Long Skulks Poems
Long Skulks Poems. Below are the most popular long Skulks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skulks poems by poem length and keyword.
I've sat alone
For hours or days?
I do not know
Who goes or stays.
I've paid no mind
To the lost souls.
Strangely I've heard it all
Though no one surely knows.
I've been watching the streets
Watching the dying crowd.
I wish I'd joined
Yet I'll watch from my cloud.
The sun sets
While darkness closes in.
Another day passed
Again the night will win.
The night flickers
As she walks by.
How could I have missed
This woman so coy and shy?
I'm captivated
Those eyes a wonder.
Forever I've waited
To catch looks of splendor.
The lights die
As he skulks by.
I watch his face
Contort with confusion.
His thoughts poison
Venom without a reason.
His hands flashed
His scowl gone.
Steps quicken
As he ran on.
My angel
Fallen below.
I've watched her fall
I'm the only one who will know!
I've watched her pain
In the quick flash of steel.
A heartless thought
Causing a hate so real.
I cannot escape
I cannot rescue her.
The broken thoughts
Kill all that was sure.
I'm stuck here
Away from the scene.
Every single fear
Chasing the horrors between.
I've been locked away for years
I've been dying forever.
I remember her screams
I remember the nights saviour.
It was I that night
Locked away from the world.
It was my fault
As I watched the dying girl.
It was my faith
That let her die.
The scowling wraith
Bled her dry.
No reason
Has ever been told.
No reason
For me to grow old.
I fell in love with the chase
And not the mystery.
Who erased her face
Who sent me into misery?
I'll find you
I'll kill you.
I'll meet you
I'll save you.
Someone had to die
By my hand.
She'll no longer cry
For its not as I planned.
Show me where the heart is.
I've travelled from the start.
I'm almost done.
I'm almost...
He loiters in shadows in line for no harp
The tools of his trade all surgically sharp
He slices their throats before they start yelling
The Lord knows his name but the Lord isn’t telling
So prowling these lanes seeking hooker or stripper
To bolster the legend of Mister J Ripper
He skulks in the gloom, an All Hallows’ day tripper
His yen to splay female flesh wide like a kipper
Thus, nervous and pretty with Lilly-white skin
Her blood gushes free from just under her chin
A flash of a blade in the moonlight is made
And she lies agape and ravaged and flayed
His lust and sick love precludes notions of rape
He melts in the night with a swish of his cape
They don’t understand so they call it a crime
But Jack will be back... at least one more time
But there’s no monopoly on London’s streets
And angel or Satan... everyone eats
Yet too many nutters the law cannot track
So, why not blame all of the carnage on Jack
And when Jack returns to a lust fuelled delight -
(A lady who markets her wares in the night)
A chilling voice whispers, ‘Wrong alleyway bud’
And the Vampire moves in to savour Jack’s blood
4 May 2021
Contest: A Poem of Horror
Sponsor:Funom Makama
Phantom icons scratched on sterile walls
Where your spirit wrestles in anguish
Strewn upon the floors are the shards of yesterdays mirror
You…once castigated to remain pure in innocence
That zealousness now interned weights your pockets
Dwelling on the erudition of the feminine laced in smoky eyes
This yen being overwhelmed in harsh radiant breaths
Remember those rogue's you hold in your heart reap the rewards of sin
Lost in your feigned paradise you sip of its bane nectar
While losing yourself in the cut edges of the prism
Bleeding from blades of glass in the ice on your lips smiling
You ascend into the onyx light that should be your rebirth
Entering that mulish carcass where reality has no bite
Eyes sewn shut to the fluid of heaven where life begins anew
Flashes of spirit create the moments of brilliance splashing
Down the bricked corridors in unending ever narrowing rending halls
The darkness invades and skulks the frozen mire you dwell
Whilst very near the lilacs circulate with the spring rains
As the breath rattles on in notes of gasping rapture
Their glib existence is lost in the passing of moments
Shadows detach at dusk to sneak silently away
to roost together like bats in rookeries,
hanging upside down, wrapped in black mantles, gossiping.
Each shadow reborn each morn seeks out its host
like a parasite seeking sustenance and succour,
for a shadow detached is inanimate and non-existent.
Shadows need light and objects to cast silhouettes
to give shadows life, substance and vitality.
Only things of this world cast shadows,
So things and beings that cast no shadow are spooky.
Shadows follow you around mirroring every move you make.
In endless shadow-puppet performances
they often give you away when you sneak up,
and showcase your slinks and skulks when you slither away.
The brighter the light the stronger the shadow.
Multiple lights cast multiple shadows.
