Long Specter Poems
Long Specter Poems. Below are the most popular long Specter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Specter poems by poem length and keyword.
There are visions roving inside my head
of a time and place where perhaps I once lived.
But how do I know of those worldly things
if I no longer exist? I must question if I ever did.
I am off kilter, as if I'm an invisible entity,
a salty speck of foam floating on a sapphire sea.
Should I feel dire despair, indifference, or jubilant joy
that I am not part of this place that's been laid to waste?
It's as if I'm surfing in shadows over what used to be
an amusement park, but the Ferris Wheel is broken,
and there's no spark of life anywhere to be found.
Only faded pamphlets lying on the ground, sun-bleached
remnants of the way life used to be, once upon a time.
I pity me for having been given this gloomy glimpse,
a vandalized view that no one could misconstrue.
I feel like Alice wandering through a frightening fantasy.
Desperately wanting to go back through the looking glass
and forget the devastation in which the world dwells.
If I ever had an inkling of what living in hell would be,
then in this chaotic clime, this dysfunctional dystopia,
I would seek to escape my existence and set myself free.
I feel the need for fresh air, but who would care
if I should have lived or died? No one cried tears for me.
What future fate have I discovered with thoughts
hovering? Tragic thoughts that haunt me like a cold stare.
What ill winds have swept the world away?
Cursed be!
How can anything exist is this sorrowful sepulcher?
I'd rather be a soulless specter without a home
then live among those in this lamenting land.
This is not Aldous Huxley's Brave New World.
It does no good to imagine a world without me.
Friendships made; children born; none of those would exist.
I can only envision these things. These things that I've given wing.
They roam inside my head, making me wonder if I had a beginning
or an end. I feel repercussions from having a discussion
with myself over the conceptual conundrum of my existence.
Would I have been happy, would I have made others happy,
or brought them grief like the thief who collects the dead?
It's a nightmare of reality, for I am sure it's not a daydream.
Greed played its Trump card and schemed to sit on the throne
in a kingdom I could never contentedly condone.
I've no desire to dally here a moment longer, and
since I don't exist, I am certain I will not be missed.
Suicidal Ideation March 30th, 2022 linkedin...
to mein kampf insync with mine body dysmorphia
After reading articles
published within April 4/11 2022
of The Nation
I challenged the efficacy
taking prescription medication
categorized as SSRIs
and/or SNRIs.
Unpleasant side effects
such as earth shaking dreams
and/or especially hefty weight gain
linkedin with former
comprising my daily cocktail
of approved prescription medication
courtesy nurse practitioner.
Deliberation about courting death rooted
throughout mine psyche
fueling sinister chortle
at least since bout with anorexia nervosa,
but... maybe ginned blood,
sans umbilical cord transfused in utero aortal,
though long since recovered, the intractable,
haunting specter, sans grim reaper
intertwining within every fiber of this mortal
rooted, grounded deep, and branched out
into each nook and cranny portal.
Said notion provoked,
when made painfully aware
youngest daughter (aged twenty three)
plagued with similar thoughts,
damn genetics did maliciously engineer
clutching telephone while
seated at edge of chair
did apologetically, despairingly,
grievously... did air
pestilential, penitential, plenipotential... scare
re: distraction and understandable fear,
she might unwittingly plunge
into hopeless abysmal despair
falling prey into irrevocable
deathly hallows lair,
though kudos for her
from me, this sole Harris heir
to communicate, (albeit
hesitantly) into mine ear
suddenly wishing thy
Shayna Punim to be near,
but residing (about three hour drive
southeast of Portland, Oregon)
with my kid sister, attentive to welfare,
a sibling whose persona
doth show tender loving care
and concern, this papa
felt reassured there
would be every action taken
with sixth sense to beware
lest progeny exhibits
pointedly obvious lurching career
dramatic slide in tandem
with Old Rotten Gotham
into behavioral sink
emergency measures sibling
immediately would commandeer,
hence somewhat relieved thee dear
beloved progeny receptive to hear,
this dada expressed his unconditional love,
and grateful psychological intervention
offspring boldly did declare
indicative professional help volunteer
really asserted necessary to stave off
how dice throw of fate unfair
to said lass, whose demise,
would abruptly kill this sonneteer!
