Long Spectre Poems
Long Spectre Poems. Below are the most popular long Spectre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spectre poems by poem length and keyword.
Hark… hark… hear my voice, a mere leftover refrain
Never can you see me, I’ve no form left to gain
Look up… look up… and miss me, resound with the air
Don’t take my loss for granted, only spells despair
Grief… grief… counts for nothing, on the flip side of love
Pinpointing its vector, may bring hope from above
Crunch… crunch… the numbers, add symbols in lower case
Headstones of algebra, surround my resting place
Wait… wait… I hear cries, emanating at my grave
Broken hearted loved ones, so many tears they gave
Listen.. listen… up, your mourning’s setting me free
This life snuffed out, echoes down through eternity
Hush… hush… my darling, pillows muffle as you sleep
Pull tight the sheets and love me, inside dreams so deep
October firmly sits
awaiting the imminent arrival
of Hallows Eve. It creeps
ever closer, and so too my ghosts.
Skeletons long packed away
play percussion solos with my coat hangers.
The closed door muffles its cacophony,
but soon others may notice the bus for freedom.
Pandora’s box has nothing on my closet!
Phantom images haunt my sleep.
Though once I worshiped you,
you never achieved sainthood
despite the ephemeral nature of your love.
Your corporeal tastes are definitely earthy,
even if we glimpsed Heaven.
Be gone, Damn Thoughts!
Drift away on the autumn zephyrs;
find another house to haunt
another marriage to taunt.
You are no longer welcome here.
The porch light is turned off;
the candy dish is empty.
Take your treats and
go trick someone else.
Join the parade of ghouls
trailing away down the street.
One more spectre won't be noticed
in the Halloween crowd, so
Take your memories, and
get the f**k out!
Unsolicited feedback
across rock of ages woke
beguiling ghostly busty spectre
courtesy Marie-Antoinette,
(i.e. bride of France's arty choke
King Louis XVI) bespoke
let him eat cake, and (sic)
send back the bloody bloke,
aye suddenly begot idea rye
Jack Corner of zee desk
didst impale and provoke
moderately painful injury
right side rib cage
analogous to intriguing
unfortunate circumstance
mysterious secret shrouded
as dagger and cloak
(think Alfred E. Neuman,
viz MAD Magazine), yes no joke
lovely bones of me body electric,
(particularly right side rib cage)
severely traumatized, nailed, injured...
crucified oft told umteen times,
yet omitting key mirrors and smoke,
significant Dorian Gray parallel,
when former antique,
viz secrétaire looking glass reflection,
spider hairline fractures radiated
resembled bay of pigs in a poke
ham handedly oinked,
quaked, shattered... broke
into bajillion pieces
deafening, exploding,
glowering thunder stroke
jagged shrapnel size shards
unleashed cosmic force
lacerated, gnashed, beribboned...
impeaching flesh with
one engulfed masterstroke,
no rhyme nor reason aiming to choke
off promising poet (ha) of corpse
resembling scrambled egg yolk
posthumous fame besmoke
salvaged mine besmirched reputation
courtesy humble cartoon character
bugs bunny and kinfolk spoke
daffy fully eulogizing humor did evoke.
larks begin their social day
before dawn, in the early morning darkness.
They’re wired for it
So am I.
I’m a short-sleeper - it’s genetic
I’m talking about my DEC2, ADRB1, mGluR1 and NPSR1 genes. If I average 4 or 5 hours of sleep, for weeks and weeks, I’m good to go.
This works well for school, but back in the COVID lockdown days - it was crazy. I’d be up at all hours - long after the reasonable world closed its eyes. I’d walk the halls, seemingly everywhere, like Shakespeare’s eleven ghosts.
That’s a poetic queue if I ever heard one..
She shuns her weary bed
in the darkened hush of midnight
when slumber should rule
Her pale brow needs no rest,
so she wraith-like roams her parent’s home.
Fey and fleet, her footsteps falling soft
in shadows thick as underworld
She’s the grinning ghost
in the game room - a sleepless phantasm
moving to dance-dance-revolution’s beat
in seeming revelry wild.
She’s the gliding spirit in the endless, well-lit pool,
slicing effortlessly through the glass-slick turquoise
a selkie-sleek mermaid in a loop of back and forth
who makes pitch-night, an otter's roam.
To the kitchen then, this lissome spectre paces,
restlessness and moonlight walks compel cravings
she’s not seeking the company of other restless souls
- she’s searching for yummy Totino's Pizza Rolls.
.
.
Songs for this:
Time and Love by Laura Nyro
Late Night Talking by Harry Styles
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ The Humanity in deadly sleep
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ Emanation, the Spectre and its ¦¦¦¦¦ Shadow.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ the Past, Present and Future existing ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Before me. O Divine Spirit, sustain me ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
That I may awake ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Like iron scourges ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ reasonings like vast serpents
¦¦¦¦¦¦ around my limbs, bruising my ¦¦¦¦¦¦ articulations.
I turn my eyes to ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ Europe
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ behold the Loom of Locke, ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ as those in Eden, ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ in freedom ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ in harmony and peace.
(Blackout of )
The Bad, The Ugly and The Good (aka: Bad, Badder, Baddest)
The Bad
I am the gun-toting, God-fearing Ganja Gangsta.
I’ll smoke you, pray for you, then have my daily siesta!
I answer to no one, and fear no man; No Sir!!!
I answer to only One Master. That’s Heaven’s Prime Minister.
I am the player-hating, man-baiting Sister Disaster.
I’ll woo you, thrill you, then …kill you; true that, mister!
