he brove a garrid oom
deemotted uve
and lookied goom
eek eek
he seddle as
his bladed morble
hoom
around the camp fire
all agogged
this tale hooed
awoy awoy
then fobble fo
such gory scary
tooed
he brove a garrid oom
his beast now dead
by morble blade
hay hay
to victory
and all aglad
they stayed
We remember
That night of horror
When the future was stamped and the cogs were slain
When the execution ground shone red with blood
The blood of the helpless cogs
We remember the horrors
Gunshots like fireworks
The cries of cogs like wolves in the night
As devil's favourite demons feed on raw flesh
We remember the depressed winds
The howling of the tortured winds
The breeze of grief. Of cold steeled grief.
As the cogs kneel with tears in their cheeks
Hands grasping the blood stained shield
Songs of hope in their trembling lips.
Fire! The only noise from the blood crazed hunters
As more cogs fall on the blood soaked floor.
Mother's in pain
Father's groaning inward
Siblings gathered around the dining table
Waiting for the blood filled dinner plate.
We remember the silence
The blood thick silence
The howls of the winds
As it whispers "gory" "gory".
We Shall Not Forget.
Dare not venture outdoors on Halloween
There's witches out there who are truly mean
They tempt one with brew
That looks just like stew
But is made from reptile liver and spleen.
There lies the remains of the veggie who
Had nerve to savour from the witches brew
A minute on lips
And away he slipped
To his throne on high, a porcelain loo.
The spook who constantly sits on the loo
Never has time to put fear into you
For death is not kind
When a sore behind
Stops a ghost from jumping out shouting "BOO.”
To some a brew is a nice cup of tea
A witch a character in a story
No tricks and no treats
No nice things to eat
No Halloween, no ghouls and no gory.
Green was her face and ebon her hair,
features young, body withered sinew.
Her enormous eyes gave me a scare.
And, from one nostril, a ruby grew.
I stayed behind the large, surging crowd,
who drank her brew then made eerie sounds.
I was Press and we were not allowed
to view what happens on witching grounds.
Evil story would ensure glory;
not prepared for unheavenly ride.
A black gale blew, thickened by gory.
With it, black cats, ravens to her side.
Undead emerged shedding dirt--a fright.
With wrinkled hand, she stroked ugly doll.
Snakes sliding from ears, she rose in night.
So scared was I--wrote nothing at all.
October 17, 2022
for "12-16 Lines of a Scary Halloween Rhyme"Contest
by Tania Kitchen
howmanysyllables.con=9
Rhyme, abab
If poems on farting are distasteful... why have a listing called wind?
(Just asking for a friend )
12/05/21
The flaming heavens drip downwards to scold my rotten hairs. My boots are drenched in the tar that is overflowing my world. I might be drowning soon in my own confidential nonconformist reality. My blackened eyes are the product of the array of drunken clouds that fill my skull. My monsters are hungry. I'm slowly being devoured. My rotting legs became distorted under the weight of my sunken dreams. Toes and fingers have curled in the midst of my putrid stench. Nails are torn off and the fleshy blood is steadily vacating. Deconstructed ribs are peeking through my brittle cooked flesh. Waist is twisted away from my molding spine. Arms are twisted four different unorthodox ways. My rearranged face is not recognized by my mother anymore. Mouth where my eyes should be. Ears slathered on my forehead. Maggot infested nose is positioned downside up. My out-of-place eyes smudged sideways and they are dripping. The smoldering lava burn streaks down my cheeks. Facial hair systematically spewing where it should not be. I'm covered in mountains of spewing puss. This is me in all my gory glory.
In Gory Red Haze, Brave Men Weep And Moan
Blast your trumpets, on blood soaked ground!
In that red haze, brave men weep and moan,
Yet, brutal war echoes pain in every sound.
Down lay spirits of mortal men forever gone
Days of youthful hopes turned to patches of dust,
dirt covered , forever residing all alone
fool's gold now turned to blackened rust.
Look ye, for a reason for fools to fight and die
sing out to duty , duty of warriors bold
remain aloft, blind to widows left to cry.
Price matters not, heroes destined to never grow old
War, testament to courage and man's great folly
sacrifice, death feeding tales retold
life goes on, this world is quite jolly
War, the engine driving men straight into hell
For breakfast and eggs, must first break the shell!
Robert J. Lindley, 05-07-2015
"Love conquers it all"
Or does it??
Love isnt always about ,
Kisses,flowers and candle-lit dinners,
Or about happily ever after,
There is another side of love too,
The unromanticised version
Being on the wrong side of unrequited love,
Or the love that never ties down into socially
Accepted bonds like marrige,
Or when love just dies a natural death,
And this my dear is,
THE GORY SIDE OF LOVE"
Is this form of love any less Pure?
It impacts us just as "True' love does,
Feelings become obsessions,
We loose ourselves,
Do things we normally wouldnt do...
It even ends in the same way,
Hurting us visciously,
Causing pain that cannot be willfully forgotten,
Leaving a darkness in our soul,
But darkness always paves way for ,
New light...a New love...
And over a time,
The pain lessens and the wounds heal,
Leaving behind
just a faded tell-tale scar....
Faces of Gore (1999) is a mondo shockumentary video that depicts graphic footage of
bloody, mangled bodies which guides viewers through explicit scenes depicting a variety of
ways to die and violent acts. I wanted to try my hand at Mondo genre poetry. I promise you
I’m not a nut case. I’m just a highly imaginative poet.
An ominous cloud lingers in my head
Portending pernicious consequences.
My sixth sense informs me what lays ahead
Foretelling dire events in sequences:
At first, a flash that's followed by thunder.
But it’s not what the mind is telling me.
A cloudless sky, than smoke, and no wonder
A bomb tore asunder all that I see.
The blood, ash and bone, dismembered bodies
All littered the site once a theater.
The mayhem and carnage that I foresee
Was the work of a lone perpetrator.
A marquee lying that stood heretofore
Reads: Coming attraction, “Faces of gore”
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.