Long Ghostly Poems
Long Ghostly Poems. Below are the most popular long Ghostly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ghostly poems by poem length and keyword.
Harken...those hollowing drums
Over cold vales so beat,
Exhorting a multitude of glistening
Star-tipped spears,
As marching over shattered landscapes
In shinning replete:
Crunch Artumes eternal legions
Across the snow bound years.
Casting down from the mauve
And cloudless heights
The pale witch broods upon her dark
runes;
Chilled breath steaming mutterings
Of meddling spite,
Uttered under Luna risings
Of half waxen moons.
Repulsed from the presence
Of the holy alters sacred glow,
That cuts like a torch
Across Yules Feast of Lights,
She incants of harsh Boreas
To relent his fierce blowes:
Raising high her crystal towers
To breach the walls of stilled night.
Tis now, away from cheery hearths
And the warm fires they keep,
That warring frost tightens
Upon this hardened land;
Happily sated people
Turn in contented sleep;
Motionless vapours are crushed
In the grip of an iron clad hand.
For as the siege heightens
In relentless might
Heavens wheeling sentinels
Begin to slowly withdraw:
Retreating upon spiraling orbits
Fading from diminishing sight;
Ghostly armies embarking
For far frozen shores.
Loosen now the silver longships,
Afloat on tides of drawing moonlight,
For the Red Goddess slumbers
In deep canyons to the west;
Artumes armies sailing
Into grey dawns fleeting respite...
Awaken... Oh Glorious Aurora...
Scattering your foes -
Before Sunrises conquest!!
An empty swing sways, lilting loneliness in the breeze,
With no children in play, no laughter's squeal to please,
Its rusty chain creaks a forlorn squeak for days gone by.
Like lonesome clouds that linger longingly in the sky.
The ropes are worn, the seat is torn, thread-bare.
The swing swings a lonely dance, with no one there.
It swings from the memory of when frolicking legs and arms.
Would pull it skyward, to thrust aloft its charms.
The wind blows dust tumbling through the ghost town,
Abandoned by the curse of salt in the ground-waters,
Caused by a wasteful irrigation scheme that shutdown.
Leaving the town barren, devoid of sons or daughters.
The willy-willy wisps of white crystal salt,
Lifts from the dust in the playground's remains.
Evoking ghostly images that twist and somersault
Through the rusty links on the swing link chains.
The empty swing swinging in the breeze,
Is a prayer-wheel, squeaking a mournful mantra hum,
That human greed drags nature down onto its knees,
Knowing what you've done, can't be undone.
Louisiana Bayou Spanish Moss
So pretty
Hanging from the cypress trees
It grows without showing its age
Never dying it controls the bayou
Hiding nest of the most beautiful birds
It has been home for countless generations
Silver grey by the light of day
It casts ghostly shadows by the light of the moon
Dreamers and poets write of its beauty
Others write of the terror in brings
It is a citizen of an ever shrinking ecosystem
Vital to the world around it
It is bound to die as the bayou shrinks around it
Does it matter to man?
No, but it does to millions of bayou animals
The ones who count on it for life
The others who use it for shelter
Where will they go?
THE IMMORTAL
“Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.”
Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
You will go to the land of Oblivion to remember. You will bring in the hands the faithful document of your calligram and the children's bread, as always, under the arm. You will turn to see, and there will not be a column of salt that will martyrize you the rest of the way. Your map is the snow, but, it is in the forest's fire that the Silverstein's tree awaits you, on its stump, sit down, your feet burn, your heart goes out through your mouth. Do not be afraid to take it out and lull it like a meek bird that trembles wounded. These things are and were written, but not as you will imagine the journey to the center of the seed. Go with peace, the root of your flesh and my flesh is hollow. Sometimes you will see orchids grow from their venom, but don't be afraid to take them to your chest and rub them as a symbol of your purity, they are helpless, they wither. Don't believe me a single word, shut me up with your back and follow the voice of the river peeking in the distance. Upon arrival, observe the water twitter, and the water birds that simulate fish but that nobody has seen and you will doubt. Perhaps it is an illusion, a deadly rant that collapses to mourn over the grave of heaven. A cold, cold in the neck, which strangles in the brain stem, and yes, produces a fine rain that transcends ghostly pain, and there, incline to its throbbing. Don't leave, the night waits intermittently, it loves you, it needs you in its orbit because you know its tunnels and without wings you fly. But it is not all. The absolute flash of a star at death is that; a poem that opens in solitude, in loneliness, and then, who reads?
Rain gently falls this autumn night
Her thoughts caressed in misty flight
As she walks on the lonely lane
Shadows cast a ghostly refrain
There's not another soul in sight
These peaceful vibes bring her delight
This quietude, a welcome plight
No noise to crowd her or constrain...
Rain gently falls
Pitter patter rhythms then invite
Autumn's sad song to reach its height
"Neath her umbrella she'll remain
Within the fallen leaves domain
Walking towards a distant light -
Rain gently falls......
---
Contest name: Form R
Sponsor: Broken Wings
6/30/17
The night was dark, in the park when I heard a bark
then a ringing bell, blood curdling yell straight from Hell
A loud clunking sound from the ground had me spellbound
by the ploys of the noise, but still maintained my poise.
I shed a tear from fear, but there was no one near.
No hand to hold, when I felt so cold, then behold!
Revealed, what had thus been concealed, an old airfield
Two ghostly planes and blood stains, wings secured by chains
The thump sound was a pump used to clean out the sump
The barking ceased. Time to feast, or a brew, at least!
