Long Cobwebbed Poems
Long Cobwebbed Poems. Below are the most popular long Cobwebbed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cobwebbed poems by poem length and keyword.
Blood-full, swollen
Ripe with hunger
of all varieties
Fevered, sweltering
A sweaty temple
Rusted, cobwebbed
Unswept and unwashed
Distant, Left swinging
In the wind, far from notice
Heat lightning! Strike the ground!
Boil, tumble, the shape of your mouth!
Fire, fire, red fire! Melting to the bone..
Oh, oh, oh! Before, during, after!
All the time! More, more, more butterflies
More everything, more throbbing, heaving!
Oh god, can't stop laughing!
..
Failed, glass-blown thing
Knocked off the edge of a ship
Filling with silt, cement and bile
Smothered, frozen veins,
locked into place, eyes closed
Too tired, too heavy
To utter another word
Peeking through a keyhole
Moving around in the chrysalis
Thinking, only a little, about
Reaching out, or in, or in between
Sleepy but curious, again
Flesh is building up, maybe it's time
to come down stairs for breakfast
Beneath the moon’s haunting silver sheen,
Where whispers of cold night winds convene.
In dreams’ labyrinth, we’ll intertwine,
Amid shadows cast by the pale moon’s sign.
Across the veil, our spirits entwine,
In a macabre dance, your heart in mine.
In a spider’s loom, our destiny spun,
In cobwebbed bonds, our souls are one.
So fear not, my love, for I am near,
In every sigh, in every tear.
In the darkest depths of Gothic night,
I am your phantom, your guiding light.
Beneath the ivy, where passions lie,
In cryptic vows that never die.
Haunted chambers of ancient lore,
Our love endures, forevermore.
Where tombstones mark our resting place,
Locked in love’s eternal embrace.
-Edward
Roman à clef tragicomedy...
overlaid with façade of fiction = Mein Kampf
No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,
such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap
trickster, our mutual
friend Matthew Scott Harris,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male organ if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.
Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
unexpected largesse
(thank you dad), where
eyes suddenly got bright
and bushy tail incessantly
wagged day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,
viz four Benjamins alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight
off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance's compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop
obviously one prone easily to excite
amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, feasting
on par with Mister
Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.
Ah to gather rose while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once
spawn time wracked to lay
waste vestal virgin such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit
long bereft testy tickle
yar seaman quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,
no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
The Rocking Chair That Keeps…
Up in the attic, there’s something or someone
that keeps creating an eerie, dreary air:
for the darkness is greedy
as it smothers a world of mystery,
a century of family history,
all boxed and cased
in a crust of rust and dust!
Pictures of Dad as a sprightly lad,
Gran with no wrinkle, just a youthful twinkle
and bits of me bagged and forgotten.
However, it is the empty, rocking chair
that reaches out with a squeeze of….. unease.
Yes, up in the attic, there’s something or someone
that offers, a bite of fright and a dreaded dare:
as pipes snake into secret, cobwebbed lairs
and wooden beams stream like overhead train lines
while the excitement of discovery hides in the past.
But it is the empty, rocking chair
that grips and grabs at my attention
as I sense ‘something’ harbouring its wooden frame.
Oh yes, up in the attic, there’s something or someone
that keeps, nudging and grudging with a gloomed glare:
the room suddenly trembles, my heart holds tight
but it’s only the wind galloping by at night.
Immediately a watery giggle,
gurgles the length of a pipe
increasing my midgets of fidgets.
I turn and an aged mirror offers a face of fear
but I breathe again – for it has only borrowed mine.
Up in the attic, there’s definitely something or someone
that keeps, me uneasy, even queasy, each time I am there:
for the darkness is greedy
as it smothers a world of mystery,
a century of family history,
all boxed and cased
in a crust of rust and dust!
But now…. something far more shocking,
a lone rocking chair that keeps.…rocking!
Ian Souter 2025
In chambers veiled with smoke and lies,
Where whispered deals and shadows rise,
A silken web, by power spun,
Entangles truth beneath the sun.
The gilded cage of empty laws,
Where justice sleeps, its teeth of gauze,
A puppet show, with strings unseen,
The puppeteers, a poisoned sheen.
They dance on coins, their pockets lined,
With promises they leave behind,
While voices raised in righteous fight,
Are choked by darkness in the night.
The scales of justice, tipped and skewed,
Where innocence is falsely hewed,
The blindfold torn, a hollow sight,
As freedom dies in fading light.
The gears of progress grind to dust,
Where hope and dreams turn into rust,
The poisoned well of wealth untold,
Leaves many parched, their stories cold.
But whispers rise, a growing hum,
Of hearts that beat, no longer numb,
A tapestry of voices brave,
Will weave a truth the shadows crave.
For even in the darkest hour,
A spark can ignite, a cleansing power,
To tear the web, expose the lies,
And build a future where justice cries.
No longer chained by gilded cage,
They'll rise and write a brighter page,
With hands united, hearts ablaze,
To chase away the shadows' maze.
So let the truth, like sunlight shine,
On cobwebbed halls where justice pines,
For in the embers of despair,
A revolution, strong and fair.
Our trail led to a hilltop, high above
the lake, where we had driven to that day.
But, much to our surprise, abandoned there-
Victorian-style house in disrepair.
With peeling paint, some shutters gone, it stood
on seedy grass unkempt with weeds and vines.
We walked around; just two doors-back and front;
the back was sealed; the front- slightly ajar.
As we went thru that door, it fast slammed shut-
then locked! With bars on windows, no way out!
