Long Macabre Poems
Long Macabre Poems. Below are the most popular long Macabre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Macabre poems by poem length and keyword.
My devilish mausoleum painted
with bloodcurdling remains
Cobweb gives spine-tingling
in mummified body
Tonyx
The knowledge of necromancy
- unknown X ?
Macabre beasts, tyrannize
a world of exorcism
Anti depressants !
The galaxy grows cold and poor
GoRe, gorE ... GoOOOre
- destroy the planet
Haunted xanadu didilduX
Pleasure, pain
Weave through the fabric of days
Two threads intertwine
Pulling on opposite sides
One soft as dawn’s first light
The other, sharp as twilight
Cutting through the silence
In the dance of oppression
We taste the sweetness only after the salt
In the warmth of touch, the pricking of thumb
We know the absence of one
The heart opens wide to none
Risking everything for the fleeting moments
Where joy and sorrow blur at the razers edge
We stand bare to the winds, bleeding
Hoping to catch the sun
Before the rain begins
Yet, in each wave
In each rise and fall
There is a rhythm
Reminder of life, mystery
Pleasure and pain
Guiding our hand to regions unknown
Tides drawn by a distant moan
Pleasure and pain
Hand in hand
Shadows intertwined in between
Sun, moon in stars
In the taste of sweetness, of bitterness
In every bloom, thorns rise
Dance of joy, sorrow, macabre
Spins in circles of lost melodies
That hums in quiet moments
Where laughter falls, and tears swell
From the sky, none at all
The heart beats in silence
Secret keeps
We reach oblivious thoughts
Darkness lingers close by our heart
Both are bound by threads
For in the cradle of one
To the grave of other whispers
Pleasure and pain, opposites detain
But echoes of the same desire
To know the world
Is to see the god
To break the mind
Is to heal the insane
Her face is smudged with the color blood red that’s painted on her lips, as though the mark was left there after an unwanted kiss
Those lips are sewn shut she mustn’t and cannot speak, this is her punishment all because he deemed her too weak
All alone she is banished to this cell, where memories of others haunt her dreams from skeletons buried there
Lives that once meant something someone that was once loved, she ponders if they received the same fate all because they weren’t enough
Then she is spoken to in the depths there in the dark, and as the light shines upon his face she knows he has no heart
His eyes they’re darker than the blackest of seas, and he taunts her to try, and escape give him a beg, a plead
He’s demented and he is intrigued by the calmness there in her eyes, he dreams of cutting them out with his knife that he carries by his side
He has no feelings, no remorse at all, his face is a depiction of an executioners wall
Because there in those dark eyes and in the lines of his face, if you look closely, you can still see the blood shed of the others who once stood in her place
She is just one of many in a line of dying souls, being wielded around like a weapon and feeling every torturous blow
She takes the torture, the pain, the truth, that this is her end, because she is the next skeleton in the procession line for this dance of macabre and for him the fun is only about to begin
He loves the gore, the death, the grisly atrocity of it all, and here he is the ringmaster, the dealer of death, the devil that makes the calls.
I never associated weather-faced seventy-year-old Florence with Italy until today, sixty years later.
Florence’s hands moved as fast as she talked. She was usually accompanied by her favorite goat,
Gladys, who knew when to bleat and when to keep still. Florence’s mouth was always going;
she had a reputation she had to maintain. We neighbor kids either loved or hated her;
there was no in between. She looked like a wizened witch, wearing men’s overalls,
grimy shirts, and that silly hat with the goat bite out of the brim.
My sister was terrified of her at first, but I despised her until I was forced to know her
by my insistent mother. My initial aversion revised itself
into an eerie fascination which eventually bordered on Florence love.
She told the most entertaining gruesome macabre stories imaginable.
At ten, I remember hanging onto every word about three men who were hanged,
a twelve foot garden snake, and other deplorable things I was not allowed to hear
anywhere else. This was the sixties, when TV was tame, all cowboys and Indians.
So I was grateful to have Florence. Here she is now, walking Gladys. Have to go.
More later.
I'm waking up and rubbing two blinded eyes,
The crispness of the sweet-scented air in whimpering July
Rapidly spreads by a benevolent wind that pleases,
It allows me to discover by intent a sublime reality,
Which is the morning's picturesque beauty:
Does strong belief interfere with a sense of great friability?
Nature can be brutal or pleasant, and yet it can fascinate
Us, when it suddenly embraces each sense to compensate
For the discontent left by a dreamless and unrestful night;
What we hear amid those eerie shadows is the cry of a cricket!
I distinctly revoke such repulsing and unenthralling nights
As I wash their macabre images off with cold, running water;
Is a better day coming, prompting actions that don't falter?
Harm is done when pain is accepted and tomorrow frightens.
In this morning's picturesque beauty, I could lose myself
And wish that dreaming vainly detaches me from grief,
not seeing any delusional mirage on the journey to happiness;
I've expelled the vile demons that made me spew lies!
I was a middle child,
the middle of three unwanted children
Our mother was English, an actress,
who had the misfortune of
loving our father, who abandoned us
We were all partitioned out to
whoever would take a toddler or an infant
when our mother died. Yes, our mother
had chosen very poorly.
I was a ward of a couple who traded slaves,
a couple who never adopted me,
never called me son.
I was an interloper, spoiled one minute,
mistreated and harshly disciplined the next.
According to my master's whims. His wife
was silent, she did not care, she was not my mother.
My first book of poems was like me.
