Long Scrawls Poems
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Written: June 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
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The Phantom Choir
In the quiescence of last Sunday,
Prophecy heralded the hour past two,
I heard a whisper at hibiscus dawn—
a seamless voice I swore I always knew.
In blissful flutter—it said night was wide,
Chrysalis sorrow stirs a bed for fools,
that in the hush, when hearts collide,
The lost willows are left to wade in pools.
Facing the kernel until the street thinned,
And my shadow’s sepals bled away,
Rusted voice strings within me spoke again—
It's hymn frills poised for slow decay.
The Hollow Pact
Will I wake to descry my cracked mind,
emptied of all its sharpened teeth?
Will murky echoes break their binds,
Or gnaw beneath the sheath?
The alchemy battle sparks, but I am dust—
wispy strands, a soldier tied in flimsy chains.
Each idea erodes the periwinkle ones I trust,
while the weight of stress remains.
You graze me with a maze—why do I stand so still?
Resurrection of the soul—so why shake your hands?
But dread can have its way to fulfill—
The transcendence of love is lost in vicious demands.
The Third Mourning
Wise chakras buried beneath the walls I built,
the zen voice still scrawls its wordless plea.
It concedes my yantra’s vulnerability, my guilt,
peers where peacock pleadings wane into a spree.
It hums inside the tremors of sapphire light,
I close my eyes as it runs over lily-filled shorelines.
Bits of lunar-glazed silver dust grow in quiet nights,
and procrastinated pledges become lies.
In my dour dreams, it tells me not to resist—
“You know that silken shivers favor sound.”
Amid cyan azure peace, I learn misery persists,
for flickers of love fear the burial mound.
The Acoustic Waltz
In nocturnal dryness—sing soft verses in the dark,
claims the enamored inked words are not hers.
She plucks cerulean hymns without leaving a mark,
The tune of her carved kohl was lost in slurs.
She sways in the russet yarns of neon glow,
bows beneath the ricochet’s wild haze—
a phantom waltz in katabatic motion, moving slow.
a cosmic voice garden, too faint to truly be a maze.
Her pocket holds a ring of black gem glass,
won as a child’s dare, a piece of smitten ink.
She warms it, sighs, and watches it pass
through flaming flecks—hands that fight to sink.
MELANCHOLY
Why destroy my sunny day with storms,
wipe the smile from my twinkling eyes, dimpled cheeks?
Like bony-fingers pulling me down, into the abyss,
darkening my hair and my skin - aperture shut tight.
Oppression of yellow-daisy lids underneath a mass, of
ice-cold leaves. They keep falling overnight, an avalanche.
It’s the glowering words, burning like fuel -
a lasting impression, a roaring brew, simmering
melancholic stew. One that tastes gravelly, breathes
heavily into my nostrils - the phantosmia-stench of smoke.
Nightmares of copy-paper flying, disheveled through the air,
of books cascading off shelves, flood of sadness billowing.
My pen begins to write my story, then scrawls like tears,
dripping ink everywhere. Flamboyant-ink blots, rorschach-blue.
10/21/2017
Autumn draws closer day by day
From far is heard
The screeching of a lone bird
Voicing its dismay aloud
Over the impending fall
Here the moss scrawls
Ugly pictures on the bark of trees
Where black spiders weave their gossamer
Moving, sig sag across the trees’ leprous trunks
I see the yellowing leaves
Torn down from their sturdy limbs
Sliding down noiselessly one by one
And landing on the ground
With a mournful sound
Acorns from the pine trees drop
And swell the ground and fall to sleep
Life too takes a downward spiral
I feel the autumn seeping into me
And my heart feels a languid grief
The days of my youth
Seem to fly away in a flurry
Like autumn leaves whirling in the gale
Reminding us, that we are not here to stay
The withered leaves
Which shriek and screech under my feet,
Recall to me the cry of martyred youth
With all tenacity overthrown.
Like them, we will fall and be dead to the world
Wrapped in frozen silence, forgotten by all
And sucked back into primal void!
Here we
Here we
Here we ing go
Snarled from within the orange
comfort glow
as i passed
by local pub
Churlish laughter
from a lass
searching for the knight
to give her forever after
ends up with a bastard
Cough and sneezed diseased
Staring at their feet
drawing on paper sleeves
deformed amber gargoyles features
choking on the winters cause
Music tremors ripple
blackened puddles
Not a t-rex in sight
snuggle my own collar
Blowing smoke and mist
Focus on the point
where both mix
Fermented caveman scrawls
echo
and trundle
through
through
a chill that kills the air
Aired secrets crumble
beneath a love undone
the ghost child
waiting outside for a father
that will never come
Take a step
perhaps to be the last
Losing grasp
feeling through the darkness
for homes path.
The sinful playacting of the leaders insists on
crowing over empty victories,
and words without being versed are cremated
on the despoiled landscape;
Elsewhere, night steps up on every toe and hangs fire.
