Long Ooze out Poems
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“Fear not the legendary vampires, but dread the vampires living among us, thirsting for blood!” ~ By Poet
Vampires sleep by the day and fly by night.
They are afraid to come out in to light.
They feed on human blood.
Their lips are scarlet red.
Their flaming eyes are luminously bright.
Vampires dance in the pale glow of moonlight.
Return to their graves before break of light.
They cause such severe dread.
They are souls of the dead.
Ooze out blood and leave the victim to blight.
April.21. 2023
Writing Challenge ‘V’ words Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Constance La France
Friday is the day to let out your hair
To unleash your freak, to dance without care
Friday is the day to look forward to five
To unbraid your mind, to increase your “alive”.
Friday is the day to dance in the street
To laugh with your friends, to be your best freak
Friday is the day to make yourself into a whirling treat.
To be yourself totally, to unleash your adventurous streak.
Friday, Friday, Friday, Friday, why can’t you be every day my friend?
The joy would ooze out of us, it might overtake us and never end.
But then would we love it as much as we do right now?
Get out of my way, and I will show you how….
To make every day feel like a tiny bit of Friday.
It is easy to do. Just follow your heart and play.
The meandering Universe or tightly packed with no edges at all
The Universe huge and pulsing enough to give seed to the life forms is packed rock into a ball
The Universe did it know all along about Love?
Hey what is life anyway? Some say they know from messages above, within— without
Some say they know by analysis, some philosophers, mystics, priests, all claim they have the key to the riddle-- What do they know?
I have voyaged with Plato, and Aristotle feeling the firm ground beneath me slipping away,
I mourned the Passion, I have kneeled for Allah, Vishnu, Shiva, Yahweh, RA, Amun-Ra, Odin, and I have imbibed the mystic, elevating into a fugue
Hawkins, Sagan, Einstein have wisely spoken, I speak their words, “Where did God hide those confounded data?”
I have visited the land where law of religions becomes the external garb of man, atoms flowing rapidly energetically all from cloth to flesh and back again--
In those black holes I have held hands with Sagan, De Grasse
In search of other worldly terrestrial beings, and have floated into eternity embracing Hawkings into beauteous things— with water at the center of it all…
Plunged into darkness, and never found those dice,
What can I say, I am only man.
We have tried for millenniums to answer the puzzling riddles, what is the ‘mystery of inequity’, perchance it is of no substance at all, or is split asunder in the vital soul of man himself some slippery essence waiting to ooze out into the atmosphere,
The riddles are great, and the universe holds them somewhere in the abyss, of man blackest recesses perchance— Maybe there is no mystery at all… “Philosophy is a smile on a dog”
Some say they know by analysis, some Philosophers, mystics, Scientists, all claim they have the key to the riddle…What do they know?
In the desperate search of God we have despised our ways, Men have become haters of Love. I saw the birth of the humanist once upon a page-- Petrarch my father
He held the keys jangling with a smirk and rage…
Man disappoints man…
Some of us are secretive at first. We hide our poetry’s soul self,
gently letting her peep out; sometimes regretting it immediately.
Fearful of critiques from people who do not understand that poetry
is something we are compelled and born to do with our feelings.
Your diary entries may form themselves into goodness or badness
before you realize your calling as a poet.
Truths shockingly ooze out, surprising you.
Feelings creep out onto a page, in loud angry letters,
or romantic feelings daintily brush onto a crisp lined page
in the form of sweetness and light.
You are a word player, because you cannot
stop this obsession, but it does not define you.
This poetry gig is but a glimmer of a glimpse of yourself.
You might be a caregiver, or a wonderful friend.
People who count on your smile every day may not realize
you have a love affair with words, and an obsession to write them.
We are each a unique jewel, mined from God’s mind.
Poetry may initiate a whisper of a tiny facet of ourselves,
but our secrets are safe. We not merely poets. We are lovers
of life, and words. Most importantly, we remain gloriously hidden
and unknown to most.
Written 12-20-18 Contest: You Are Not Defined by Poetry
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Gloria in Eggshellsis
By Mark Stucky
Will my shell crack open
from external stresses?
Will my soul ooze out to sizzle over fire.
Will my soul simply rot inside my shell,
forgotten and leaving inside
a core of putrid mess?
Will my soul hatch through my shell,
transforming and breaking through
into a joyfully chirping new life?
My soul has sizzled at times,
burned by flames of misfortune.
My soul has rotted at times,
despairing over the global future.
Will my soul still hatch in time
for renewed life and glory?
(First published in Agape Review, 9 June 2022. See also my poem “Purgatorial Perceptions.”)
(Photo by moritz320 on Pixabay.com.)
She was a lamp of light unto me:
The light was a guiding star,
Full of love and affection.
I dwelled in the warmth of the light.
She fed me and I grew with her thoughts,
She sowed the seed of virtues in me
And watered it day in and day out.
She taught me knowledge and wisdom.
The light shone in me and darkness scared to touch me.
I crossed rugged roads, yet she was beside me;
Yet He is ever with me carrying in His Arms.