Nameless. I actually made sure the
by-line did not have a name. I treated it
with contempt, a contempt I understood.
I did not belong to anyone. The book
was like me, un-named, un-claimed, lost.
It did not do well. I continued living on
my five dollars a week salary.
At 27, I laid with my 13-year-old cousin.
We call this child abuse now; in 1836, it
was called marriage. She belonged to me.
I was no longer alone.
My wife passed before she was 30; at least
she lived long enough to see one of my poems
published and positively received. It was
different, interesting, to readers, macabre.
I died at 40; causes unknown.
Possibly because no one cared enough
to find out what finished me. Some said heart
disease, others suicide, some cholera, others
drugs.
What matter? I was dead wasn't I?
Dead, as the raven in my story, dead
and gone, forevermore. It seems
peculiar now that I matter more today
than I did when I was alive.
"Like the silence that screams, cursing solitude
... whispers of faith sing patiently with prayers"
Regina McIntosh
IMAGINATIONS OF SOLITUDE
The scream, his palms unleashing Danse Macabre.
The sinister skeletons tapping digits
against the ebon glow of candelabra.
The sinister skeletons tapping digits.
Ten bore into his human brain, the echoes
of full violin’s disquieted widgets.
Ten bore into his human brain. The echoes
releasing...releasing a wing and a pray’r -
elongated shadowbrush of El Greco.
Releasing...releasing a wing and a pray’r,
those fierce flexuous hues - the Spirit of grace.
The phantasm flees - a disturbed boneyard despairs.
Those fierce flexuous hues - the Spirit of grace.
His countenance resounding to see God’s face.
1/28/2021
HEARTS UNIVERSE
SPONSOR: REGINA MCINTOSH
HMS - 11 syllables each line
Painting The Scream by Edvard Munch
We embrace the craze for the garbage
Sacrificing your sometimes fragrant calls
Shifting from paper to paper
Like skyscraper the same garbage
In every news every daily
Spillage of helpless human blood
Lumps of life in lust for lawless illness
Your dance my darling is being punctured
This is a time of black adventure
Garbage hoarded deep down there
Garbage learned and reinforced with care
Releasing through lone wolf and grenades
You offered me many a window
Even in my stuffy room in a slum
You proffered me a few pigeons
To my breast to write poems
To even your gifts I preferred garbage
And now it rules our life and world
Garbage of pent up anger and irritation
The rampaging truck on Bastille Day
Turning the whole landscape macabre
The world is at the mercy of peace robbers
Did we create it by dumping garbage
In Tigris and Euphrates decades ago
The hyper-material world is turning garbage
Candles no more flicker at the daily carnage
_____________________________________________________
July 17, 2016
Hostages kidnapped: casualties of war
After extorting pound of flesh
lifetime humiliation drummed into captives
hammering indelible nightmare
no amount of therapy can expunge.
Lifetime trauma inflicted perpetrators wage
dead bodies littered makeshift triage
death and destruction
exhibit super fresh killing fields,
where sally forth set pathmark
to abominable gut wrenching
ghastly hollow hellscape.
Haunting horrid macabre scenes assault,
batter, clobber, et cetera the senses
death construed as mutual
(of Omaha) collateral damage
fallout populated by zone of dead bodies
littering apocalyptic landscape
rendering spooky morbidly fascinating,
especially from safe vantage point
bajillion miles away
whereby yours truly
hunched over his Macbook Pro laptop
glanced the headlines without further delay
aid convoys moving into Gaza Strip
a tepid hip hip hooray
impossible mission for
overactive imagination of artist
or writer to capture bedlam and melee,
scaring up heavenly sight
for grim reaper soirée
repository for skull and crossbones
as arid (extra dry) winds hasten desiccation
whistling repartee (even from afar)
faintly resembling mourning of Zalay.
Countless hungry ill clad masses beg
the question regarding
purposefulness of mortal kombat
screaming in agony against cutthroat
belligerents who gleefully gloat
laying waste besieging
ship of state and emergency lifeboat
senselessly bombing spelling
likelihood for peace on earth remote
silencing the lambs and yellowthroat!
Methinks spouting protestation
against loosed strife,
courtesy demoniac *****sapiens
where talking heads strategize foo fighters
pointless exhalation of breath
sabotaging, shortchanging, siccing,
squashing, subjecting, et cetera
innocent bystanders ultimately hastening them/
they to untimely and unfair nasty,
shortish and brutal death
linkedin to personal choice of deity
and attendant religious shibboleth.
The moon hovers there, shining aloft,
its form the infamous crescent,
its glow so luminous as to reveal the rest of the orb,
oft-hidden when its time in the sky is not nigh.
Underneath, a fog coats the cold ground.
It floats eerily around everything in its path,
twisting here and there, suffusing the darkened morning
with a fell feel, secrets behind every bush and tree.
As my fellows and I trudge past a field to our left,
the mist reveals the obstacles we placed there afore;
in the sun, just part of training, procedure -
in these cruel environs, an ominous vision.
Barbed wire raises from a fence line
like the hackles of an angry beast;
threatening even we who emplaced it with its edges,
taunting our easily pierced flesh to embrace it.
Bunkers hunker down by the edge of the wood,
barely glimpsed openings once promising solace -
in this haunting setting they appear more as gaping maws,
showing to the world only a presence and visage of hunger.
Meant to hamper the enemy, defend those who built them,
on this macabre morn they serve more to menace their own.
Our bristling band hurries to pass that brooding breadth,
the horned moon vanishing at last from our unsettled sight.