenly fresh -
to my hardly overcome role.
Like a tsar over transient bore,
being at the mercy of higher,
I'm a breast-fed baby, no more,
in the boredom of earthly desire.
Like a thrown bone under the Sun -
easy food for skinny jackals,
and a fortune, - unbidden son,
what, might-have-been, ... - me heckles.
Hellbent
free fall
unsynchronized tumble
Helter-skelter
feet first
head first
Arms akimbo
screaming, holding my breath
into a cold inferno
beyond the stars, shivering
jackals howling
Echoes of the end of time...
startled awake
throat hoarse
covered with gooseflesh
November 25, 2019
Goosebumps Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Delilah Ventura
Mist in the distance, heart quickens to gooseflesh
Whisky Jacks perch silent, they've seen me before
Brother Wolf has been by, his scat is still fresh
Ancient eyes follow me, née jinn shapes of lore
Small clearing before me, my own private crèche
Hidden falls dance and play, their ions restore
Spray glitters like diamonds, the Sun leads the band
As time disappears, my soul breathes a free land
romance ricochet off the walls
odes of love abounded,
mixed with gooseflesh emotion
all depicting memories of how love
nurtured by the sun, sea and sand
treated to a romantic interlude
in a secluded hotel.
Changed my life...
I can’t think.
Can’t get my thoughts
To stop their frenzied waltz
And line up once again
In a straight pattern,
One after the other,
The way they used to
When everything was still
So goddamned simple.
I can’t effing think.
If my shattered heart
Beats any faster,
I fear it will escape
The familiar prison of my ribcage,
Take off into oblivion
As I wish I could
Every time I meet
My own pleading eyes
In the reflection cast
By broken mirrors.
Thinking used to hurt
So much less than it does now.
Even my own damn voice
Makes my skin erupt
In waves of gooseflesh;
A rain dance illuminating
How dark and how cold
Self-hatred can become.
The blindingly bright fires
That once warmed my despair
Are hardly pinpricks of light,
Dwindling away the more I drown:
The more my hair swirls
Around my tear-stained face,
The more my hands
Fail to grasp for the rope
That might have saved my life
If it had been thrown
Just a bit sooner.
I am hearing the monks again
Their silent screams in the streets of Saigon
I thought they would leave me alone
But I am haunted by their aura
The bamboo vipers
And the smile of the tigers
Deep in the primordial
Scream
Why do they infect my soul?
Why can I let them be and they me?
It wasn’t even my war.
I was too young to know
The inequities of war
Yet the birds fall around my feet
Every time I smell burning flesh
Perhaps I am too old for this skin of mine
A young man told me tonight
That he recognized me as a long lost grandfather
From his Mayan roots
Did I sacrifice other men to please the God’s?
Or was I sacrificed and am now twice haunted.
Gooseflesh. The hair on my neck stands ups.
But what about the monks?
Does the hair ever stand up on the back of your neck,
When you walk through the Desert alone?
Do you ever feel like someone is out there?
Or perhaps something unknown?
Do you feel like someone is watching,
When there is nobody there?
And you turn around and search, in vain,
But there’s not so much as a hare;
But you still have that creepy feeling,
That you are where you shouldn’t be;
And something out there is telling you,
That you had better leave;
Gooseflesh stands up all over your skin,
And chills prickle down your spine;
Your heart is pounding in your chest,
Surely this is a sign;
A foreboding sense of what might come,
If you don’t move along;
A subconscious sensation that tells you,
You’re somewhere you don’t belong;
So without ado you go on your way,
And don’t give it another thought;
You don’t even consider it later on,
It’s something you just forgot;
But someday you will feel it again,
And search again for the source;
But no matter high or low,
You won’t find the unnatural force;
It is something you weren’t meant to see,
A silent storm hidden from view;
A weakness in your mentality,
That feeds on fragile minded you.
I’ve met the slow White hound
I’ve heard his haunting howl
prowl through November air
I shook his frigid paw
that came when bones were bare.
A gusty, spectral thief
of moments far too brief
his whispered pants enticed
and plumy tails left scrawls
a-tangle over ice.
He yelped a quick harangue
and pointed crystal fangs
he stole the autumn rays
denying hope of thaw
so glints of warmth would fade.
He shed his shadows here
and made gooseflesh appear,
he sketched on windowpanes
etched tales with frigid claws
of colors he had slain.
I wandered through the breadth
of chilling, hunter’s breath
where daggers hung on eaves
and sawed the North wind raw
and browned the autumn leaves.
I’ve been surprised by bites
his glacial appetite
and found his muted dye,
a blinding livid shawl
O’er corpses petrified.
I’ve heard the White Hound moan
and chew on arbor bones
and shivers seized my spine,
tight-clenched within his jaw
as Winter swathed my mind.
experimental rhyme scheme:
Stanza 1 -aabcb
Stanza 2 -ddece
Stanza 3 -ffgcg
Stanza 4 -hhici
Stanza 5 -jjkck
Stanza 6 -llmcm
Stanza 7 -nnoco
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