Long Spectres Poems
Long Spectres Poems. Below are the most popular long Spectres by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spectres poems by poem length and keyword.
A white sepal falls, it is of the early May bloom,
it is of a blossomed tree
that smothers with the light yielding weight
of its insistence,
that it will be stirred with the gentle wind.
A bee can hover, intent
on its hunger for the floweret's soft pink nectar.
And the black body of the bee
is a deep night, its dawn colored wings
are a flutter of heart strings
that are plucked by the sound of the children
at their delightful play: shouts(orders);
laughter(independence);
a melody of youth sung
as the spring birds
weave a dance over the children's bodies.
A deflated shiny balloon
is the captive of the distant watchful trees
with desert-red buds,
whose limbs shape the faces of ancient spectres,
seen through the snow tints
of the wind blown petals milling an early May.
May 2, 2021
You don’t have to pitch a tent
Nor build a house to stay
When thousands of us wander desperate
Without a home or place to rest,
You own a house with a magic door,
That opens at will without a key or latch.
Well protected from all wicked wight
Safe from all robbers, rowdies, and rodents
No evil spirits, vampires, or ghouls
Dare to disturb it at any rate
It is stronger than all structures extant
Built-in mortar, bricks, or rocks
You are the monarch of a larger empire.
Land and water are under your sway,
Free to enjoy the treasures of the sea,
And feast on the wonders of the land.
You are a companion to the ravenous shark,
Darting spectres through the azure dark
And also monsters that roam the deep
With their uncouth gambols and abrupt leap
You love strolling along the slimy strands
And dive down along with the laughing waves
You bury your eggs on the sandy shores
And guard your progeny from all snares
You are another name for alertness and caution
You make sure that all around is safe and secure,
Before you come out from your rocky shelter
And shrink back at once when dangers lurk
You carry on your back your home and shelter
Built so compact to guard you from all external threat
Oh! Turtle, we deem you blessed under your carapace
But perhaps you may have a different tale to narrate
For all that we see or seem to see
Aren’t they truths far removed from the truth?
The last Night of October
It's that time, again, the last night of October,
the last glow of twilight nearly gone.
Children race out and about,
winding through the streets and alleys.
Brightly colored costumes,
mom's old wig, dad's old sport coat.
All hoping to fill their bags with the prize:
Candy bars, bag of licorice, candy corn, pop corn balls,
apples, Bit-O-Honey, and Pez dispensed joy.
Some, their favorites, to greedily keep their own,
others to give to a poor sibling, who stayed home with the mumps.
With faces painted, steel themselves, for the gauntlet ahead,
the familiar street now somehow strange in the gloom,
to walk past hallowed ground,
All was quiet, save for the rustling of the leaves.
The daylight gone, now cloaked in Stygian darkness..,
ahead lie, the old grave yard.
Raucous laughter, which echoed only moments before,
trailed off into whispered murmurs.
All eyes from the once merry band looked now,
to their leader, albeit quickly chosen,
the tallest, and oldest, and bravest.
He too, resolve waning, felt the grip of those things unknown,
in the shadowy mist,
heart now beating faster, he chides the little ones,
for being such silly ninnies.
Just now, what was that! What was that sound?!?
Was that an owl? Or, maybe Old Man Godfrey, come back from his
now disturbed rest!
Young sister's hands clasped brother's, tightly,
and brother's, impishly taking the clammy worts,
decidedly grew, just a bit older, wiser,
and braver in kind.
Now turning the corner at Elm street, they walked at even pace.
With heads bowed low, mid-block, each chanced a glance, only to look away,
from the wrought iron gate.
Young heads, did now envision mystic spectres, ghouls and fantastic phantoms, with jaws agape, smiling in toothy cheer, bony fingered hands reaching through the heavy bars.
Swallowing dryly, daring just one quick glance back,
at the narrow lane winding, into the stone covered grounds,
dotted with ivy covered trees of willow and oak.
Back into the world of the living, back to
All Hallow's Eve.
-Happy Halloween
Sleep
As evening shadows setting sun,
Dark night, relentless, spreads.
When daylight hours are done
Sleep stirs in her secret bed.
Dark night, relentless, spreads
Where Intellect, a foreigner, strays.
Sleep stirs in her secret bed,
Unfettered, imagination plays.
Where Intellect, a foreigner, strays
Morpheus wakes in the sleeping mind,
Unfettered, imagination plays.
Ancient spectres stalk the land.
Morpheus wakes in the sleeping mind
When daylight hours are done.
Ancient spectres stalk the land
As evening shadows setting sun.
Barry Stebbings
27/04/2016
For generations raps, taps and table turnings were
the signs of a spirit calling; the ghoul of you trying to
deliver a message - to finish unfinished business and
sleep an everlasting slumber in the clouds above.
The presence of a loved one floated in white light,
apparitions waving at the end of a tunnel bright. Icy mists
hovered around graveyards, phantoms clawing and cawing at
sanctified earth. Spectres clinked chains with warnings dire.
Clocks stopped. Widows wore black. Families, trapped in the
amber of grief, took portraits with their beloved deceased.
A memento of the living.
Now, you just ghost me on Tinder.
Let us roll together on the cobbled floors of
Europe and pick up, in our greedy search,
Every fallen crisp and old blade of ancient grass.
Good old restless fleas must not peck at them
Or resume haunting the spectres that follow
Them season after season.
And it must be on a Sunday —post
Sunday school—after the church bell has rung twice;
After the spell of the visiting thaumaturge on the village
Has followed the blight of the late rains of a
Second-rate April.