1. Non-fiction
The bathroom faucet gushes nectar
drowns my hands in never-laughter,
"Sorry" is a specter
when you told me "0" I felt disgusting,
hopelessly deluded,
naked.
Last night I dreamed
that New York City was nuked,
another Twin Towers Lost,
everyone radiated.
But then I dreamed of you,
in a tight blue dress,
glaring,
cute pout,
"Is this right?" you asked
as you flawlessly played
Beethoven's "The Tempest."
I smiled. "Perfect."
I hardly smile these days.
2. Satisfaction
Deflection of your image is essential.
The closer I get, the more
those spiders right there
don't you see them
slipping on the stucco wall?
They remember the feeling
that satisfaction brings
of outsmarting us all
as the sky reflected in my fingernail
is a storyteller of love's plastic rings.
Is it summer yet?
This doesn't feel
adventurous, heart-warming,
sunsets, beaches,
grandfather, innocent crush,
my eyes in sugar rush,
and the books that told me much
so that I could die one day in your hush.
3. A Loss of Inspiration
Midnight's soon, the day's been wasted
thinking of worlds aside from This,
the walls' three dents from my broken fist
and the postcard she forgot she posted
in this odd room I fill
with jackets, wisdom, thrill,
come sundown I rush into wishes
that my jealousy could be just,
yet it's "brand-new in a landfill"
restoring your horrified webcam look.
Since you've gone and my love has died,
this pen's bloodstains have been my pride.
4. Medicine
Maybe you don't realize
you've crushed that tiny bug.
His funeral will not be held,
not until the walls cover their ears,
and blood diamonds ask for fears.
A refill
and a terror,
I can only see your purple sweater
bending once for all my vice;
Maroon Dream City is waiting for us.
These med heavens.
So addicting
until I relapsed into your eyes,
I'm still sick of it all:
the horizon never reached
and darkness perched and ready.
Stop confusing me already.
5. Hideout
Hey, why did
I miss you
Your smile from last June
And no girl will ever
I wonder
I wonder
Slow down, run me over
And laaaugh
Come walk beside this faster incompletion
On a chilly night of sirens
Hey, why did
And my head pounds from lack of
Hey, if I were to go forever
Come to me in my hideout
and I'll kiss your scream
with eternity.
What’s left of Octavia glides down the hall
Past the portraits she painted in life,
Now framed in mahogany, rosewood, and oak,
And they’re hers for the haunting tonight.
She looks for the canvas she started the day
Her desire became indiscrete;
A nude on a balcony under the moon.
It was one she would never complete.
What’s left of Octavia passes the wall
Where her art is the featured display,
Recalling advances she made in the past
That went far beyond being risqué.
She goes to the window and conjures the scene
As it happened those long years before,
And thinks of the model who posed for her then;
A temptation too ripe to ignore.
What’s left of Octavia mourns what she’s lost
Like a dreamer deprived of her dream.
Her husband threw open the studio door
To discover her subject and theme.
He looked at the model, he looked at his wife,
And he saw what a fool he had been
To blindly indulge her artistic pursuits,
Which she took as occasion to sin.
A new moon at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
And she’s out on a haunting tonight.
What’s left of Octavia longs for the time
She felt anything other than numb.
The smell of the paint and the feel of the brush
Being foreign to what she’s become.
A specter deprived of the flavor of life.
An obsession that won’t fade away.
A monochrome canvas, a faintly drawn sketch
From a palette with ten shades of gray.
What’s left of Octavia stands on the ledge,
And considers the landscape below.
The moment of impact still fresh in her mind,
Because time has not softened the blow.
Her family gathered to lay her to rest,
And the ring was removed from her hand.
Though people would gossip, and ponder her fate,
There are none who in truth understand.
What’s left of Octavia comes to him now,
Late at night when he puts on her ring.
A family heirloom entrusted to him
When he married his lover last spring.
He stands in the dark as she enters the room,
And the séance is set to begin.
She watches him pose, while he takes off his clothes,
With her brushstrokes caressing his skin.
Confessions at midnight. She whispers a name.
Her face in the shadows, a study in pain.
Still searching for what she can never regain,
But he's hers for the haunting tonight.
Hush, the world will never know the mystery hidden in silences,
Paper bird feathers, drifting like the specters of unspoken dreams,
From my heart, scattering like stardust on angel wings,
Grains of dreams carried by infinity, suspended in the universe of an unwary thought.