The antique furnishings lay thick with dust,
and gray webs glistened in the filtered light.
On left, we saw two standing armored knights-
there as decor, for sure- but now they moved!
As they walked forward, screeching awful sounds,
we quickly ran into the next large room
filled up with cobwebbed-portraits on the walls;
all mouths were moving, saying, "We're the ghosts-
and masters of this house! We've caught you now,
and here you'll stay for all eternity!
I yelled and screamed- then felt my body writhe!
"Oh no, oh no, I need to get away!"
"Oh, honey, please wake up, it's just a dream!
We're here at home in bed- just you and me."
August 21, 2018
~2nd Place~
Contest: The Haunted House (Scare Me Or Make Me Laugh)
Sponsor: Dear Heart
Judged: 09/01/2018
Upon making
the treacherous
undertaking optimal
poetic theme to write
dangerous, and
arduous foray into
spooky catacomb, I in vite,
where fear doth
dill liver worst
trek to our mailbox tonight
risking life and limb
at very right
angled turn
summoning em mon ent
mettle pluck quite
for quotidian plight,
asper hiding unseen creatures
sealed in dark shadows
along the edge of night
way after deep
into nighttime hours,
I cautiously slink
with steely might
thru barely adequate light
even for this healthy
as an ox good knight
relying on a Jack o'lantern
designed jacklight
with superb vision,
and supreme insight
steadily held above
mine five feet and
ten inches average height
espy spilling thru underneath
securely eye
booked deal lee shut tight
locked heavy metal doors,
a faint glimmer
sans gaslight
possibly from blaring,
flashing, and placating
television screen se
essentially keeping curmudgeonly
aged residents company,
while reminiscent nostalgic
"FAKE" memories take flight
as such wistful
foregone reflections
upon the gift of
a watermelon pickle excite,
viz the cobwebbed
whirled wide
give "tearful", though
pained years gone by
blinkered back teary delight
a hermetically sealed story,
one will never
get ghost written, nor
affixed with a copyright
depressingly clamped
down inescapable
emotionally stagnating
autobiographical blight.
The sun withdraws gently, a charmingly shy figure,
Upon the eyelashes of the expanse, a longing rests.
The clouds, abandoned poets with dreams dry on their temples,
Fall, like leaves of the sky, on the cheeks of turned silence.
The muted wind, trickles into views of twilight,
A silent spectator to the day's caprices that extend grimly.
And the rain, locked slowly in sluggish silver chains,
Remains a prisoner of the nights, in a hidden stable without a word.
The dream deserved lifts me over time, over ancestral portals,
My journey begins beneath archways of celestial stories,
The wings given to me, I believe, are as white as the first snow,
And it suits me so well, to tread on the tracks of the earth that breathes in the morning.
Among the droplets of sun trickling down, sky's demiurges dance,
In flight through the ether, where life and death, drawing, caress, embrace.
The world's book wide open, with letters parted into words and signs,
Stands like a fountain of meanings, all noble, all proud.
With that essence of being that screams and calls for me,
To forget life, for it has all been like a vagrant ray,
Dawn emerges from the dense night, weaving treasures of whispers,
Misunderstandings lost in words, of a mystery too often dreamed.
From sleep I awake, in the folds of a new day I wrap,
My temples clenched by mysteries, by thoughts and by clouds.
The sun pours the last ray on the ashening page abandoned,
In the faded light, iron beats on hearts, on words, and on unwritten myths.
And the grass lets its dew dry, from the skin of the rich nights,
The pages of life become cobwebbed with memories warmed in gold and silver.
Madness, the beautiful gatekeeper of stone dreams that lurk,
Watches as the rain of the world, in leaden shackles, awaits its sentence to overturn.
Diaries left open and letters framed,
chronological ink waving from a horizon, gone.
Clothes hung to recreate a wedding, a dance, a touch –
enclosed in glass cases to trap the scent inside.
There’s a recording of his voice that skips
back through time. Her handprint in clay, cracked.
That first glass of wine, now cobwebbed, stained red,
next to teenage car keys rusted.
A prescription acts as evidence I tried.
Sawdust forms a path between pets
and my Walkman makes youth balk;
to them my VHS collection is alien.
Postcards curled from saltwater offer perfect snapshots
years before we scrolled for one.
A mortarboard on display alongside a bus pass, front door key and bank card.
A blade of Sefton Park grass pinned down like the wings of a butterfly.
Receipts of apologies. Candleholders waxed in missteps.
Maybe, one day, there’ll be a travelling exhibit where I finally get to meet you.
And the curator will add you, title card and all, to this museum of me.
Today I received a communique; return address was : Heaven Sent.
I nervously tore it open: that’s were my WIFE -- LENORE went.
“My Dearest and Only Beloved“, {that’s what LENORE called me.}
I seemed to hear HER loving voice, HER angelic Face I see.
I’m here in Heaven; I love you still, I’m Fine and doing well.
Serenity, Tranquillity, with nothing e’er to fear.
Be good; so you can join ME; DO NOT go to HELL.
Dry your eyes, find someone new, weep ME no more tears.
Open the cobwebbed shutters, raise the dusty blind.
Wash down the dirty windows, You’ll see the bright sunshine.
Let ME take away Your Sorrow : take away Your PAIN.
I’ll leave MY LOVE with You; So You can Love AGAIN.
Invite the World to Your house. Find a SPECIAL FRIEND.
Inspired by and Dedicated to: Carol Brown THANK--YOU