The scent of the market is heavy with spinning films,
Thus rolling the eyes from streets to canals,
Increasingly stunning the breaths of tipplers
Breathing with the rage of manhattans.
A scalding winter shrouds the open intimacy between fogs
And brumes, made sweet with a hootenanny.
The music is loud but soft, and weakens the restiveness of
A new week bound for ceaseless waves of inked drama.
I hasten to the old secretaire I had descried from the
Buried haunt of writers and scribes — men of quill pen.
Its blend of age, the aroma of cellared wines, and the
Blessedness of regal oak has made my day. . .
Oh, sorry, my Sunday.
“Happy Sunday to one and all!” I cry,
Reaching out to the grandmother pouch of time-bleached leather
Around my dancing waist.
And I shall proceed to buy it with European farthings and African
Cowrie shells, and manillas adorned with loud-campaigning verdigris.
Continued from Part 1
The orphans and widows lean into the breeze
watching horrified hangmen descend to their knees
for the angel of mercy’s no longer inclined
to forgive vengeful phantoms (oh Furies of night!) ,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The bandits are brazen, the highwaymen lurk,
some imbibing dark brews of a hag’s handiwork,
mostly gulping from goblets like goblins maligned.
Woman! Widen your wings, catching wisps of the wind
I’ll not leave you behind.
The lepers laugh, leaping from tombstones of steel
chasing rollaway caskets on luminous wheels;
while their shadows shake, shrouded, twixt trees intertwined,
twisted time melts at midnight, take hold of my hand,
I’ll not leave you behind.
The gremlins grope, grinning face down in the dust,
while the sprites and the pixies are watching nonplussed.
They sling bolted arrows at spectres enshrined
within winds somewhat flustered, just fly from your fears
I’ll not leave you behind.
The tattered toy teddies and raggedy Anns
have escaped to the skyways in kid caravans
but now, spellbound by fancies, know not that they’ll find
their parade’s evanesced into echoes of dawn –
I’ll not leave you behind.
The wind’s my enchantress, beguiles and commands
me to search for my fortune in faraway lands
and whispers her mysteries of passions entwined,
for the wind is Isolde – unfurling my sails
I’ll not leave you behind.
End
Like an artists canvas the sunset sky was ablaze in glorious fall colours which complemented the trees in their red, yellow and orange attire. Kayla's eyes drank in natures beautiful scenery.
Pumpkins of various sizes decorated farmer Bob's field and the fragrant aroma of fresh baked pumpkin pies wafted through the cool autumn air, tantalizing visitors nostrils. Laughter and happy chatter rang out as families and couples got ready to enjoy a countryside hayride.
After the ride a bonfire was lit and everyone gathered around and watched as flames darted in and out of the logs. The firepit crackled and popped as the fire hungrily consumed the wood, and candles flickered high from halloween lamps, creating spooky, dancing shadows.
Hot chocolate, apple cider and baked goods were handed out as Kayla and her husband huddled closely together by the fire listening intently with other guests as their hosts told ghostly tales about the century old farm. Eerie background music accompanied and enhanced their stories conjuring up images of lost wondering spectres.
Later on for those brave enough to enter Bob's corn maze, a scary finale completed the night with ghouls and goblins jumping out at almost every turn. This halloween themed adventure filled the senses of both the young and old. A delicious and fun time was enjoyed by all.
When Azrael* comes knocking, it won’t be with bony fists,
I believe, he’ll be a Doctor, with a cure,
Or a Maiden with her posies, a Knight jousting in the lists,
Or a gently whistling, mournful Troubadour.
When my time has come for leaving, I believe, I’ll punch him out,
Though I’ll break my hand in doing it, I’m sure
Or he’ll duck the blow and throw me o’er his shoulder like some lout
And I’ll have to go with him to Evermore.
I suppose he’s used to fearsome images, limned in the mind,
Where spectres, spooks and ghouls widely endure
But I think he’s just a jailer, come to open (and be kind)
The way out of a cage that serves, no more.
So, when he brings his medicine, I think I’ll swallow it,
And thank him for the friends he’s brought with him
I don’t believe he’ll be a jolly soul, although I wit
He’ll stroke my bald head, turn the lights to dim…
Or, when she shows me posies, with a certain tranquil air,
I deeply will inhale, nod, go to sleep,
And let her cool my hot brow with a hand that isn’t there,
Give thanks, she’s eased the passage I must keep.
Or, when he boldly rides at me, sharp angle to his spear,
I’ll bellow out a challenge, DING! his helm,
And keep my seat, take point through shield, ride at him without fear,
And know my lady watches o’er the realm.
Or, lastly, when he whistles a low tune that stills my heart,
I’ll join in, softly sing along with him,
As he plucks his sombre lute strings I will hum the descant part
And slowly fade away, heart in the trim.
____________
*Azrael – in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem of the same name, the Angel of Death
2/28/2019
OLD BELFAST
No hooters belch and screech in the mornings anymore
Industry has disappeared from the City’s working core
The Factories have all closed their gates a long, long time ago
Now silent shadows fill the space where workers used to go
Steam cranes bow across the lough, an entry on a page
Decayed tired buildings line the Docks, relics of an age
Rows of broken windows where he silence trickles out
As nature now takes over where grass and nettles sprout
The workshops have been stripped and only carcasses remain
Moss grows on the floor where the roof lets in the rain
Miles of red brick walls which somehow now look grey
Blackened muddy puddles where singed old timbers lay
Grand imposing structures, much too big for modern use
Now crumpling and eroded from dereliction and abuse
Spectres from a Victorian age now roam these soulless lanes
You can hear their whistles on the wind. Their presence still remains