Neither the reddish breeze of autumn, caressing the leaves like a messenger of sacred shadows,
Nor the melancholic rain enveloping our souls in mantles of endless longing,
Cups of dreams and wishes, scattering like petals in the ocean of destiny,
As I, like a wandering wind, lose myself among the falling leaves like dreaming tombs.
And no star in the opal sky, will ever know how its gaze captivates me,
How it embraces me in its blinding blue, like a wave crashing on the shores of solitude,
In cold and painful velvet, touching my heart like a shadow's caress,
In opulent silver masks, playing their roles in the theater of the night.
How I lost my heart, on an undiscovered realm, hidden under the cosmic blanket,
I gathered in my palms your poison, like an elixir of forgetfulness,
And I savored you slowly, tearing the eardrums of my soul with sweet-bitter pain,
Now you are just a deep wound, shining like a falling star among shadows.
Hush, no one will know the story woven in golden sunsets,
With how much love you, my specter, enchanted me among bleeding roses,
Seduced me in secret gardens, under the shadows of solitary trees.
Not even you know how profoundly I loved you, in the silent evening of farewell.
Moments passed like the waves of an ocean of suspended dreams,
We, eternal prisoners of a love buried in twilight,
Danced in the cold halls of the castle of oblivion, under the gaze of the pale moon,
Stars of old sighs, silent witnesses of our lost longing.
The paper bird, bearer of our hidden messages,
Flies into infinity, carrying with it the echoes of a mystic love,
We, eternal travelers through the lands of memory, remain chained by unfulfilled desires,
Your poison is now the source of melancholy, a dance of strange shadows and lights.
Hush, let's stay silent, the world doesn't need to know our secret trill,
Our love was a melancholic waltz on the edge of eternity,
An enchanted painting, painted in shades of silver and tears,
On the canvas of a life that knew how to love and to lose in a harmony of stars and dreams.
Disguised as an Apple Computer Technician.
He initially hacked Macbook Pro laptop.
He (alias Harvey Specter)
planted seeds of suspicion
that criminal activity prevailed
within my geographic area in general
or questionable individuals
lurked within or without
Citizens Bank in particular,
and suggested yours truly (me)
to be wary about
over friendly employees
at aforementioned capital one
storied financial institution.
Said gonif (pulled a masterful subterfuge)
inveigling yours truly to carry out heist
of the twenty first century
against his honest good n plenti resources
(subsequently checking and
savings accounts severely depleted).
The invisible webbed wide whirled net
ensnared me lock, stock and barrel.
Little did I know
the spellbinding impact
until the dirty deed done dirt cheap
found writer of these words
figuratively holding the empty bag
where I got forced to trod
analogous highway to hell
courtesy diabolical, inimical, satanical...
devil may care disguised cozener
who wove believable scenario
claiming Citizens Bank employees
involved in suspicious conspiracy
to siphon off hard earned bucks.
I submissively consented
to participate and cavalierly disperse
freshly minted Benjamins
suddenly linkedin
chain of events
rocketing, kickstarting, and experiencing
a worse horror than death
mortified at being bushwhacked.
The feeble explanation, justification,
qua obliteration, ululation
trumped with lame excuse
yours truly not in his right mind.
Mind control, (albeit remotely)
assassinated rationality while hypnotically
feeling commanded, governed,
née kid lee killed
mine esprit de corps
among kith and kin
consigning thrifty troubadour
to the depths of despair
wishing termination of existence
in tandem with damnation, interrogation,
penalization, et cetera of nasty brute.
After series of unfortunate events brought,
where innocence and naïveté caught
teetotaler tempted to drink deadly draught
of top quality hemlock sold
at many bustling entrepôt
cuz now existence fraught
with torturous quaking
nauseating, kickstarting hatred
of self, thus restitution
of funds sought
by folks willing bestow largesse.
If yes check out (fiasco from fraudsters
frazzles father)
legitimate platform
where charitable people swarm
and toys are sold.
In the silent corridors of the cosmos,
where whispers of ancient wisdom entwine with stardust,
lies a realm unseen by the mortal eye,
where truths, pure and untainted, float like ethereal whispers.
