Long Foreboding Poems
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It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
Courage is not having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don’t have the strength. –Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), 26th President of the United States
A year of heartbreak, soundless as the stars
who glitter, surreal, remembering
while we make our wishes, feel the darkness
surrounding, gentling at best…
the beautiful kiss of a lonely death,
fatalities sitting in heaven,
never listening to the falling rain,
all the clouds, the edges of each shadow,
forbidding my heart this feeling, so insane…
hurricane helene, with her deafening embrace
left hearts without the rhythm
of hope that quiets the soul,
when the thunder leaves its witness
to the darkness’ demonic twist,
the unending silence from a storm, the risk
imagine a world standing still,
awkward without her joyful voice,
darkened by fears, tears, and despair,
all the dismay that comes to those
who witness the heavens pouring out
not only the flow of rain,
but the waters so explosive
they are truly a hurricane – hurricane Helene
writing her story on our land,
fighting the mountains,
filling lives with her shouts,
seeking to break us,
with her screams and her roar,
as she raises our waters,
our creeks and our rivers,
brings mudslides that change us forever…
oh, what a story she’ll write in her journal
about the day she touched down
on this quiet, quaint home – Western North Carolina
no, we’ll never be the same…
there will always be a hesitation
when the rain begins,
an anxious foreboding,
apprehension of what might become
another Helene, another hurricane,
another rain who silences every soul
with the breath of a tempest
so out of control….
oh, my, what a tale these mountains could expose,
a story of darkness, a story of dread,
a story of fear that is filled with regrets…
how we will remember Helene
I believe… is the storm who reminded
we must always seek
the One who created us to believe,
without His protection,
we’re a people without any peace,
we’re a people without hope or grace,
we’re a people who life will replace,
with death, darkness, disgrace,
all the reasons that storms rage,
all the reasons that we have to abide…
in the love of the Father,
the hope of the light,
the peace of God’s Son,
who will heal those of us,
who’ve been touched
by the storm who taught us…
we must never give up!
The Legacy
Teenaged girl of only eighteen years she was when
Hastily betrothed to a man who was twice her age then
By parents who were overwhelmed with fear and worry
About four daughters who they had to send off to marry
My Mother, she was the eldest of the four sisters
With the responsibilities to care for even her brothers
From early childhood she learnt the wearisome ropes
Which proved opportune training for her in future to cope
With a foreboding dad and a frail mum such as theirs
She had very little option but to take the reins in her cares
Persistence, sacrifice, self-denial were on the top of the list
Cleaning pots and pans in comparison was the very least
The man she was betrothed to had neither status nor treasure
His assets being mainly kindness and love in great measure
With the little money honestly earned, toiling together
Bonding and building each other, in preparation for a future
My mother was a self-taught seamstress and dad a talented tailor
When the days’ earning weren’t enough, they burnt the midnight oil together
Amidst complains and criticisms they humbly took their stride
In delivering their goods to satisfy their customers with pride
Their nest now filled with warmth of their love and happiness
Together they looked forward to God given marital bliss
One by one their off springs then came along
To dwell in this place called home, for years, to belong
The little that they owned in material worth
Became even less but we for sure, added to their mirth
Never a day went by when we were in want
Cause their love was abundant and that’s all we cared about
The Legacy they left was not diamonds nor pearls
But virtues and values which would hold us up in coming years
And the lessons we learnt over the hard times we went through
Helped build our characters, in retrospection I view
They taught us to love and care for each other
And also those less fortunate, who we ought to call ‘sister ‘or ‘brother’
Share whatever you have they would kind-heartedly say
God is watching and will send fresh blessings your way
So mum and dad though you are not here anymore
In spirit your constant presence surrounds us, your Legacy is right here
The three children you have raised are mirroring your ways
Mum, you always said, “It is God’s guiding hand in the first place”.
“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.”