I just swagger thru the city with my ‘Ghetto Blaster’,
I don’t mean sounds, fool!!! I mean my ‘piece’ … to blast ya!!!
I am the mean-looking, menacing Monster Mobster.
I’ll cut ya, shred ya, and have me a pasta fiesta.
I do not boil ‘em…! No sah!! I’d eat a live lobster!
I’m so mean ….Hey! ..I’ll even steamroller your hamster!!!
I am the fast-talking, Bible-bashing Pastor Imposter.
I’ll bless you, fleece you, then sex-up Sister Disaster
I’m just a shyster - but please don’t tell the Menacing Mobster!
She’s the God-fearing Gangsta’s wife - and the Mobster’s sister!
The Ugly (Badder)
I am the flesh-eating, life-sapping, Cluster-Sinister.
I am impartial; care not for class, colour, creed or gender.
I am microbe, but not a person-respecter; ask the sex inspector.
I am sorry, but for me to survive, you have to become a spectre.
I am the tear-jerking, game-changing, people-Prankster
I get called ‘*****’, ‘Sod’, …some even call me a ‘Mater-Conjugator’.
I don’t like Gangsters, Mobsters and especially that dodgy Pastor
I may get mad, or even get even; Call me ‘Life’, or call me ‘Karma’.
The Good (Baddest)
I am the Beginning, the Alpha/Omega; Heaven’s only Prime Minister
I wrote the Good Book, but look inside, I have never been a Jester!
I carry fire and brimstone to bolster my holster - you’d better helter-skelter!
I mete out justice, and vengeance administer: you'd better pray faster!!!
(Fg 81.5.8 - January 2016)
Phantom Slippers of Thoughts
Without soul nourishment our spirits shall wither and die.
Words are a mere instrument, but can reflect truth to power.
Of our faith within love and understanding—truth begs mercy,
Whilst melting honey-sweet crystals kiss thy soft warm cheeks.
We dream and bathe inside the sun’s most radiant gift of desire.
Cool waters of divine creation lovingly quench this desert fire,
And the haunting spectre of death shall never be an end to us!
Winds of such deep-thoughts softly and sweetly sting at once,
When I show you a mirror-image of what our destiny can be.
Adrift in storms of fervid emotions I give in now to your love.
I see a temple of beauty I once bowed down to under your gaze,
As your red-hot daggers strike deepest cords in this coldest breeze.
Now holding hands sunlight-sparkled with you inside this dream,
This heartfelt satisfaction’s worth more than all the world’s gold!
Riches fall from Heaven now in shining jewels of misted pearls,
Whilst I walk alone in deepest thoughts in my blue suede shoes.
Living-loving inside a sole-soul of dreams—true and unbounded,
I hear songbirds whistle and whisper in such joy by God’s grace.
Our souls may nourish themselves on the eternal power of our love.
With God as our witness—we fear not what death shall bring to us,
For our love and true destiny exist far beyond this mortal world!
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid, A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – May 15, 2016
(Free Verse)
Struck down
powerless with astonishment
as the Brocken spectre took its shape
Forming one shadow breathing out
from the misted oceans
A fierce bitter wind whispers
curling cries around the mountain
howling suffering tunes
Where an odd sound echos strangely
three times striking the spine with ice trembles
Then the crunch of lightening suddenly strikes this note
darkness causes uneasy feelings
when the shield of light is blinding
to the lost yet to be found wanting
Opposite the sun enormous magnified shadows
begging to be seen casting lots
upon the surfaces of clouds opposite
one head crowned figure emerges
surrounded by glowing halo-like rings
the formation of glory rises
from within shaping destiny
Where rings of coloured light appear
directly opposite the sun
when sunlight finally meets a cloud
of uniformly-sized water droplets
refreshing the misted vision held bathed
The Spectre of sex appeal by Salvador Dali 1934
On the right-hand bottom side, we see Dalí as a
child, dressed as a sailor, observing his monstrosity
I misunderstand, tell what is the plan
As I change from juvenile into man
Her formation intrigues and repulses
Instead of control, there are impulses
Her head morphs upon a backdrop mountain
Sack cloth breasts, stem flow of sandy fountains
Solid rock womb, born of imperfection
The spectre miscarries, sans reflection
Propped up and falls forward in painful lurch
Composite pieces, on acceptance search
Ossified limbs, mangled bone skewers stone
Destined to experience life alone
She poses in pain and reeks of decay
I stand with a hoop, brought along to play
Ignores my advances, falling apart
I’ll return with barbed wire to bind her heart
No more cushioned stumps or flailing crutches
Unraveling her knots, where flesh touches
I’ll fashion a cross and burial mound
Existence fades as parts crash to the ground
Parts don’t stay buried, so I light a fire
Warm them back up, on a funeral pyre
My god she’s beautiful, I’m overcome
We join together in flames, curse undone
Moon concealed by shadow of Grim Reaper
Under guise of the gloomy clouds of storm –
Reason enough to stay at home and not
Dread the deadly, wary walk at midnight.
Eerie noises from the rumbling thunder,
Rats scuttling and skittering to find shelter.
Intense and impassioned fear crept in as she
Neared the steps leading to the tunnel.
The tunnel! She disregarded, or had forgotten,
How dark and dangerous to walk alone,
Envisaging the glint of that murderous knife.
The tunnel! She knew she shouldn’t go
Until daylight and remembered her final trip.
Nearer and nearer she silently crept
Not heeding her internal warnings to flee.
Evermore replaying, she will wander at midnight
Leaving ruby blood tears among crystal raindrops.