Long Starless Poems
Long Starless Poems. Below are the most popular long Starless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Starless poems by poem length and keyword.
In the shadowed maw of the forest deep,
Where whispers of the night do creep,
There lies a tale, a chilling draft,
That sends shivers down the spine, so deft.
A cabin old, with windows like eyes,
Staring into the abyss of skies,
Stood silent, save for the wind's soft moan,
In a clearing where no bird had flown.
The walls, once warm with family cheer,
Now echo with an unseen fear,
For in this place, where laughter ceased,
A darker presence was increased.
A traveler, weary from the road,
Seeking shelter from the night's cold brood,
Pushed through the door, creaking, worn,
Unaware of the terror he would spawn.
The hearth was cold, the air was thick,
A sense of dread, so sly and sick,
He felt the past, the tales untold,
Of souls that vanished in the cold.
As dusk turned to a starless night,
The traveler felt an eerie blight,
A whisper soft, a breath, a sigh,
A voice that seemed to crawl and cry.
"Leave this place," it hissed and wept,
"For in these walls, we hungrily kept,
The essence of the lost, the dead,
Feast upon your fear, your dread."
The traveler, his heart a frantic beat,
Felt the chill of phantom feet,
A spectral dance, a ghostly throng,
Circling him as if to prove him wrong.
He sought to flee, to break the spell,
But found the door would not compel,
Trapped within the cabin's grip,
His sanity began to slip.
The air grew heavy, thick as soup,
As shadows took the form of group,
Of tormented souls, with eyes aglow,
Reaching out from below.
The traveler, in despair, did shout,
"What do you want, these haunts about?"
A voice then spoke, a raspy sound,
"To join our dance, forever bound."
The floorboards creaked, and the walls did bend,
As if the very house would end,
The traveler, with a final prayer,
Felt the grasp of icy air.
His scream was lost, absorbed by night,
As he was pulled from mortal sight,
Another soul to join the throng,
In the cabin's horror, where he's drawn.
Now heed this tale, ye who roam,
Avoid the cabin, its dreadful home,
For in the forest, dark and wild,
Lieth a terror, most unsanctified.
And so, the story ends, but not its tune,
For under the haunted, silent moon,
The cabin waits for one more soul,
To complete its ghastly, grim role.
Eyes as blue as the cloudless sky,
Hair as dark as a starless night,
Jaw as sharp as a shining blade,
And face as smooth as the wet sand on the beach
With a voice as warm as the sun
On a hot summer's day
All of these aspects of Mr-Blue-Eyed-Monster
Are great,
But those are nothing more than his outer image
Have you ever seen the boyish grin
That formed when he was happy?
Or the way his eyes would sparkle
When he spoke of something he loved?
How about the way he stutters when he's nervous
And blushes when he's said something dumb
Or just plain shy?
You've never cared for his insecurities
You only pointed them out.
You've never seen him tremble at the sound of thunder,
Or cry when Dobby died.
You've never seen him bite his lip
When he's afraid he's upset you
Or how he fiddled with his hands when he asked you out
You've never heard him fumble over words
Or trip more times than you could count
Because he's simply too nervous for the first date
You've never seen how his eyes shine
Under the fireworks at midnight
On New Year's Day
You wouldn't know that he asks for permission
Every time he wants a kiss
Or how he carries mistletoe
Every single Christmas
So that he won't need to ask for a kiss that day.
How he wears mismatched socks
Because he always loses the other one to a pair
Or how he promises to never lose you the way he loses them
-Because he's too damn cheesy.
You've never heard him complain about
The expectations he has to reach or
How he's worried for his marks
You've never seen how
He messes up he's hair
And mutters incoherently
In foreign languages,
Worried that he'll disappoint everyone
Yet again
You've never heard how he laughs
At his own little jokes
And calls them brilliant
Even though they're lame
All you've cared about was
Hot-Blue-Eyed-Boy
And whether he's good in bed
You haven't considered that he's keeping that
For his special someone
Because all you see
Is another good looking boy
So you automatically think that he must be like other boys.
Well, he's not.
You haven't considered that
There's more to him than
His voice like the sun,
And eyes like the sky
He's not just another boy.