Literal thinking, a shadow upon the sacred light,
turns the divine into chains of superstition,
crystal-clear waters of wisdom, now murky and confined,
where once the spirit soared, now tethered and bereft.
In the twilight of understanding, where shadows breathe,
a journey begins, a river of consciousness unbound,
flowing through the valleys of forgotten lore,
where the heart's whispers are the compass true,
guiding the soul through labyrinths of light and dark.
In the dawn of creation, where the first light kissed the void,
truths whispered by the divine, gentle as morning dew,
were pure as the first breath of dawn, untainted by man's hand,
yet as they touched the soil of mortal minds,
they hardened into idols, rigid and cold,
sculpted by the chisel of literal thought.
Metaphors, the language of the soul,
once vibrant and alive, now dulled by concrete minds,
where the moon's gentle glow becomes a sterile sphere,
and the sun, no longer a celestial flame, but a mere star.
In the silent temple of the heart, where shadows and light dance,
a candle flickers, fed by the breath of the divine,
its flame a guide against the encroaching dark,
where superstition lurks, a specter in the mind.
The inspired truths are rivers, flowing free,
unbound by the dams of dogma's cold embrace,
seeking the vast ocean, the infinite expanse,
where the spirit merges with the cosmic dance,
and wisdom's light shines in every drop of time.
Oh, to break the chains of literal thought,
to see the world through the eyes of the soul,
where every leaf whispers the secrets of the cosmos,
and every star sings the songs of eternity.
In this sacred dance, where metaphor reigns supreme,
the heart finds its voice, the spirit its wings,
and the truths once perverted by the concrete mind,
become again the living breath of the divine.
So let us journey, with hearts unbound,
through the mystic realms where wisdom dwells,
and find in the dance of shadows and light,
the inspired truths that set the spirit free,
in the sacred whispers of the cosmos’s embrace,
where the eternal song of truth and love forever resounds.
I ask you, “Where might we go:
A land to, or a land fro;
Let the land like a river flow.
Leave yourself behind, and dare,
Dare to know Thoreau.”
Ahh, how the day is
The simplest of all revolutions.
The sun, bright - cannot be missed--
Once departed without ever departing; now
Obvious after lunar-evolution.
The plotting and seeking,
Groping and the hoping:
Blindly in the night
Seeing that which is apart from sight.
But now.
Now, we must depart
To meet our journey…
*Sigh*
See how the sun has risen to set.
Come so far without movement
Tell me: does it regress?
Or is it perhaps, progress.
Disregard my laughter;
For who is the fool?
The fool, or he who follows..
The room takes shape
Darkness illuminates
Like light cracking drapes,
Bare or not, it stimulates..
A stairwell brings inquisition,
Beckoning steps toward the next
And the next and the rest!
Ah yes, the rest,
As many interpretations as a note.
II
See the equations before you,
Like onions-- keep your eyes peeled.
Wryly dancing around thy head.
Stall you tears; fears be shed
Forget the illusion
And any a delusion.
Logic and feeling rotate to portray
This sage's mental ballet.
Voodoo of the mental juju,
With "x2 +y2 = 1" as the tutu.
Confidence in that knowledge
Shall blend solemn passage
For the minute hand is spinning,
The hour hand a'twirling
Let us make haste for:
There was never any
Now will there ever exist
Any time to lay to waste!
Approach the stairs,
Harken that specter-stare!
Alas, in the dark; notice be absolved.
Yonder face far from sight's resolve
Dare to describe it!
A head with shade as pigment
Dark & rich like the night
Translucent in sight.
Eyes leer like pearl
(Allow peace to unfurl)
A face serving witness:
Purely as a pittance
Dread not the shade;
Light astounds from dark's fade
Virgil kept Dante from Oblivion
With true, epic passion
Do not think that face: death
Quotidian rhythm is life's breath.
Leave that Specter
Come, follow your mentor.
See how he fades;
And you nearly bowed, scathed.
Now ascend the stairs,
To who knows where...
Go, before the clock begins
And forsake no secular reins
Buy the ticket. Take the ride.
Quite simply, It seems
Sunken jewels always gleam
Depart into the unknown
No need for any asylum
She really wanted to see a ghost…ecstatically excited.
She heard this place had plenty, and a spooky atmosphere.
She’d have to pinch herself, ready to cheer…elated.
She’d spend a romantic weekend there with a freaking-out spouse.
