Long Foreboding Poems
Long Foreboding Poems. Below are the most popular long Foreboding by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Foreboding poems by poem length and keyword.
He stood at the French window fascinated with the storm outside.
Thunder boomed as lightening formed serpents in the ebony sky.
There would be no rainbows beneath the heavy dark clouds.
The uncouth woman lay supine on a comfortable couch
She looked at him almost contemptuously like a jilted bride,
Her cruel eyes darted like lancets that could only kill.
Had she even shown some compassion, he would have
Run to her and planted on her full lips, a loving kiss.
He felt her looks, knowing full well why he felt so jaded,
Yet slivers of her lust still resided in his soul,
She recognized he was not just some ghost from the past.
Though he yearned to tolerate her as a lover,
He knew she was not worth it. She realized how he hated her,
Saw her face darkening and foreboding,
Little did she know how strong he was and in full control.
He knew she wanted his body, not his tender love.
He felt her yearning heart now beating faster.
Outside thunder rumbled across the murky skies.
This wrought havoc as it continued to rain!
There was a fury inside her too, yet he yielded not.
He refused to be a mere plaything in the hands of a wanton woman.
Calmly he put on his jacket and raincoat,
And left her, knowing he needed a true radiant rainbow.
Moon looms in the dark on Halloween night;
foreboding specters create frights;
shadows flitting through the frigid air;
goblins and ghouls scamper…beware…
cackling of cauldron-stirring hags, rides the night air.
Fleeting shadows, hide what lies in nights’ darkened lair.
In the distance, strange lights in the sky;
and peculiar things are darting past my eye.
As a cold wind blows its’ chilling breath;
the fear arising, I detest,
makes me cringe, creates a shiver;
increasing pace, I begin to quiver.
Something brushed my face and then,
it’s energy dark, electrified the wind.
I must get home, go where it’s safe;
then, a headless horseman, I did face!
My heart, it pounded, painfully;
I bounded unashamedly.
Written on: 10-15-18
“Halloween Night Poetry Contest“;
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Flash floods forecast hurrying steps and wheels ahead of foreboding clouds pregnant as eyelids welling with tears of baptismal rain to cleanse earth's skirt of its mire of blood and dust of blinding confusion with thunder of reproaches and flash of lightning clarity. I had been standing, switching gaze from red eye turning yellow to the traffic slowly rolling in one lane, in the next
a car came speeding forward unaware of the pedestrian, head down, hurrying into its path. In an instant making eternity: Rainbow splendor!
slow car swerving right
blocks car missing collision
saving the man's life
In Ongata Rongai's club, a memory song weaves,
A tale of Newton Karish and daring thieves,
Late '90s, New Year's Eve, a lively show,
A sold-out crowd, in high spirits, they'd go.
Karish, unlike modern stars who mime,
With a live band and dancers, he'd shine.
From 10 pm till dawn's early light,
He'd entertain with all his might.
Dancers lost in rhythms, the crowd in delight,
As midnight approached, spirits took flight,
But then, at 2 am, a sudden hush fell,
Speakers went mute, a foreboding spell.
A gang, six or seven, with weapons untamed,
Machetes, clubs, and rusty guns they aimed,
"KILA MTU LALA CHINI!" the leader's decree,
Patrons, sobered, herded, as fear grew free.
"EVERYONE, GET NAKED!" his next demand did ring,
So, they stripped down to nothing, a peculiar, shocking thing,
As the gang searched pockets, taking what they could find,
The crowd cowered on the cold floor, fear etched in their mind.
The gang's leader, bold with humor in tow,
Ordered the speakers to once again glow,
Onstage, Karish and his band stood bare,
Naked and vulnerable, in the chilling air.
"START SINGING!" the gang leader's absurd command,
Karish, his voice trembling, had to withstand,
"Muthoni Kifagio," the song he must perform,
A satirical piece, to ridicule and inform.
Adding humor to the tale's unique lore,
The gang chose a dancer, a man to explore,
An old, pot-bellied, short figure in a cowboy hat,
Dancing comically for the gang; imagine that!
