Harpies Poems | Examples

Vultures Circle The Sky

In the shadows, harpies linger as agents provocateur, 
for the Fallen Watchers, for pecking order.
Prostitute mercenaries, 
addicted to mercury and disorder.
Their claws sharp, their cries a shiver, 
their motive insanity from hell's hateful quiver.
They pluck you from the light of day,
leave you in the flames to barter the fray,
to drown in the sea of faith no more.
Till nightfall,
where they tend the fires of a black wind,
poking signal lures,
preying for entropic thunder,
and romantic moon,
lyres to ascend your spirit 
for the purpose of dropping you again 
in despairs pit and swoon.
Denoting your abandonment and seclusion, 
shoeing the fit, 
wild horses couldn't drag them away.
Hoping to find you behind chaos's fire-line, 
enemy mine, 
a broken rhyme-
not asKing for a new day;
a soul adrift, in a sea of doubt,
no compass, no sails, no wind,
no faith, "tag you're it, hide your eyes and don't count."
on being saved from the fade to black 
from grey lack of faith.

Looking Through to Tartarus

Harpies shrieked and lost souls wailed
The cold wind stung as embers sailed
A fetid stench, eyes red with dust
When I looked through to Tartarus.

Black column’s rose in demon form
terror enthralling those forlorn
Compelled I shuddered as I must
When I looked through to Tartarus.

Ten-fold my dread, to see your face
Among the shades in this cursed place
I cried your name, you didn’t hear 
Glass-eyed and stricken with despair
Bleak bedlam dweller all hope hushed
When I looked through to Tartarus

As I wept, nigh tolled a bell
The Angel Keeper Uriel
Bellowed low “it must be thus”
When I looked through to Tartarus.

Journey to the End

Follow the winds of the Harpies.
Follow to the sigh of last breath.
Horrid hounds of Zeus beckoning
for you to embrace your dark death.

Follow the heights of Icarus
Follow till the blazes burn out.
Sol, a dragon's igneous mouth
gaping, awaiting chance to spout.

Follow to the depths of Phorcys
Follow till you whiff your last gasp.
Dangers of the depth await you.
Life quickly slipping from your grasp.

Follow clamant drums of Ares.
Follow till your ears hear no more.
War exacts an egregious toll.
Life ends in a sorrowful roar.

ODYSSEY

The toughest thing about Homer’s Odyssey
Is that it is written in Greek
The trouble with mine it seems
It’s written in words ya can’t speak

For Homer had Satyr’s and Harpies
And trickery tucked up his sleeve
While I, in the midst of confession
Told lies that “No-man” would believe

And yet still I strive for I’m still alive
While Homer has yellowed with age
With all of his writings now high on a shelf
While I pen bad poems on a page

For some demon’s are, and some demon’s ain’t
Deserving of historic note
But all of them alter the truth with their “taint”
So, get off your fat asses and vote

Do Dreams Dream-Up the Dreamer To Mean Something

Do dreams dream-up the Dreamer to mean something

Do dreams go on dreaming without the Dreamer dreaming
Hold not dreams in mid-stream even during Covid-19
Woken-up dreams scream wild as harpies in poetic shebeen

Don’t dreams tend to come round like long lost tunes tinnitus din
The Dreamer dreams in the Void trillion times trillion
And leaves no trace of hung time-spaced dream dreaming in the Dream

Who would dream dreams for oneself they wouldn’t highly esteem
Dreams worthy of a world they didn’t really mean to wean
In the first place out of a Void-less Big-Banging blinding sheen

The Big-Bouncy Dream teasing the fistful of mashed Big-Crunchy cream
Where the Dreamer bounces his Dream on the seamless turf green
O’er and o’er again ‘till the Dream turns tinnitus mean

Till the recurrent Dream the Dreamer dreams his own Uni-Verse seem
Ev’ry dream’s the Multi-Verse of a unique team unseen
Do dreams dream-up the Dreamer standing-up on a linear Time pin

(c) T. Wignesan – Paris, January 17, 2021

So Stand the Fallen

Very soon marmosets and moose
will get their vaccines.

