Long Ghost Poems
Long Ghost Poems. Below are the most popular long Ghost by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ghost poems by poem length and keyword.
I peer quite nervously about,
to wonder at the goings on,
how much of what is said,
is speculation on my part,
and how this dwelling rose,
from a clouded past milieu,
tales of the apocryphal I’d guess,
imagination stirred off course,
uncanny gothic motto purblind,
blue ink mist curtain veil stoke,
vivid mind’s black night visual,
amulet of congested fantasy,
macabre plot on the strain,
what surreal restlessness within,
dormant interregnum cast,
yet one seems drawn toward,
that dim lit swirling sight,
nest for midnight dervish,
and other brazen species,
dare I enter from afar,
perforce I court danger,
when nosey to a fault,
but therein lies the trap,
to be fascinated is one thing,
to stray beyond another,
why would one be so tempted,
by an entity with dark omens,
superstition is a term used,
to smear that which is unknown,
it is however justified,
when carefully used methinks,
a shrouded raven perched,
stoic, solemn sage as sentry,
ravens circulating chimney top,
symbolic ghost appearing numb,
somehow I cannot summon,
pluck up that innate gumption,
to confront a crippling fear,
before it duly swallows me,
now I feel driven without rein,
zany impulse at the whelm,
enigmatic pathway underfoot,
reluctant step a heavy booth lurch,
shattered eaves, torn leaves,
giant concrete slab tumble,
frail broken window smithereened,
taut ghoulish splinters glisten,
I dash against elemental angst,
when peeping warily into the void
Light switched on our world
bringing both energy and vision,
igniting rich colors with great variation.
It flowed from the sun, that star that rose
each day to give with ever onward generosity.
I loved the dayshine.
I loved the brightness and the warmth
in the long summer days.
I loved the way it made the world shine so freshly
in the snow-bequeathed days of winter.
Yet, why are the things we need the most
the first we don’t honor,
or see how with our souls the gratitude remains?
For when you love the simple joys
the heart feels full and secure.
The hungry ghost within is satisfied
and allows serenity to enter.
Ponds paint greenish portraits in rural Indian landscape,
Docile duck rafts do dive-tricks, teasing whale-like buffaloes,
Salmon and tilapia tickle skaters and shrunk snails,
Tadpoles and fries from deadly algae and skaters escape...
Girls in petticoats and boys with no clothes, here, somersault,
Naughty ones among these push inside those don't know swimming,
Troop of youth, like villains, enter and exhibit pole-vault,
Women, like trained washers, busy themselves in cloth-washing...
Java plum trees, posing around willows, like green phantoms,
Shadow around, frightening the passersby, late evening,
Mangroves plowing the water make noises like ghost-groaning,
Bullfrogs to their mates seem sending love-memorandums...
Sun rays penetrating the dense leaves-embroidered branches,
Crack tracks of golden routes, as though connecting to sky-skirts,
Reflects, toward moon, like images on mirrors with clown-shirts,
Summon dark angels of dusk, to play about the ranches...
Do not get dried up amid severest of droughts, dear pond,
Or get swollen up, destructing lives, puffed up by the rains;
May lives in you and around, your healing touch ever gain,
And heaven and earth enjoy your perennial love bond...
19 December 2021
A STRAND (1044) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
The soaring sinews of morning sunrise,
Ascend like attacking phantoms with flailing spears;
They rise thinking of fond amusements in the foggy darkness;
They appear as an apparition appears through an old curtain,
As a suffering ghost lurking, groaning in the back room there,
In the old back mansion
Amidst the dark tuft of beckoning willows,
Out back, hidden and forbidden, their erotic shadows.
Then we stand close together,
I have my fingers on Cape Hatterus,
Gently and firmly, as ripe apples in the wind
Topple, I guided you breathlessly amongst the doilies.
I let my masticating mind fixate visions of contorting sweat.
I, as a force of destiny,
Spiraled straight into boneless sockets.
Don't move female person, you, with wafts of perfume strong,
Stare into me female person, stare into my eyes,
There is no other river to cross,
The boa constrictors have put on blinders.
They don't see you. They don't care.
But I do. As a lone bloom on a strong myrtle branch,
I see you over there,
As much as the sky sees our rising voices,
But now my brain hears your voice,
Yet you are silent.
New Years Day
You say she's the one for you
And who am I to deny that's true?
You live with the promise of her forever
And certainly seem to forget our endeavor.
Now my pen is quiet
with gentle brush strokes
no more of the fury
no more of the fire,
It's gone with the wind
And no longer has desire.
To write of the love that we had before
To write the story of the slammed poisoned door.
Slammed shut on our chances,
slammed shut on our glances
Across the room with a fiery stinr
Like out love was crossed on some
invisible string.
So now we move on.
We pretend that we're golden.
Because now our hearts
Have been shattered and chosen
To move with the times,
And settle in with our rhymes.
On paper and in hell,
We tell each other
we wish you well.
But none of those lies
are ever really true.
And each of the lines
Are trapped in the blue.
And so, we read
in between our minds
And we both know
that we aren't really fine.
Because love drips from each stroke
and every other line.
So we write and we give up
A silent cry to the sky
We try to reach and we try
so damn hard to die.