Langston Hughes, The Collected Poems
Sorrow whispers through the silence
Creating feelings of sadness and grief
Light caresses from broken dreams
Of the moments spent sharing time
With reflections of hope, faith and love
Inspired by the God who gives us all
A promise of grace which heals the hurt
Mourning comes like a gentle rain
Splashing through the broken regrets
Filling the thoughts with melancholy
Desolation that touches the spirit
With dejection and misery that stills
The voice of happiness with a gloomy
Touch of despair that knows to weep
Lamenting the path that led to passing
Sealing feelings of anguish in glass like
Fear, wondering and wishing, remembering
All the laughter and love, the lasting light
Flowing through the darkness of night
Into the spirit of those who knew this life
Filled with so much joy, insight and courage
Wisdom will tell you to let the past go
Remember the good and forget the woe
But the soul who listens to the silent ache
Knows that this mystery of a heart breaking
Leaves no way to dissuade the memories
Memorials to one who gave so much love
From a heart that was filled with vision
Bereavement does more than break the weary heart
It deafens the voice of reason that tells you
To give into the joy that comes from above
Bringing down recollections of all that was
A part of this beautiful life – this light and love
The wonder of this life who gave so much
And will be missed by all who knew them best
Death destroys even the silent kindness
Gripping the spirit with a desperation that
Fills the thoughts with angst and anxiety
Feelings so pure they rake across crimson veins
Pricking the frail arteries of disillusionment
Discouraging the face that prays for relief
From this sorrow that we all call grief
Mortality embraces the spirit with a black coat
Of gloomy dread, unfolding the hopelessness
That lives within the foreboding of dismay
Which comes from the one who listens to
That evil onslaught of discouragement
Sprinkled across the mind of one who is afraid
This inconsolable heart will never feel joy again
Open Poetry 1 Contest
Sponsored by: Charlotte Puddifoot
January 23, 2021
“THERE IS A DARKNESS Peer through the rippling, thinning veil into that darkness"
By Sponsor John Lawless
Confessing she was a witch my very best friend, whom I hadn’t seen for many years,
Contacted me again after nearly four years begging me to meet her. She was in tears.
She insisted our meeting place be by the black rock on the other side of the lagoon.
Its only accessible by foot. It was dark when I arrived, she messaged “be there soon.”
Ebony shadows fall across the ground and I experience a chill as I hear vile screaming.
Fear fills my form as I begin to tremble, taking wider strides, wishing I was dreaming.
Billowing black clouds hover overhead, block the moonlight and swallow the shadows.
I’m now rendered sightless as complete darkness hides foliage ahead all trees and aloes.
Screams are replaced by a cackle that draws ever nearer, my fear turns to dread.
Stumbling though the dark abys blind to see anything that may lay in wait ahead.
Two bright red lights appear to me, and as I approach I see they are bloodshot eyes.
Trying to stay calm, its impossible as I shake and quiver the danger I realize.
I know right now I have to escape, get out of this place.
Staring at me, I try to flee. I feel a cold hand clutch my shoulder, I see its face.
Its satanic features make me quiver in fear. What have we here? A mortal I see !
The creature isn't human it has a foreboding sinister look , the devil it must be.
A soft light shines to where a woman stands clad only in a gossamer sheer gown.
She is shackled and held by two grotesque creatures. They now push her down.
The grip of the cold hand grows stronger and it places a hand around my neck.
I fumble for my phone but its out of charge. No charge left not even a speck.
My eyes grow more used to the dark I see dozens of zombie like figures appearing.
The woman is my friend, she calls for my help, but I am frozen and totally fearing.
They have chosen you for a sacrifice she calls to me in a terrified tone.
They will drink your blood because Satan has just now chosen you for his own.
My body is weak I cannot speak never have I felt such fear, in this pit of decay.
Suddenly they all pull off their masks, with great gusto call to me Happy Birthday.!!
An old lady sat near a window, near a window looking out.
With her radio going she sat there sewing, with an occasional look about.
On her thumb she wore a thimble, as she pulled the thread so nimble, enjoying the
light,
While the weatherman’s voice was blaring, declaring a storm in sight.
She began to hurry, and to worry about her Sam.
Had he heard the early morning warning from the weatherman?
While she sat there stewing, the storm greater brewing, she thought about her
man.
“He could work much longer, if only he was stronger— he does the best he can.”
The skies grew darker and her thoughts grew starker in the afternoon.
“Upper air disturbance; expecting turbulence with night coming soon.”
While she debated, the storm accelerated from the north.
With clouds unloading her thoughts grew foreboding, as she paced back and forth,
Qualms of duress she expressed about her Sam.
“Was he wet and freezing? Was he cold and sneezing? Poor old Sam!”
The northern air was gusting as she began thrusting shut the door,
From freezing rain fast falling, while for Sam she was calling as she paced the floor.
Back at the weather station a strange situation was spreading forth.
Not so far away an arctic foray pushed from the north.
It hardly took a wizard to see the shaping blizzard hiding every star,
A whirling cloud formation showed its concentration on the isobar.
