Long Black as pitch Poems
Long Black as pitch Poems. Below are the most popular long Black as pitch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Black as pitch poems by poem length and keyword.
I lay, I stare, I look around… it's black as pitch. I'm underground.
I'm chained, I'm bound, the walls are tight. Someone help me! Give me light!
Trickles of liquid run through my chains. I smell the blood as it seeps from my veins.
The air hangs heavy and smells of damp earth,
Help me, hear me, give me rebirth!
Despair; it is taking me, my blood draining low, when a rumble above me, it renews my soul
My was my tomb, bound here for certain,
But now I hear them: dig, dig, pull back the curtain.
Its close now I feel it, then the door did burst free,
Someone was sneering, yes, sneering down upon me.
He said not a word, he made no move to help me more.
He simply stuffed a rag in my mouth and with a wicked chuckle, closed the door.
Six ravens, black as pitch -
at the signal, all will switch.
One bird flies leaving five.
While one man's soul is still alive,
his body's in a ditch.
Five monks in an abbey, cloiste'd
with five cats 'neith ceilings, joisted.
One forgot to say his prayers.
His body's at the bottom of the stairs,
while his soul is hoisted.
Four candles, all aflame -
don't you think it is a shame
that nobody heard the shout,
as one of them was snuffed out,
while no one knew his name.
Three little maids from school -
one forgot the golden rule
leaving not a jot or clue.
Now there are but two.
Don't play her for a fool.
Two paths vanished in the wood.
Only one did as she should,
taking the path less travelled...well, not quite,
and returned on that frightful night.
The other is gone for good.
The devil said, "You have one chance -
that is to say, 'May I have this dance?'"
And now my story's done,
because, alas, there are none.
Should I have warned you in advance?
I'm circling the globe
That lies in an eternal and deep sleep
And I see a square-headed being
Orange hair, and a face like a bowl
Reddish clay called Armenian bole
Who thinks he's a god, a sorcerer, or a wizard
Who easily gets in wherever he wants
Thanks to the press and TV.
He thinks he's a genius
Worthy of winning the Nobel Peace Prize
Because he has a five-meter-long
Similar to the Boicuaba snake
Enemy of all other snakes
Especially the rattlesnake
Which is the one that's making noise today in Venezuela.
He's a "made in USA" character
From the Middle Ages.
He likes to walk and fall asleep while walking
Peering at the spot where the beauty queens pee
In their beauty pageants.
He enjoys great fame because he catechizes immigrants
By kicking them in the ass.
Before reaching the beauties' urinals
He throws an iron ball as far as possible
To break the windowpanes.
Out of impatience with the act
He pulls out his erect , saying: -Give it a go!
He continues its natural course
Without trying to alter it.
He peeks out and glimpses the place where the beauties are
Naked, scared, and half-dead.
He lets the ball roll
Saying to himself, addressing his
Not caring a damn
About the beauties' natural and emotional state:
-What a fine meal your god will have!
I'm already licking my lips.
I'm almost there.
I offer you my supreme erect
For you to take back to your honeycomb.
Oh, what a moment!
When one of them approaches
I think her name was Vesta
To seize the immense member
In a game of ball-throwing
A piece of glass severed his glans
Leaving his entire genitourinary organ
Black as pitch.
Confused and stunned, "the Carrot" withdraws
Like a farcical clown who performs
The tragicomedies of war and peace, of genocide
For nations and peoples
Renunciating and swearing oaths
To take revenge on the beauties when he can
Walking all in circles
Around the globe
Without getting anywhere
Feeling screwed without wanting to.
As a citizen poet without pretension,
I offer a true tale of my invention.
A solid everyman in my community,
with a reputation of immunity,
I was happy and content.
I shared my thoughtful insights,
and wrote about the northern lights.
My words made grown men cry.
I think about it and breathe a sigh -
I was something else!
But, one morning, I woke up
and drank acidic coffee from my cup,
which my wife served black as pitch.
Inside I felt a strange, hot itch.
Could it be indigestion?
No ordinary heart inside my chest,
was it the Devil who had me possessed?
Burning inside, I fretfully undressed,
as, to despair, I acquiesced,
and went back to bed.
But, the feeling persistently welled,
until, at last, I was oddly compelled,
and in terror, I was gripped,
so my own skin, I violently ripped,
exposing my insides.
There, I saw sprockets and springs,
gears, knobs and other things,
and screamed an existential cry,
knowing I could neither live, nor die,
for all I was, was just AI.