A lone gnome fishes in a Koi pond.

The light of the moon
has been dimmed by a Chinese switch.

Elite bands of cockatoos
fight for free speech, but just for themselves.

Preening jackasses bray in the green rain
and the songs are all the same.

A fearful old man stammers in the dark.

So far the greater apes are in ascendance
however, a turtle and trumpet alliance
has formed a combo of resistance.

Four masks a day and a cup of instant propaganda
keep us hiding behind a surreal subterfuge.

Afghan warlords wander empty streets
handing out relief packages.

Birds rent-out tree space to killer bees.
Belfry’s are bankrupted by fleeing bats.

Harpies and stool pigeons
turn in their stools for further interrogation.

King Kong whimpers inside a skyscraper closet,
too shy and lonely now
to swat even the smallest of biplanes.

If Ever I Had a Country : Xxxvii and Xxxviii

IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY : XXXVII - XXXVIII

			XXXVII

If ever I had a country
And if ever by some magic I were the Minister of Housing Development
I'd make it my life-long mission by swearing upon it as a Holy Sacrement
To rush to the rescue of every poor defenceless and distraught old tenant
At the mercy of villainous old women pests who run or administer housing tenements
With beaks claws sharp canines of vultures hyenas who suck vampirically emoluments
That is, if ever I were by some magic the Minister of Housing Development
And even if I never ever had in Gaie Paree no country


			XXXVIII

If ever I had a country
And if ever by some magic I were the Housing Development Secretary
I'd ordain ripped from every thesaurus encyclopaedia and dictionary
Words which denote or connote that special breed of vilely hissing spying bodies
Concierge Housekeeper Portero Janitor and all such idiotic parasitic discrepancies
And free the sleepless care-worn tenement city populations from these harpies
That is, if ever by some magic I were the Housing Development Secretary
And even if in Gaie Paree I never ever had no country

© T. Wignesan - Paris, July 26, 2018

The Land of the Heartless

The whisper from the dreamer contemplated schemes,
Shadows of vengeance was corrupt and hallow,
Slither with a flicking tongue to prolong all suffering,
Sky now scorched black with no chance of tomorrow,
Chambermaids hushed the courtyard entities,
Breastplates of gold cracked for the beast will follow,
The orchards run dry with blood red churning seas,
Humanity collapse as the crumpling lands are swallowed.

God had come beckoning to take the few from the reckoning.

The men on horses turned on eachother,
Jumping from spires was daughters and mothers,
The serpent drinks from the springs of another,
Plagues of the dead begin rising from covers,
Harpies sing as the air thickens and smothers,
This is the price of turning on our fellow brothers.

(2017)

Eternal Nights

Unknown to most, forgotten by the rest,
Unblemished reason flickers in the night’s
Unending gloom, persistent in its quest
Until its vigor kindles brighter lights.
Beset by whispers from a living fold
Before whose eyes it rises high or falls,
Bedridden Virtue shivers in the cold
Beneath the skies where harpies voice their calls.
Alike, while wolves are cornering their prey
Against the void which offers no escape,
A beam of hope announces a new day
Amid loud calls to end young Beauty’s rape. 
  If only fools could speak the wise man’s tongue,
  Eternal days could never last too long.

Find Langford's poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com

Thalassophobia, I Love You

they say that there's a dance hall
right beneath this lake of sawdust
where underwater towns
have gone astray
and I can hear the harpies
the bagpipes
and I can smell
the burning petals
after we set the house ablaze

the blissful ignorance
of ghosts and revolvers
is pure nonsene 
– as coup d'état of yours
still smiling distantly
but one day your goodness 
will make you lipless, my dear
and then I will lull you by
the misty weather
verdant 
fragrant
lucidly mystical
dazzling as a bell jar glance

existence matters – ad interim
and as the old gatekeeper
uses his trembling gestures
to swing the pendulum
tell me, my plain-hearted one: 
ruby red or beryl blue? 
does it really matter to you? 
with all your childish devotion