She was my teacher of simplicity:
I grew simple; reared modest; nurtured meek,
She taught me the prayer of silence,
And in silence I learnt patience.
Thorns would prick me; yet she treated me,
She would never let the blood ooze out,
And I would watch her tears rolling down her cheeks,
And I knew she wept for my pain.
We have been walking on the path of virtues
Holding our hands together in the bond of love.
FORLORN! Her hands fell down, and I’m shaken:
I perceived the pallor on her white face,
It seemed it wept for me in silence,
And I knew even in silence she can’t forget me.
The Lord hath taken the lamp from me;
Yet the light of the lamp dwells in me.
I wept at her motionless corpse,
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
But could she know I had wept for her departure?
But I had known she wept for my pain
When thorns had pricked me in her presence.
The lamp is no more with me;
Yet the Lord shines in me thro’ my parents.
She was a lamp of light unto me,
The light was a guiding star
Full of love and affection.
I call out your name from hilltops and lofty mounts.
But I get no response, not even an echo return.
Once our laughter pulsated through crannies and crevices
And along seastrands with the sibilance of waves and the roar of billows.
When we paced hand in hand with a single song at heart against time and tide,
Every word and every syllable you uttered echoed with a love so true,
Creating sweet reverberations in my heart and sending me to raptures.
I don’t know when was it that the whirlwind came sweeping along
Scarring us by lightning as a flash of fury followed by deadly thunder
And crushed the delicate petals of our blossoming love.
I am plagued with longings and memories come crowding in my mind
Tears ooze out from the wide stretch and corners of my misty eyes.
I, then call out your name with all my might in thundering voice,
As the drowning man clutches at the straw, as the last desperate attempt.
But I get no response and no echo returns to my utter disillusionment.
However, in a mystical way, I get perennially connected
To your life’s light and darkness and your heart’s mute language.
Though no echo returns, in my heart your voice lingers for ever,
Chanting love’s sweet refrains and staying as a bitter sweet reminder.
I often get blended with your scent which stands out and makes me giddy
Among a plethora of so many other less intoxicating fragrances.
Now I wander through the empty corridors of my life
Again, and again calling out your name, but no echo,
R….E…..T…..U…..R…..N....S!
The most honest, virginal, understood truths
Are given to us by the breath of God, or Holy Spirit
Validation comes in the form of peace and joy
When we are following the path He set out for us
Enthusiasm bounces out of us in an effervescent way
Our aura is pink, and we are glowing with wonderment.
Others feel us coming, and want to join in.
They understand that we are in touch with something surreal.
Honesty and integrity ooze out of us when we live our truth.
I glean my own truth through prayer and meditation.
Validity comes in two forms for me. Hair rising on my neck.
And an inner knowing without knowing how I know.
I feel these attachments to my chakra are from God’s messengers.
Angels have been watching over me my entire life.
I feel they help my soul celebrate when we are on His path.'
Our Truth Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker
Date May 2 2022
I nearly took my life today,
No knife or rope or gun,
Instead, the weapon was the truth,
The bleeding has begun,
It needs to ooze out all my pores,
Before first signs of healing,
And sting from disappointment,
Of a life without much feeling,
It wasn't always like this,
You flourished for a while,
Until your id and ego,
Were fueled with your beguile,
You only meant to honor,
The gifts you gleaned from life,
But, when choices became harder,
You bailed and turned to strife,
Pain was so much easier,
To inflict and then possess,
No matter who the person,
Or what the instance did suggest,
No pain, no gain, some do say,
But with positive intentions,
Not for wicked martyrs,
Doing things we should not mention,
I watch the blood, it's flowing now,
It makes me strong and weak,
It shouts at me to get up,
And find a life to seek,
Not something blue and pearly,
Just some quality existence,
Which will appear like magic,
With solid, pure persistence,
As for others, as they watch you,
To see coagulation,
The only thing important,
Is your own self-jubilation,
If they decide to follow,
You'll know you're headed west,
Because the honest you,
Is the one they like the best.
(4/15/98)
I feel their knife in my mouth,
As they carve out my tounge.
I feel all of the words I dare not say,
Stain my lips alongside the blood.
I look into their eyes and smile,
Knowing I could never truly hate them.
No matter how they silence me,
Or bruise me with my words.
Because my type of sickness has no boundaries.
They beat me, break me, and cut me,
But no.
I will always come back.
Like a sinner to a chapel,
I will come back with my palms up.
Asking for blessings,
But knowing I will get struck down, once again.
I am their's to break. I always have been.
Their blood runs in my very veins.
And no matter how many times I let it ooze out,
It's what makes me live.
I am indebted to them.
Forced to live in the shakes they forge,
Out of the hate they don't know reaches
My ears.
I am exactly what they hate.
What they fear.
I am what they fight against.
But I will never tell them.
I will always stay silent.
my tounge carved out.
I can't feel the pain.
I'm already in pain from their words.
But I stand there smiling,
In a pool of my own blood,
As they are ignorant, not knowing,
I am the thing they fear most.