Inspired by Aboriginal Story: Phases of the Moon - Ngalindi, the moon starts as a lean, young man. He overindulges (waxes) and becomes lazy. He grows fat, becoming the full Moon. His wives, displeased by his laziness, chop bits off him with axes, causing the Moon to fade away to nothing. Ngalindi hides in the dark for three days. After his penance, his light returns. It fills the New Moon, and the cycle starts again in the night sky.
lean moon-man rising
silver skin waxing in stride
girth begins to swell —
his crescent face beams on earth
calling tides to match his plight
Feast and sloth take hold
glutton grows fat and lazy
fills perimeter —
shapes the tide to spring full glut
beckons the dingoes to howl
Fierce-eyed wife rebels
driving bloated moon away
grips a sharp light axe
hacking and splitting the glow
silver shards tumbling below
waning moon retreats
fleeing the unyielding wrath
to hide in dark night
all his bright light bleeds away —
leaving the moon black as pitch
three nights he's empty
fugitive in star-flung sky
tides bereft of pull —
then silver embers re-flare
waxing light into his veins
the wheel turns once more
torn and mended, lean to full
the moon strides the sky —
on the path moon knows by heart
transgression now forgiven
Peeking in the door at me at a quarter to three
What to my amazed wandering eyes could it be?
A goblin or a ghost or a tiny warlock banshee?
Peeking in the door at me at a quarter to three…
I ran to the door and I looked out with all my able-bodied might.
And I flipped on my notoriously not-very-good porch light.
But what was I able to see at this time of night?
Just a flickering bulb that was not very helpful or bright.
I began to search for a flashlight when I heard a tee-hee.
Something invisible, which was giggling, was following me!
My blood ran cold and I asked it to please leave me alone.
Then I and she came over here to write this little poem.
It could be a gargoyle, a phantom vampire or a witch.
Whatever it is, it makes the floaters in my eye fairly twitch.
It’s Hallows Eve and the night is as black as pitch.
Whoever it is, it has a laugh that scares me and Uncle Mitch.
A red sun, pooling like a drop of blood:
coagulates at the edge of darkness.
And ebony flows like a rising flood:
black as pitch, inking a seamless starkness.
A gilded moon, like a pitted gold coin,
beams in the sky as a beacon of light.
And twinkling like flashing fireflies, stars join
quasars and pulsars, lighting up the night.
Dawn frets like a nervous actor offstage,
while preparing to introduce the sun.
And as a gossamer breeze comes of age,
morning shimmers, like a web, freshly spun.
And Sol rises: as a golden balloon,
afloat in the air, like a songbird's tune.
Was it her face the mist belies
The glow of green held piercing eyes
These woods I dare to walk this night
Are shimmered still by fear and fright
When Aggy lived and walked the earth
Her eyes were rumored since her birth
To hold the power of a witch
To summon darkness, black as pitch
Should you be lured into her lair
Within her voodoo to ensnare
Her bidding then forevermore
Your fate to follow, fast and sure
Yet through the woods, this Hallow’s Eve
Despite the mist sent to deceive
I risk where she is known to dwell
Where eyes of Aggy cast their spell
On the Outback Downs of Queensland
There is the strangest light
I have seen it first hand
And it sure gave me a fright
I was camped out while Lamb Marking
On the Downs out Corfield way
Hot days with sheep dogs barking
We sure did earn our pay
On one eve when days work done
We sat around a fire
Telling yarns, let our tongues run
Leant back against the wire
As I looked out in the distance
The night was black as pitch
A light with some insistence
Gave my interest an itch
I knew that there was nothing there
Only us for miles around
What was this light, gave us a scare
Some six feet from the ground
I got up, had another look
I called for volunteers
Let's go take a butchers hook
But all I got was jeers
I walked away out to the side
Until it disappeared
We still see it here they cried
Now that was pretty weird
So make your own mind up about
That Queensland Min Min light
I can say there is no doubt
Was on the Downs that night
I'm going to tell you a tale that may frighten you
about the precursor of death that will pursue...
There's iridescent beauty found on his ebony wings
but always of impending death his cawing sings.
He perches as a grim reaper on the fence, taunting
as if on my gravestone to bring fear and daunting
A dance step to his left then quickly to the right
He takes wicked pleasure, but I will feel no fright
for never will I weep and as long as I remain alive
His corvine refrain fortifies my strength to survive
Black as pitch he sits, fluttering wings on my gate
I refuse to accept him as foreshadower of my fate
I'm not destined to be the carrion that he will feast
In shadows, day and night, lingers the black beast
Jeering with an evil stare, are bright beady eyes
His dark presence I've come to loathe and despise
Blackguard! I shall curse him until my last breath
Begone raven! Today, I will not waltz with death
Now you know the tale of what keeps me awake
It's the macabre one whose thirst I refuse to slake
I am still alive and have not yet fallen from grace
So, I will not let him lead me to an unholy place