August 20, 2020
Keen Observation I Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Funom Makama
every once in a while,
read me
pass by my elusive and fickle words, let-hers, and numb.errs
like fleeting rain
I may drown you,
I may inconvenience you, I know
but
every once in a while,
remember me
unearth memories of me
since I've buried myself,
and somehow
I am liking it here
but yes,
every once in a while
do restore me
Please?
to what, I don't know
--still figuring myself out,
I somehow feel it,
the inevitability of it
of not leaving footprints,
only ghostly trails.....................
but
maybe,just maybe,
every
once
in
a
while
I'll
let
ink
flow through
my
veins
again.
I vowed to love mankind one night—
Beneath a wan and weeping light,
Where shadows clung to reason’s edge
And hope lay broken on a ledge.
The air was hushed with ghostly breath,
A perfume faintly sweet as death,
And through the dark, with hollow eyes,
I heard humanity’s soft cries.
“I vowed,” I said, “to thee, O race—
Though sorrow stains thy pallid face;
Though cruelty, with cunning hand,
Hath sown despair across thy land.”
Yet in that vow there stirred a dread—
A whisper from the nameless dead,
Who murmured low, “Beware the plea
To love what scorns its own decree.”
For man, I saw, in fevered dream,
Was less the light than fractured gleam;
A shattered glass of truth and grace,
Each shard reflecting a different face.
Still bowed I low—aye, lower still—
Against the rising tide of ill,
Till from the depths there came a sigh
That seemed to ask the question: Why?
Why love a form so frail, so torn,
By endless night and ceaseless scorn?
Why kneel before a fleeting breath
That dances ever close with death?
And yet—I could not turn away,
Though reason begged my soul to stray;
For in that ruin, dimly shone
A fragile light not wholly gone.
Thus vowed I long, and vow I yet—
In mournful love, in dark regret;
To mankind’s heart—so cursed, so grand—
I gave my soul… and trembling hand.
it’s the groaning, spoken
a feeling, bleeding, bruising
remembering the broken
silence in the heart who’s losing
it’s the story, unfolding
dark as a shadow, stolen
by the ghostly, scolding
even my breath is swollen
it’s the distance between hope
and the futility of grave doubting
oh, if only I knew how to cope
how my soul is shouting!
it’s the color, gray and bleak
too weary for salty tears I weep
a godforsaken place within, so weak
feelings this alive never come cheap
it’s the still of a quiet dawn
birds are chirping, so very calm
how is it, grief-stricken, I feel more like a pawn
than one who finds solace in the psalm
it’s the river bursting with grief
revealing revulsions, blinded by panic
gossamer stories will bring no relief
everywhere the skies look dark and manic
it’s the moment when I feel cursed
by the illness, growing dread and gloom
this endless shock – I’ve gone in headfirst
without hearing the One who arose from the tomb…
it’s His light, His gentling, His grace
that frees my soul so I know I can wait
beyond the fear that’s silenced by His embrace
I know that His love will surely resonate
Within my spirit, where I feel the flow
blessing away the fear that vexes my soul,
there is a glorious light that helps me to grow
despite the worries that cannot make me whole
Within my spirit, where love is gently noted
there is a part of me that praises Him for gifts
beyond what I can explain – I am so devoted
to this loving God whose kindness gently lifts.
it’s not that my fears are erased, but they’re moved
from the shadows of doubt and confusion,
to the background, without sound, where He proved
love is stronger than any fear or disillusion!
1
I slow the chevy
then stop.
I turn around
and look back.
There, behind the bedroom window,
behind a lacy white curtain,
I see a figure,
a face,
a waving hand,
an old ghost
from a crinkled black and white,
arisen to meet me again,
kiss me again in this darkness,
returning to haunt
my matchboxes and combs,
the pretty Mexican girl
with the black medusa tresses;
She that licked my lips
when pressed against hers;
That is no ghost, or is it?
Let me squint these sated eyes
and double check.
I see the slicker girl of 17 years
dressed in ’69 day-glow
That’s her.
It’s not real. Never
2
Red girly fingernails
tapping the chevy seat,
always adjusting, turning
dark brown pantyhose,
and the radio,
always planning and conniving
a quick insecure glance
at a perfumed compact.
She opens her purse widely
retrieving the white slicker tube;
Then come the rituals
of lips and tongues and
sweetened spit ensuing there,
‘Hey Jude’ finding an angular perch
behind them.
3
“Is the door locked?”
Waves of Groucho
on a Magnavox console
emanating towards us
from the next room over
you and me are naked
beneath the whites
ridden in adolescent stains
squirming under the cracks
of raw unfiltered listening
to Pink Floyd smearing alive
the preposterous universe
using Moog synthesizer knives
as Janis from west Texas
sprawls on a ironing board
firmly positioned and plied
She rides the fast horse
two slippery hours ablaze
“Honey, could you turn the dial?”
4
Bill Balance slings eggs and
the Feminine Forum at 3,
riding the waxy airways
with staticky plumes
This dead disc-jockey is
breathing heavily again
into a ghostly microphone.
“Hey Alice, are you a married girl?
Do you have a nice body?
Do you have charging rhino haunches?”
5
“Come inside now.
Hide under these columns,
These stones of plastic marble,
As the world finally ends,
Finally trembles in the sinking sand.
Who knew? Right?
Joke’s on us, but honestly,
We all knew it was coming,
Hopefully later, but coming.
Who knew it would happen
Like this?“
I slow the chevy
Then stop.