With each passing moment.
For if we even for a second
Did show it,
I'd run back to you
Without hesitation.
And you know that's true,
So you block your own mind
The trains have now left all of the routes
and diverted all the stations.
Back to your mind
And back to your love.
I silently look
to the heavens above.
And wonder if you'll
Treat her better than me.
As heartbreak takes over
my own sad
reality.
As I play back our times
And craft them in rhymes.
Because she is now me,
I know without a thought
That I'll be on your mind
In all the answers you sought.
So think of me while her hands trace your cheeks
And think of me when I'm no longer in reach.
Think of me when my touch
lies like a ghost
Forgotten
On the wind
Of your love
And think of me when your mind
traces her and her thighs.
And when you have a spare moment
now and then, let my thought in.
Because this love we have chosen
Is now quite our burden.
And now the east wind
Joins our hands
as we scatter and cry
At least we are looking
up at the same grey sky.
Note to self: In observation where there seems to be nothing there, there is
always air. Even without matter there is something for instance light waves.
The spirit of the Divine in me seeks the Ataraxian mode of living
Although I long for air in my lungs I keep bumping into tables and chairs,
like an old ghost who has forgotten the use of her legs and arms.
The elemental carbon of my living structure is no more matter than
the air I breathe. Through diffusive meditative qualm, I can almost
touch its ether, "my being"
He poured his Numen Spirit long ago inside my stillborn body
where once I was clear sky, today just brain on forceps.
Its when I place my breath in the womb of God that my skeptic nature, ?
to be continued ?
By ?
What-When Where- How- Why
No greater love than a man lay down his life for a friend
This is where a life story journey begins: the unwanted bliss, the forbidden child begins to speak!
Wished to be born to come to the birth canal, wished to breathe the mist of the fragrant grass
the air wished for water or the time the bag burst for life, the tear the tare the feel is real but there
Inside the belly remorse removable no contentment the rest but not for long for it was heard in the sealed small voice the curse the worst never to ride a bicycle down the pavement never to be tucked inside on clean white sheets never to rest the head on a fluffy pillow sprinkled in love and care
Never to taste a sweet, never to know a friend to run and play with, not any day. What is play?
Never could know how to say, Mother
Neither the word Daddy. My last words, last thought, last cry, last tear, last fear, last pain, last day
So Close
What, where, when, how, why? Where are they... They were once so close to life, now gone, never mind because I'm not here on earth anymore, just a ghost, nothing more!
.
As we approach a certain age
Before the end draws nigh
Afore my knees give up the ghost
Or bunions stop me climbing high
When all I eat is jam on toast
Now is it time to make the most
To maybe write a bucket list
Of all the things I might have missed
Like jumping from an airplane
Too risky, that’s insane
Or swimming with a shark or two
Is something I would never do
To teeter on a tightrope above a high abyss
Would be crazy I have vertigo
So think I’ll give this one a miss
To bungee jump from way up high
Please have the medics standing by
My bucket list abundant
Making sharks or two redundant
With adventures unfulfilled
That I do not want to miss
Like a day trip to the Moon
Wishing this could happen soon
Set sail upon a Galleon
In search of Paradise
To discover Shangri-La
Or a place they call Utopia
Oh dear, I think I’ve lost the plot
I‘m sounding even dopier
I can’t believe I’m dreaming of a place they call Utopia
Returning to reality
I make myself a pot of tea
For I don’t need a bucket list
As there is nothing I have missed
Contest Strand no 710
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st Place
In shadowed depths where silence wraps its cloak,
My heart, once strong, now aches in quiet plea,
For love’s lost light, a fading, gentle smoke,
Has left me cold and longing to be free.
You came like dawn, a promise of the spring,
But left me caught in winter’s cruel embrace,
Your words were warmth, yet now a bitter sting,
Each memory a ghost I must replace.
In tender dreams, I sought a love so true,
Yet found instead a storm of endless tears,
Where once was joy, now only skies of blue,
And echoes of the pain from all those years.
Oh, grant me peace, release this mournful score,
For in my heart, I cannot bear to cry more.
Silver slippers sliding off her feet, sparkling heels,
Suspended beat of the air, the feel of surrender
to the pumpkin skies, the rise of parting souls.
Bare feet, barely touching the stairs; the tip toes
of spiraling rails. Her midnight blue gown swooshing,
swaying, twirling. The moon glittering like her tiara.
Poof, like magic, she’s disappeared, as his hands
fondle one of the shapely shoes; perfect though
they’d been used in romantic tango half the night.
The cool night air still holds her lips, her breath,
the essence of her charm, her slippers. He dare not
turn back the clock - hears its melody chiming.
Her timing was impeccable, almost laughable, as
the princess-dolts had already stepped on his toes,
their knees creaked, and all were wildly anxious.
But she showed up at the top of the stairs,
suspended time, then descended the winding
way, all along lifting his eyes, biding her time.
The only son, ready to take the throne -
his palms were wet, his knees trembled,
love at first sight, before she even spoke.
She didn’t disappoint. She could sing and dance.
Where did she come from? He’s too entranced
to ask, but as courage comes the clock strikes.
and she runs
away like a ghost…