All roads and lanes want bold footprints,
it will not matter whose,
the wind’s shrilling summons convivial light
on the blurry faces and their doleful cries
struggle to reach far and beyond.
Under the shade of sodium vapour lamps,
bodies morph from poor to rich, living to dead,
the rush of blue lights distils on the discoloured skin
of the mannequins; the city scrawls and scratches
on the marbles of the palace and cenotaph.
my father is no longer here
but I still have memories
like the letters from his high school buddies
in the armed forces
at the tail end of World War 2.
these letters, thankfully, were saved by my grandmother
he missed his senior year
to learn how to fly an airplane for the war with Japan
Hitler had been defeated
but not yet Tojo
I'm lucky Dad wasn't a few years older
and he wasn't deployed in Normandy
he never saw any action
because the war ended
but he was ready
we disagreed about many things
but I'd rather be sitting with him now
than with anyone in the world
what I love about these letters
even though they were to (not from) him
is that they reflect
the time in history
and show
the love his friends had for him
which I understand
because I know my dad
and I can feel the humor
and the camaraderie
in those words
written in the individual scrawls
of the young servicemen
who, at the time
I would think of now
as young boys
they were proud to do their duty
and anxious to come home
and begin the business of young men
education, recreation
friends, family
and then
business, courtship, marriage, and children
I like to think of my dad
as a young man
full of fun
health and vigor
I know he was proud of his service
it meant something to him
it means something to me
and he means something to me -
a lot
here's to you Dad
and to the ones who weren't so lucky
in memoriam
Nothing quells the fury where anger dwells;
her skin pales, and incantations begin.
She sells secret potions and magic spells;
and in her heart, she'll not forgive his sin.
At night, amidst ghostly shadows of light,
she calls forth demons as the evening falls.
Her fright overridden by magic's might;
she scrawls a pentagram on bloodstained walls.
Anxieties rise as she wails and cries,
conjuring hate at an alarming rate.
His lies cannot save him, and yet he tries,
for fate has left him in a frightened state.
Once more, she cast spells to open Hell's door;
and swore that he would suffer evermore.
Written: May 20, 2024
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Siren stunningly sprung a sanguine sway
sailboat sheaths spread, and storms swell
splendid summer shorelines spike
summertime spousal serenade swept
scrumptious, sturdy sibyllic sweeps
silky shorelines settle scrawls
seawater subtly scrubs sewage
skirr is a spectacular sand stronghold
sapphire specks spruce seaside sand
shoreline scoria is sharp
shipmates glide along a sleety seacoast
shivering seafarers' sight.
Straight skyline scaled saddlebow
sighting swallows spawned sibilance
stalls and slumps were scrutinized
strolling solysium soliloquy
stranding Schadenfreude
satisfied spectator
sarcasm serves as a solecism
slanting supplants a sempiternal scintilla
swirl across a snapped soul
supported standout slide
spiraling semantic spondaic species
sweeping synopsis syncope
start to sense surrealism
Sensual, sensuous, slim, and smiling
sits silently staring
sapphire sky sight
the sun casts scarlet shadows
slowly sinking silhouettes
scatter stars on skylines
Sunday sermon supply
searching souls
singing serenade.
Slides speckled sunshine
souvenirs spark strands of subdued shades
sequential surety swelling
strange, scarlet, silky songs
sway symphonic sylphic stardust
store sustained scrupulousness
silver surges spurred the space
snagging scents
step sibilant serendipity
stirred spectrum.
Imagine a line i wrote and as you
read it you realise your reading
it in your...
................................... ................................... ................................... ....head....t
----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- -------------------------------h
----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- -------------------------------i
----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- -------------------------------s--- ----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- -----------------w
----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- -----------------------a
----------------------------------- ----------------------------------- ------------------------y
A bove what is a bove
There St
where in
times begone alley
you stop to catch your
Breadth-some length
of breath that taken in
scrapes and scrats
rips and scrawls
with taloned zombie rats
ribcages like straps
flesh hanging like a remark
maggots feasting on brain stalks
night time beach walks-i threw that in for a laugh
Seagulls mine mine squawks
where moon l??ks on and gawps
White foam crashes with memories of conversations here, an awful date there;
welcoming steam floats around work deadlines, lecture notes and scrawls.
Cupped hands warm around porcelain gossips with friends,
secrets crumbling like biscuits dipped, as thoughts are awash
with scents from a city café then and a train station dash back when.
That brown bitter liquor lazing - regal, rustic,
the foreign familiar that can cleanse chaotic hours had.
“I’m sorry I complained. I just like it made a certain way.”
- breath by breath and sip by sip, clink by clink and stir by stir -
but what I really meant was, well...
“I come here for the company of strangers.
The whirring of machines and the babble and the bustle
of a place, less empty than home.”