No two people are the same
- Or so the Blue-Eyed-Monster has taught me.
Rain seeps into every crack and crevice
chilling to the bone
Winter has arrived with a vengeance
and summer is forever gone.
Ice slicks the asphalt, into a
glittering glistening death trap.
Here begins the slow invasion
of the unrelenting cold.
This grubby little mutt follows one day,
His hair matted, claws overgrown.
You take pity on the poor thing;
Starving and probably ill.
(A miserable pup with big sad eyes)
And leave blankets and scraps out the door
You wonder of his owners forgotten
He’s no street dog- well behaved and gentle
Perhaps abandoned, lost.
But maybe not. He’s ugly, scarred
Hairless in patches- He belongs in a kennel.
You don’t want him- and feel an inexplicable deep hatred
The wag of his tail infuriates and the curve of his snout enrages.
You slam the door.
A glass spills and everything is red.
Merlot on the carpet, scarlet on the bed.
You knock over the roses
Deep crimson of condolence
You want to draw blood, you want to destroy
You crave another’s red bloody torment
Schadenfreude, be damned
His whines pierce-
through the cold air of the night,
and the solid wooden door.
The royal blue E minor: the laments of the abandoned
You can’t help but join in song
As the wretched creature
howls expressivo at the starless sky
a symphony of loss.
Violins screech to his scratching
with trills, mordents and turns.
The descending melodic line fades and echos;
As the merciless tonic pedal of time ticking
crescendos.
The clarinets wails accompaniment;
subdominant, tonic, leading.
And with a plagal cadence, the mutt droops his tail
Morning arrives- painfully slow
The rising sun thaws anguished aubergine
And leave only tender lapis of fingers frostbitten.
They struggle; falls a familiar key
As you reach and bend
Moist; a warmth unexpected and wet
As the mutt licks your hand
tongue curling around a corpse’s digits
nuzzling his cold snout into the back of your knee.
Tongue lolling, tail wagging
The mutt never leaves.
The frost on the tree branches promise
Of how you’ve lived and grown
They shimmer like precious silver
and accent the beauty of home.
The fresh biting air,
with great gasping breaths you shiver.
Here begins a new journey
With your most loyal friend.
I feel a choir of raw throats shouting hoarse warnings and then quieting,
Leaving a nervous stillness trembling on the lips of the morning,
Or riding the scrolling text at the bottom of the TV screen.
Something is wrong.
There is a restlessness seeping like mist from the lesions
Of the carnage yet to come, a slow decay,
As if all of life waits with bated breath for the moment
When the finger tightens on the trigger of imminent chaos.
And yet, good people go about their lives,
Whispering prayers in quiet corners, helpless,
Angry, or for some, a numb indifference,
Yet somewhere, hidden in the voids behind their minds,
A shadow stirs from its sleep,
Preparing to rise from the bed of silence. Elsewhere,
Across a nation, more and more cries remain trapped
In the throats of the fallen.
Something is wrong.
I feel the weight of the veil of a starless night,
A veil cast over thoughts, a curtain of anxiety,
And in my mind, a melancholic song drenched in shared human fear.
A faint light slips through the cracks of a broken soul,
Casting shadows in the mental alleys, an eternal dance of hope and fear.
Looking around, I see eyes laden with endless questions,
Reflecting the past and the unknown future, a kaleidoscope of doubts
Interwoven with every silent step, every blink of frozen life.
This persistent unease, an invisible specter,
Haunts my consciousness, a reminder of what might be.
A silent call, where the heart dances in agony,
An elusive respite in the tumult of thoughts.
I wonder if this feeling, this sense that something is wrong,
Could be the silent cry of a profound reality,
Whispering to me from the shadows of existence.
In the flow of my consciousness, I wander endlessly,
Searching metaphors and magical visions,
Hoping to find an answer in the labyrinth of the soul,
For I am bound to this song of unease, waiting for dawn to bring clarity
And to heal this crack in the fabric of life, a sign that perhaps, one day, all will be well.
In the mystical twilight of my thoughts, shadows and light
Weave a ballet of ethereal whispers, each movement a living metaphor,
As dreams and fears converge in the silent depths of being,
Revealing secrets hidden in the vestiges of night, awaiting the promise of dawn.