Shadows are too dark and foreboding of death and evil to be friends
For shadows are cast by the living, the dead and lifeless things.
But only the living animate shadows into life.
Surrounded by mud
our feet make love to the surface
the bullets kiss us, the bayonets hug
our intestines and the blankets
cuddle with our cold, decaying corpses
we write to our wives, letters that will never be delivered
the wet ground gives our feet an unpleasant present
in the form of gangrene, the rats
make themselves at home feasting upon the rotten
flesh of fallen comrades while the maggots make use
of newly formed skulks and aged decaying bone
then comes the symphony of artillery
the roar of gunfire, the marching of tanks
the mighty foot soldiers, and
the majestic golden smoke of mustard gas
the trenches become our unwanted love
and unholiest of homes, "the tears do not shed
the blood does not spill, and the soldier does not die"
is the common the battle cry sung upon us
constantly by our commanders but on the contrary
these bitter notes of blind fate forever sing to us
the illusion of life and the irony of war.....
The Alleys of Virtual Municipalities
By David J Walker
I love walking
the rutted roads
Running in
hidden groves
Through
the residential jungles
the rambling
backyard boulevards
dividing the
single file plies of
dirt and gravel
A straight line between
Picket fenced fortresses of
Flimsy privacy providing
Trash truck Sunday drivers with a
A No man’s land-bound with trees &
Treasures found by
dumpster divers
I love listening
To the feral catcalls
in the last stand of
wildland
Overruled by skulks of city foxes
I love trekking
The pioneered turnpikes
On fast mountain bikes
Riding & reading between
the telephone lines
mapped by
XYZ Municipalities and
The vague virtual realities of
An alley’s informalities
I love the
Tell all tall tales
Of what fails to be
Needed anymore
Underscored by
Overflowing dumpsters
O' That Aristotle Should Return To Proclaim
O' that Aristotle should return to proclaim
wise, worldly words written with furious winds.
Reveal more wisdom, garner even more fame
point to history, prophecy - all such portends.
Only if Homer could grace greens of earth again
gift words of heroic deeds, warriors brave.
Hurl lightning bolts and no olden Gods restrain
bring courageous heroes back from forgotten graves.
If only, love and life should find its ancient past
amidst streams of great valor and deepest true.
If but one such Titan set this world aghast
would not millions turn to such light and love anew?
O' dark beast, why hid thy monstrous face from truth's light?
Why ply lost souls to dark deeds, as thee skulks at night?
Robert J. Lindley,7-13-2017
Ghulam crosses the Indian border
to conquer. Bodies vanish; souls
wander in the vicarious valleys.
Fanatics essay to frighten
the music maestro, shouting
outside the auditorium.
If they sit inside, they’ll return
as men. There’s no discrimination
in music. Minds molt mundane
emotions, and become fresh again.
His ghazals, like AB group, accept
blood of Hindustani classical music.
Music creates blue moonlight,
when a youth enjoys black
hair-falls amidst the fragrance
of jasmine blooms. A man in
seventies skulks to1960, where
a brown girl stands half hidden
behind door. Aches and
anxieties lie vanquished
in Ghulam’s voice
and variations. Men
in diverse creeds die;
human beings rise.
First published in Poetic Hustles by BFP Books, US
(If you can't make sense of this, Google
"Schrodinger's Cat." Then I think you will)
What is this thing that I may do,
that at this moment is no thing at all
...and cannot be until the it is done?
Thus having done, I must have nothing
for my rivalry with God.
This poor tormented cat
in every lifetime poured
but half a life and to this day
will play within a shroud, or worse
invisible. She skulks around
the bleak, convenient pretense
of a time that knows
not of mortality nor
falling of the hours.
Half a feline ghost, she mourns
the absence even of the now
and maddened both by science
and by time, entrapped
within her whimsied box,
in irony, may righteously lament
but we, the watchers,
still will never touch
her quantum-spiked magnificence.
~
Ghulam crosses the Indian border
to conquer. Bodies vanish; souls
wander in the vicarious valleys.
Fanatics essay to frighten
the music maestro, shouting
outside the auditorium.
If they sit inside, they’ll return
as men. There’s no discrimination
in music. Minds molt mundane
emotions, and become fresh again.
His ghazals, like AB group, accept
blood of Hindustani classical music.
Music creates blue moonlight,
when a youth enjoys black
hair-falls amidst the fragrance
of jasmine blooms. A man in
seventies skulks to1960, where
a brown girl stands half hidden
behind door. Aches and
anxieties lie vanquished
in Ghulam’s voice
and variations. Men
in diverse creeds die;
human beings rise.
Poetry Nook Weekly Contest Winner