Suddenly she started walking, while talking to her Sam.
Once she stopped to listen, ignoring the snow that glistened— then she ran.
She must’ve been unsightly as the lights shown on her brightly from a car,
Driven by her daughter, doing things she taught her, searching near and far.
“Mother! It’s me, Mabel. You know you’re not able to be out in the cold!
Look how hard it’s snowing with the wind so cold and blowing. Forgive me if I scold.
Finding you not there, I looked everywhere up and down the street.
You’ve come too far, so get in the car and dry your feet.”
“Mabel . . . Pa went out this morning . . . but he had no warning the weather would
be severe.”
“Oh, my mother dear, please come here, come here. Dad’s been gone a year!”
Suddenly the old lady was weary, her eyes old and bleary, her body weak and cold.
She had no coat nor jacket, but in her hand a packet—Sam’s picture she did hold.
When she meets you for the first time she should hand you a card,
Laminated, that tells you her name and what she does...
Not a business card you understand, but a warning and an apology
Kind of like an I’m Sorry Hallmark card, but with darker undertones
And a tragically funny kind of sub-text
This card would tell you all you needed to know,
And hopefully you would take one glance, look at her,
Swallow a lump of nerves and hurriedly back track
I don’t know what the exact wording on that card would be,
But somewhere on it there should be a concise and detailed list
A rundown of all her mental illnesses, all the neuroses
And psychoses and general deformities of character she possesses
Oh and of course they should include the inherent alcoholism too
And the fact that she may in fact, at some point,
Need an exorcism
She seems to have Satan squatting inside her skull you see
Anyway...after you’ve read the card, if you don’t run away,
But instead find yourself glancing nervously into her haunting eyes –
The colour of the sea on a sunny day – and if you find yourself off-balance
And falling head-first into those cerulean pits,
Find the word Love bobbing around in your misguided heart like a cork,
And if you decide you want her despite what the little card said –
Despite the translucent triple six on her forehead,
Then at least when it all comes crashing down, and she turns monstrous
And devours you for breakfast like a petite but ravening harpy,
Then don’t burst into petulant tears and say “It’s so unfair...”
Because you were warned right from the start,
With that amusing little card and it’s damning words in bold black ink
It was your own stupid fault if you ignored that foreboding label –
Certified Psychopath - just because she had a pair of pretty eyes
And she was willing to spend all afternoon kissing you into a stupor
And smoking opiate dreams from a psychedelic pipe
After all, you were only too ready to rush into her ravishment
And you can’t blame the black widow for devouring the fly
That wriggling fool that blundered right into her silken threads
Especially not when she gave you that card...
Laminated and all, with its intriguing list...
A neat little warning; what a shame it ended up in the bin...
A welcome sight the lights ahead - like misty globules on ink black foam
The billboard elicits a sense of foreboding - Welcome to the Midnight Bazaar
A lack luster moon adds to the mystery – nervously I enter to ask my way home
A familiar song plays in the somewhere, the name eludes me - how bizarre
Somberly dressed people scurry past- eyes focused on illuminated screens
Refusing contact, shoving past rudely as I ask where this place would be
One of them in riddles tells me - this is home - the place to be it seems
I wonder if the scales of reality have tipped in favor of insanity
A stall arouses my curiosity and I look as a butcher of sorts places
Bleeding hearts getting desired effect - starts a pushing jostling frenzy
Uninterested in the clowns on stilts with their painted morbid faces
Children walk with sullen looks - expressionless eyes that fail to see
Crowds clamor to buy sea food - how absurd - especially as a smell of decay prevails
Fresh produce on sale with dyed color bleeding and truffles of mud is there something amiss
A man wanders around with passports on offer - Buy yourself a Life - his sign displays
Relief at last - a stall with books and maps – here is my escape from this tainted Abyss
This God forsaken place is not where I wish to stay
And I must strive to leave it before the light of day
An exorbitant sum I pay eager to escape his cloying breath, his black toothed smile
A commotion at the far end - some sort of bidding - curiously I venture courage giving me wings
A sign proclaims ‘Souls For Sale’- in rage I scream ‘you cannot sell souls - This is so Vile ‘
Dark soulless eyes in chalk white faces – Bore right through me – Look right through me
I run screaming, falling, clawing the map that shows all roads lead back to this Hell - I scream
Waking myself - knowing the name of that song still in my head - Shaking from this macabre dream
Footnote:
This was not meant to be a pretty poem. It exaggerates the state of a world that has seemingly lost its focus and empathy. Let's not let this happen
Take a bit of Dean Kontz, Stephen King and the unnatural things going on with food enhancements and you have the stage set for a macabre nightmare!