What are your most winterish
critical trauma events
in these most recent
three millennia?
Why
just my traumas?
Why not their corresponsive
therapies
for restoring EarthJustice?
Please go on
and on
questioning my questions
seemingly without end,
like an arctic wind-blown
starless night
in eternally restless January.
As you say,
and, but for this grand analogy,
you would pay dearly
for your unsprung youth,
Back in pre-colonial daze
of sacred tribal glad,
mostly naked clad
reunions
Fall harvests produced fertile gratitude,
more of a positive
win/win attitude.
In those last warm and golden times
of nature nighttime naivete
some Governor,
a Wise Elder, perhaps
No matter how Patriarchal,
would deep dream
to set defenses against
each sacred Other
Yet pantheistically inclusive Mother Earth
could not feel ripe
or right, apart
Summer fullness
and winter dormant absence
fail to positively correlate
Earth's spirited spring minds
and physical womb-falling bodies
with metaphysical,
sacred bipartisan,
deeply thoughtful
yet hibernating
frustrated feelings
failing to confluently
and competently understand
Communicating
and excommunicating
across seasons
and present seas
of sacred vulnerable immigration
integration
creolization,
followed by thoughtfully transparent
slow-grown emigrant sacred status
rooted in wisdom
and freedom to grow copassions,
not mere freedom from
some other kindless
kingdom
Immigrating/Emigrating EarthTribes
exhaling summer's sway
away
migrating winter's WombDream play
back in to sacred circling
and recycling stay.
Thanks for that,
Aunt Eartha.
Sounds like less of a summery answer
and more of a deep wintering question.
Yes, my dear,
and what does winter taste
and look
and feel like?
Restoring Earth's
not-quite-so-everlasting
seemingly endless
cold white privilege,
Thawing into
more spring/fall balance,
green/blue global
hibernating
matriarchal,
yet apparently dormant,
sacred honed ecologists.
Sorry, Aunt Eartha,
drifting off,
wandering in winter wonder
EcoTherapy, once around again,
regenerating global
GoldenPlaying Peace
Within this silent wintered star's
bright prolific night.
One year and more if people should die still,
Bombs keep raining, missiles shower red rage,
All seem routine to hearts hardening nigh,
World feels sad as an after-thought on stage.
But so had people died of Covid scare,
They’d died alone, though buried in same grave,
Becoming just a number so lonely,
When threshold of pain goes up man gets brave.
All suffer, even continents apart,
Not merchants and brokers of war machine—
Business that hardly has a feeling heart,
What with Shylock’s sharp mind ever so keen.
World markets learn to adjust with the time,
Deficit, surplus seek levels anew,
And people’s life gets attuned to new rhyme,
They only suffer—the suffering few.
Alas, today’s wars can go on and on,
Putin putting up an ever grave face,
His rival, far from a chameleon,
His country getting the maximum mace.
Nations now spend bigger bangs on defence,
Merchants of war sole beneficiary,
Defence a pseudonym for an offence,
A way to boost dormant demand from ranks.
Who the gain and who gets pain, hard to say,
Humanity has lost a few rungs more,
West’s happy to harm, shy enough to bleed,
To US of A one more proxy war.
Like enmity do wars on their own breed,
The motion kept alive oh to save face,
Unwillingly as with its handbrakes on,
As if to prove who ahead is in race.
What if heads roll in this senseless charade?
False prestige must go on a starless stage,
What if the stands are all but deserted,
It matters not, shallow gets when the rage.
The price paid has now turned statistical,
Selling bible to atheists in mirth,
Leaving in limbo issues ethical,
In last throe seems UN, Oh since its birth!
_____________________________________
Happenings | 07.02.2023 | war
Poet’s note: Call it an outright aggression or a lingering war. Forget who’s right and who’s wrong, leave all pros and cons. The conflict goes on even after one excruciating long year. No one is the winner, all world a net loser. It just goes on as if it is a routine, international trade. All else have learned to adjust, not Ukraine which is bleeding heavily, but still no less keen to wound, if not win. Is all this war-mongering of any worth? This narrative in quatrains wonders.