please release 
the drones

'cause thou art lost
and love is the law
love under will

Mass Transit

Beneath the surface battle wagons screech,
and hurtle through interminable night,
the squealing din, like harpies to the fight
becomes the threnody that screams to each
brave soul, squeezed tight in unforgiving heat.
The pages of a magazine lie scattered,
US News And World Report, as if it mattered,
riders wobble to the wild and crazy beat.
Working men rub shoulders with Fifth Avenue elite,
claustrophobics, desperate to leave,
once seen, and seldom to be seen again
burst into light, end of the line for some. 
The street draws pilgrims, anxiously they brave
the urgent undulations of the train.

Boreas God of the North Wind

wind god
was Boreas 
of winter and north winds
swept down from cold northern mountains
of Thrake

he blew
cold icy gusts
of breath from bloated cheeks
hair and beard spiked with ice, wide mouth
howling 

sometimes
seen as horse-shaped
purple-winged swift stallion
he swept down on mares in new spring
to sire

horses
for King of Troy
mated with Trojan mares
fathered the swift, wind-shaped stallions
for him

he found
King of Athens’
daughter, Oreithyia
by riverside meadow, playing
dancing

enthralled
by her dancing
and struck with mad desire
he abducted her to the sky
to wed

hid her
in soft white clouds
their love bore a daughter
Khione, beautiful goddess 
of snow 

sons, the
Boreades
chased away the Harpies
that threatened the King Phineus
of Thrake

Athens
celebrated
Boreas festivals
praised him as their god of the cold 
north wind

The River and the Lily

Sings the river:
 
I am the water from the hills
I am the life from above,
I run steadfast after love
Caressing the swan’s quills.
 
Sings the flower:
 
I am Nature’s Beauty mark
I am Cupid’s golden shaft,
I want to bloom in the raft,
the figurehead on its arc. 
 
Sings the river:
 
Call for me after the old oak,
I pass between his roots
Washing away sun’s soot
To be carried by moon’s cloak.
 
Sings the flower:
 
Cover me before it’s late
My petals are almost dry
I hear aloof the harpies’ cry,
Promising to beauty their hate.
 
Sings the bluebird:
 
Where is the heart-shaped lily?
The river took, the lily is gone
The old oak will stand alone,
When the night is dark and chilly.
There went the river and the lily,
Their course cannot be undone…

The Truth

La manipulation....
Oh man, the woman that you loved never truly loved you,
She only loved you as a bank, to give her her jewels
As a muscleman to bully people she doesn't like.
She cares not for your heart or your kind.
Yet unaware through the aeons you were
Till the day you became useless to her
and were thrown away as a used up toy,
her heartless nature revealed to this poor boy,
so innocent, and loving,the prey of heartless harpies.
She wore a beautiful mask to hide her witch's face,
and foolishly you fell for her game of deceit,
and became a pawn and a tool for this shameless dame.

I'm sorry to inform you that you are a slave,
a slave under the the name of love that was faked.
She never truly loved you.
Take off the witch's mask.

One Night In Stroud

I stumbled drunkenly through Stroud
Passed the kebab van on the hill,
When all at once I saw a crowd
Of ladettes – taunting the old bill;
Just for a lark, just for a wheeze,
Flirting and dancing, dressed to tease.

Bedecked with bling, drinking cheap wine,
A clowder of cats out to play,
Perfume and bags by Calvin Klein
All you can eat slapper buffet.
Looking for violence not romance,
Tossing the V’s in fighting stance.

The plods approached askance, as they
Ignored them and crouched down to pee;
The deluge nearly washed away,
The council’s prized floral display! 
I gazed – amazed - at just how short;
Their skirts were and indeed how taut.

Often now – I sit down and cry
(Sometimes it puts me off my food) 
When I recall what I did spy
The female form so crass and rude;
Those harpies in search of cheap thrills,
Stooped - pissing on the daffodils.



(apologies to Mr Wordsworth)

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