It’s a recurring thought–
Over and over again–
echoing in my head,
Bouncing back and forth,
Reeling up and down like a Yo-yo,
Like a boomerang that keeps coming back,
Like a song stuck in your head,
A thought that gnaws at your will to live,
Like an army of termites devouring your soul
making you hollow from within,
Like the waves of the sea
lapping its shore incessantly.
A thought nagging my soul,
Why not to just shut off everything?
Like turning off the lights,
turning around and walking away;
A thought to strip away
all my worries and cares of the world,
Like a snake shedding its skin
to just wander off leaving behind
petty rivalry, envy, jealousy, shallow ties,
The strife and the peril,
The platitude and the contradiction of life.
And to step out renewed, reborn,
into a new place with no identity,
no name, no past, no expectations
for the future – just living for today;
As I like. As I please.
With no vagaries of life,
No yearning for paradise.
Walking away folk free
unrestricted by time or space,
customs, creed or the rules of the law.
But this thought
Like an active volcano,
Ever brewing and rumbling
but never erupting,
Like a seed sowed with care and nurturing
but never sprouting, never coming to fruition.
It just keeps kneading and churning
Forever bobbling in the doldrum,
Performing boondoggle tasks,
Bearing the burden of the world like Atlas,
Unable to sigh or sneeze,
Fearful that a sudden moment,
The slightest shift
might cause an upheaval in someone’s life.
Ah, the woes of life,
Why thou linger willy-nilly in my vicinity?
Why thou not forsaketh me?
Go and befriend the dark, foreboding clouds
And burst down over some distant shores.
Let some sun shine upon me,
For once, let love
gather me in her warm embrace,
Let me not suffer
for having loved too well,
Bequeath to me the days rife with joy
and mellowed moonlit nights,
Let my path run some distance straight
and not twist or turn at whim,
Let there be spring in my seasons
instead of the gray cold and bare winter,
Let me rejoice in the day’s toil
and earn me the night’s repose,
It’s a recurring thought,
Over and over again,
echoing in my head...
Wait just a minute,
Didn’t we go over that already?
Wood Nymph, wraps white
gossamer legs in hello, as branch shakes
in obvious "ka_ching"!
'Oh wait till you see what she does next",
tattles the tree, in an excited and mischievous
foreboding.
Itself, a Familiar and Servant,
hypnotized to carry and present her gift of wrap
and wrap of gift.
The naughty Nymph O pushes herself halfway up
like a tired and cautious sloth
(on the lip of a drinking cup.)
An innocent look beguiles her face
as essence of bark soils it's digits up,
To stick like a sponge to her curves like a leech
leeching much.
Nurses a clamp to her soft skin
as if to aspire seed of sapling in sap, sapping sin.
As She stares through, impossibly pierced,
her cruelly clumsy jiggle starks the eye
in an ultra violence of lumplumpsum.
The forest stirs with whispers of silence,
gossiper secretions to soil more.
Wood nymph dances careless,
her story unfolding, merciless amore.
Her web weaving legs, wrapped in ethereal grace,
licks of
delicate tricks of creature of delicacy.
Surreal ad vise given visa visage
it's enchanting embrace.
The trees, they giggle with mischievous delight,
as they await her next move, a magical sight.
A familiar servant, the branches extend,
presenting her gifts, their devotion, bend.
Halfway she rises, cautious and slow, oh dear.
Like a tired sloth, uncertain where to go
but nearer near.
Innocence plays upon her beguiling face,
as she clings to the bark, leaving presiding trace.
A sponge to her curves, the bark holds so tight,
seeks to crumble there.
Leaving a mark, a visible sign of it's mare.
But she dances on, with a clumsy sway.
A violence of debauchery in a mystical play,
there there, tears tears tears.
Her presence, it lingers, in the air, a fragrance,
mimicking the soul bare.
A poem to stir souls, in carom of supernatural
resonance in crept.
The wood nymph bewitches with every step,
to numb your penance swept.
Leaving an imprint of memory kept as plum-line erect.
In the depths of the forest, her essence will remain,
a powerful muse, never to wane.
For she is a poet's dream, an excuse so rare,
relished relic of the gone insane.
Captivated, beyond complain,
the Satyr's forehead yields sign, pops a vein.