As the sky weeps
in periwinkle petals of
multicolored roses,
rinsed in lemons, and lavender,
the poet within me
releases a bougainvillea
bouquet of unfiltered gratitude,
swaying to the celestial duet
orchestrated by
the angel of raindrops,
adorned in braided
wildflower crowns and
windswept wishes,
echoing dulcet melodies
rendered in whimsical accents.
I ponder, if tears had a tune,
would it be the
sound of drizzling dewdrops?
Would you then feel
the pain I carry,
veiled in smoky silence?
Or would I forever be
the silhouette cloaked
in fogs of charcoal confusion,
too dark to be deciphered
by the fragmented eyes
that eulogize
all that sparkles and glows?
But when stained sunflowers
swirl beneath starless spheres,
scattering seeds of sorrow
to cultivate a garland of grief,
puddled with poignant poems,
I remain throned,
as the goddess of black rain,
riddled with cosmic rituals,
sprinkling kaleidoscopic dust
upon forsaken fields,
while listening to the
drifting leaflets in crisp air,
pleading for the demise
of my unfaltering faith,
oblivious to the truth
that I fear not
mists of melancholy.
I surf through surging seas,
unafraid of twirling torrents
and blazing tides,
piercingly striking
shimmering sapphires
floating in deafening despair.
There in the abyss of obscurities,
I’m nestled within restlessness,
in rooted resilience,
like a perplexed paradox
weaving crippled odes to
the sun that longs to rise and sail,
splashing hues of cinnamon clemency.
Tonight, I’m counting crooning comets,
amidst quivering hailstones,
dancing in cataclysmic rhythm above,
to find my home within
an island of daphne dreams
and singing seashells.
For I hear the flaming flowers
in their solitary stillness
serenade rain rhapsodies,
to awaken the petrichor
soul of heavy horizons,
wrapped in stringed
milky-quartz beads,
bursting forth blooming tomorrows,
illuminated by chamomile water,
concocted from charismatic spring falls…
Yet I think of us, engrossed
in umbrella moments,
Cupid too envied this
symphony of romance
where love conquered all,
and grief but a blurred memory,
in sunlit souvenirs of yesterday.
I followed you down the rabbit hole,
Believing in all the magic life could bring.
Thinking you would unlock the chains I wore,
Setting my spirits free.
To teach me not to live in my head, but through life instead.
You knew what to say, to make me feel not afraid.
While holding the key to my heart, knowing your way through its maze.
Little did I know, this was no rabbit hole.
No hope of going to Wonderland existed and I grew cold.
I was trapped in a never ending grave, with nowhere to go.
Stealing the magical innocence away from me as I went
Too late did I realize you chained me to you.
The feeling of freedom dwindled into regret.
But it was too late.
Words you fed me started to taste sour
Starting to choke me in a full force of a drowning power
You laughed softly as you ripped the heart from my chest and whispered it was fate.
For you were mine, and I am yours.
There was no other way to be.
What more could I ask for?
F
a
l
l
i
n
g
Forever falling, deeper and deeper I went.
Whenever I cracked and shattered,
You would put me back together again.
The chains that bound me to you only grew heavier.
No longer could I remember the sunlight on my skin.
Memories became trapped in the shade of an eclipse,
Light that they once held gone, buried in feelings of transgressed sin.
All hope bled out of me through the scars in which you had left.
Slowly my heart started to shrivel and desiccate from within.
My body lay crumbled at the bottom,
Fingernails caked in dirt from helping you dig the place in which I lay.
The solitary, waterless tear slid down my porcelain face
As my eyes stared up at a starless sky.
This is where you left my poor, broken body.
Leaving me when you deemed me unfit of further use.
Knowing that I was prepared to die, with foolish thoughts that if I had to,
I would still die for you.
You abandoned my shattered pieces as they began to blow away
Sharing one last thought, oh how we laughed together at our inside joke,
Both knowing that the pieces were too small to put back together again.
So they might as well be lost to the wind.