The heist was brief, mere minutes had passed,
And the gang disappeared, leaving the patrons aghast,
Naked and frantic, like a colonial scramble they raced,
For clothes to wear, in haste, they embraced.
Karish and his band, furthest from the pile of clothes,
Landed mismatched attire, confusion arose,
Karish in a spaghetti top, a scent of perfume so strong,
His wife at home, his troubles, he'd explain ere long.
No offense, but imagine the scene so bizarre,
As the pot-bellied dancer, in a cowboy hat, old by far,
Wore lady's biker short, oh what a sight,
In an unexpected place, a humorous plight.
To this day, Karish worries and ponders,
How the dancer, in his unusual wonders,
Explained to satisfaction, to his wife's delight,
Why he wore lady's biker short that night.
HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY
Her hand’s swan-like dance,
ivory shadow puppets
romance. Hungarian rhapsody.
The musician sans existence
as emotive fingers move
imaginary marionettes
with splendiferous precision.
Drama drops onto piano keys
occasionally taking a gentle stroll
then in sensuous sway, sashaying
like an exotic dancer. The musician
plucks and plinks as if
with chameleonic charm, like an
angel playing a harp.
Her fingers fast walk the keyboard
then resound tremulous keys.
(The audience swoons, spooned
by a rapturous torrent that enters
the heart, strokes and kisses
the yearning flesh, like the taste
and feel of brandy, burning and
tantalizing in breathlessness)
The musician’s slender fingers
now strum along in gaiety, like
paramours on the streets of Paris,
Springtime in the air. Palms nearly
rest upon silent keys as if two lovers
lay back upon a bed with puffs of smoke.
Dawn’s crescendo, with peaks of happiness
reside upon streets of ebony and ivory.
Life’s serendipitous monologue begins
once more with foreboding or adventure
or both. Is there loneliness upon this crest
for what has happenstance brought,
are they star-crossed? Do we see the sun
and the moon racing through their pulse —
days of birth and mourning?
(The blond marionette in concert black
seems to be mesmerized or hypnotized
by the muse of music. She’s like a dream
on a performance stage. Practiced in
illumination of flame. She releases the arrow
and the audience brightens up like a chandelier
with clinking and brilliant crystal pieces)
Happiness once again but with ferocious fervor
sends the keys to a heavenly place - to ears,
to mind, to soul...a cheer of a great parade,
and then the shivering of climatic peak,
followed by a lullaby of dreams - we imagine
a newborn wrapped up in a life well-lived.
The darling gal still doesn’t give up the ghost
but plays and plays...can you hear the needle
stuck at the vinyl’s end...spending all love gives?
Only the Creator Himself can lift the arm and
carry the musician still incubating all her charm.
3/19/2018
The sun closes her eyes, and I must close mine, this time,
but my breaking blood-brain barrier bids otherwise.
Another long night bodes foreboding in this light.
Forbidden thoughts seep deep from blood to brain.
I must fight, again, another tormenting night.
Earth's most frightening repetitive
cycle
plays on repeat as I try to cycle through
my backups to no avail, leaving no choice.
Swallowed by every detail of distress, I wait.
I await the end of another night laced with fear -
packed with pills meant to sedate me, but never did,
I waste away, waiting for the sun to open her eyes once again
Our own beautiful perfection
Covered in a mist, by day and night.
Hiding from sight, the beautiful human,
Exist in partly dark, and partly light.
The personalities that character draws
Defines everyone delightful sense of mind,
Being consumed, we assumed our flaws,
In that perfect moment of borrowed time.
No one saw the other images in the clouds,
Spacious and proud, floating out in the sky,
Lives trapped between the foreboding floods,
Cumulus personalities, of follies and fantasy.
Emotional attention wearing the mask of fear,
Poison flames in deep places of enduring pain,
Illusions create a smile swirling in the air,
But tears unseen, often make faces in the rain.
In dreams resides the blurry eyes, see a brighter
Synergy, that future lies in the human imagery.
Agony of beauty will be preserved forever
In heaven, and the ages covered in mystery.