He’s a scaredy-cat! He rarely finds anything funny!
He stutters. He’s bony. Of course she fibbed to him.
A mansion on the cliffs, buried behind briars and thorns.
You could hear the roar of the tide, far below, over the rocks.
Bitter thunder and lightning— oh Angela’s freaking stunned.
Couldn’t ask for a nicer day - husband’s a shivering bag of bones.
The thick, heavy door, with unrelenting ‘turn on back,’ opens
nonetheless. Angela prods and pulls her Jack, into the lair,
as the door closes and bolts. He’s crying like a baby, inside.
The romantic getaway’s bleek and dark, except for candelabra
here and there, in this statistically bad idea. Angela just knows
she’ll get a look-see at the afterlife - a welcoming sight.
Jack be nimble…Jack be quick…Jack wants to jump
over the candlestick and hit the bricks. Without a boo,
she tries to resurrect a ghost or two. “C’mon out! I’m
raring to see you. Don’t play hide’n seek. Show yourself.”
She’s so giddy with no care about her scared to death spouse.
Angela laughs as wisps of smoke take form, as snowy cotton
shifts, as the familiar “oohs” and “boos” uplift. Terrified Jack’s
in no laughing mood. He hides himself in the corners of the room.
Suddenly it gets very cold, and a very bold ghost has a hold
on a candelabra, shines over the face of Jack, “Don’t you worry,
son, this will make you crack a smile,” surprisingly reassuring.
The ghost grins, as he spins touché over to Angela, “Is this
all you were hoping for?” He bellows with his mighty flue,
turns gray-green, skeletal too, eyes out of sockets. Flames
of the candelabra catch her curls and girly-mustache too.
From the corner, a full-throttle laughter emerges from Jack
as Angela is laid out on her back. The specter adds a pillow
and a gravestone to the act. The ghost ribs Jack,
“I rather like your bones, son. Let’s see you rattle and roll.”
Welcomed out the door, Jack leaves without a wife.
10/13/2021
Chantelle Cooke’s Ghost Lace Contest
Your Elysian Killing Fields-
Your soul, my Love,
is the pristine gilded white,
that cascades down from Heaven's summit.
A river that fills me, a dry riverbed,
with your milk and honey.
Your current carrying me along,
to your eternity.
Eternally, flowing along,
your emotional streams,
towards your heart's tributary.
A maelstrom of passion,
pulling me down into your pools,
solitary actions.
In solitary enormity, destiny-adjoining.
You are my clandestine pulse-
that regulates my being,
with sacred verse.
You are the specter in my blood.
The scepter of my throne,
With you I can believe, in anything,
except for being alone.
Anything, everything you do.
Winds around me as a grapevine, entertwining.
The seduction to drink from your cup.
The ambrosial wine, your overflowing,
flowing into me.
Your passionate canvas calls to me,
to sculpt in its delicate flowering.
In hungered heaves,
when your rib cage expands.
Anticipating,
your Dove's-wanting to be freed.
Only, by my hand.
Free as the flame's flare,
the burning, consuming.
As I stare into you,
feeling your Crimson Fires, there.
Feeling as though, stalked prey.
In your Elysian Killing Fields.
Euphoria in sway,
atop your succubant meal.
My fate's threshold, crossed and sealed.
Helpless to your Impish ways.
I remain held, by your captivating allure.
The intoxicating poison of your capture.
Poison of your angelic tainting,
that runs through me,
clouding evermore.
The Conductor of the chemicals within me.
You entrench, your surrounding,
that abounds around me.
The Ballerina of the Little Death.
In sourcery, comes,
seduction's breath-The dance- of the seven veils.
Perpetual, into hunger's ballet,
which permeates, the skin,
burroughing its ethereal entrails.
You're always a puzzle,
a timeless wonder,
always to be.
The first of my needs.
If you turned to be the Devil's Daughter.
I fear he would have me, indeed.
My Love, the other part of me.
With this dream-
I pledge my Love to thee.
Yes, you are the ghost within my wings.
I am a phoenix rising from the sea.
Bring me out into your spring.
where I will drown,
in your farthest reaches.
Life to me, you will endlessly be instrumental in, as the Lords revival brings.
The Elite warrioress from Elysia to
Elate me, inflate me to Life from my dreams.