‘ Monsters, Among Us … ’
Scatter The Creeping Vapor-Stench, Away
Expose The Wake of Eerie, Fog and Shadows
And Nightshade and Fiends, and Vile-Beasts That Bay
Begone, to Taboo, Grounds, Unhallowed …
… for there Are Monsters, Among Us …
Yea, Also An Ancient Curse
We Don’t have To Make This Up …
… to Make It Any Worse …
Yea, There Are Blood Suckers, Self-Styled, Vampires ( Vlad, The Impaler )
Who’ll Drink Your Blood by Starless, Night
Creatures, Who’ll Make You Suffer Their Desires
and Ghouls, Who’ll Dine On Your Flesh, in Daylight ( Jeffrey Dahmer )
Yea, There Are Creatures of The Dark
Who’ll Catch You, If You Do Not Know … ( Rapists )
They Want To Get Inside Of Your Heart
And Make You Do Acts, Foul, Fraught with Woes
Yea, There Are Monsters, Among Us …
Merciless, Malevolent, Maniacal Monstrosities … ( Hitler )
They Do, Indeed, Want To Own Your Soul, Because ( Jim Jones )
They Want To Make You Commit, Their Atrocities ! … ( Charles Manson )
And If You Walk Around Unwary
Doesn’t Matter, If Its Not, Stroke Of Midnight
… Anytime, Is Their Time, To Do Scary
Spine-Chilling Screams of Your Unending, Pitch-Black Fright …
Rituals To Silver and Golden Idols ( Slaving For Riches)
Making A Virgin Sacrifice - ( Child Molestation )
Hexes and Voodoo Dolls
and All Such Abominations To The Christ …
… Now, by a Long Shot, I’m Not Pious
(‘Cause I Too, Like A Good Thrill !)
Just, Don’t Make The Mistake-Serious
By Thinking Wickedness, Isn’t Real !
And Humans, Please Be Aware
Evil Incarnate, Isn’t Just A Movie Theme …
It’s More Than Just A Joking Scare
… There ‘ Is’ A Wicked Scheme
(and there ‘Is’ A Wicked Being)
So, If You Find, You’re Chased or Caught
By Some Monster In A Living-Nightmare
Remember, No Potion, Amulet, Nor Incantation Taught
Brings Almighty Help, Better Than Holy Prayer
Yea, There Are Monsters, Among Us …
Yea … Also, An Ancient Curse
(and We Couldn’t Even Invent The Stuff
to Make It Any Worse ! ) …
On a starless night, when the sky retreated like an old cloak,
I found myself floating on the river of melancholy,
memories intertwined in the fabric of a dream,
a fabric woven by unseen hands,
where the steps of those who climb the mountains of success
are steps of shadows, shadows dancing at the fire of illusions,
hiding their faces under masks of gold and silver,
but their eyes, oh, their eyes,
carried the flames of another world,
flames that consumed everything they touched,
for they were children of the fallen light,
Lucifers who only partially knew their origin.
In a sea of silence, where thoughts swirled
like dried leaves in an autumn whirlwind,
I understood that the path to heights
is paved with lost souls,
souls that sold a part of themselves
for a moment of glory,
for a moment to feel
that the world is theirs,
but in the darkness of night,
when the stars seem to fade one by one,
the truth reveals itself like an open wound,
and the shadows show their true face,
the face of children of chaos,
psychopaths building temples of illusions.
Under the pale moon, silently watching,
I felt the waves of time
crash against the shores of memories,
and each drop of water
carried a fragment of the story of those who ascend,
of those who look into the mirror of success
and see only the reflection of a hidden demon,
a demon that knows how to smile,
but behind that smile
hides a profound pain,
a pain intertwined with desire,
the desire to be more than human,
more than a mere being
wandering through the darkness of destiny.
And on that night, when everything seemed lost,
when the shadows danced around the fire,
I understood that the magic of success
is just another face of melancholy,
another face of a dream that unravels
in the light of the first rays of the sun,
and that, deep in our souls,
we are all children of the same night,
children who look towards the stars
with eyes full of hope,
even when the stars seem to fade,
and we are left with only the illusion,
the illusion of a road leading to heights,
but in fact, it is just another labyrinth
in which we lose ourselves,
seeking the light that will set us free.