Our likeness and identifiable brightness,
Society see only distorted essence of a person,
Blurred images of life, lies at the bottomless abyss,
Something of a caricature for no apparent reason.
Identity wants to break through the ruin walls
The world holds mankind upon the altar of fear,
In tangled mess, caught hopeless, bombs falls.
Our children want to escape the terror of war.
We stand together upon this fragile earthly strand,
Declaring the testimony of a beautiful human,
With many grains of sand, to make up the land
Everyone is someone with emotions for attention.
The Kings of the earth and great men
for survival how to begin
And the rich men, and Chief Captains
privileged and possessions, men of passion
Mighty men, Bondmen, freemen too
hiding for fate and futures through
For behold the days are coming
what can be more foreboding
In which they shall say
how could it end in such a way
Blessed are the barren
those who could be caring
And to the wombs that never bare
those never given the responsibility to care
And paps that never gave suck
that part that feeds those who trust
Then shall they begin to say
why does it end this way
And to the mountains, fall on us
Hide us from the nuclear thrust
And to the hills. Cover us.
give us shelter from deaths touch
This may comes as a surprise to some.
Often I had crossed her path. She had been on my mind; a natural beauty some might say. These thoughts of her came and went. Did she think of me, and if so, what was the meaning of this transcendence? With no voice to inspire me, all inner direction was lost. Restless visions materialized. My meditation grew weak. Unfinished poems I had thought had promise were discarded and I retreated. I breathed deeply, and in doing so, I tried to conjure up something to jot down, but she was too evasive to stir creative juices. Embattled for words, I had nothing to say. It was the height of frustration; an abrupt halt to what had just begun. I walked about lost in a fog of notions.
Searching for something, what was it I sought? I remembered a postcard from long ago, a picture of a beautiful visage painted on a bridge made of stone. I had been stricken. A muse, who was she? A muse is a gift, is it not? Why was it that I could not make her my very own? Feminine, glowing, naked for all to see, I was sure she wouldn’t have minded helping me continue my novel’s journey. I waited under the pass and listened to the silence, a hollow echoing resonated and took on a foreboding and haunting mood. I left the tunnel in a scurried urgency.
A lady I saw once on a granite arch came to me in a dream one night. An oak tree was present, sprouting from it were branches twisted and gnarled. An obscure figure appeared. Her body was painted pink, her hair raven. There she was seated, in between her legs the genus specie; what a presentation. I saw myself trekking towards her, what would I find? Why she beckoned me, I had no explanation. Then she cried, whispering something softly in my mind. She told me all her long-held secrets, grim and bright. A gift for you, she mused—you will recognize me in time. Now I patiently sit at my typewriter and write.
Unlike the days of old when cities were built with walls. Unlike the streets of my rearing, the place where my story began. And unlike a lone sparrow that I once rescued from a busy parking lot. When I walked alone and afraid
on a dark and dangerous street, no one came to my aid because I was
never seen, never heard. Walled cities had built-in defenses without which they were open targets with little hope of defeating their enemies. They
also had watchmen on the walls to sound alarms if they were threatened.
The locals knew better and limited their movements after dark. But I was new and failed to respond adequately to the smell of attack that fumigated
the atmosphere. I was a defenseless lamb among two wolves on the prowl.
I was the selected prey by the lurkers of the night, ever ready for the feast. They were armed and I was not. They were two and I walked home,
foreboding and alone. Unlike the Romans against the Jews at Masada,
no siege-works was required; no resistance was offered; no cry of alarm. Without a plan, I was the victim of that dark and silent night. Defenseless,
I did not run nor did I speak, and the two of them were armed, robbing me without a sound, leaving me defenseless, penniless and filled with wonder about my next move in the asphalt jungle. The innocence was gone, grave
damage had been done, and a new day had arrived. Like the good locals, I did not whine over spilled milk. Rather, I wiped up the spilled milk, built survival walls around myself and became a better watchman on the wall.
021320PoSpCtest, Pick-A-Title, Vol 14 - Tristich -, Edward Ibeh. Title picked-Defenseless