Long Vestibules Poems
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I know that I should not have looked
My eyes collect the movements
that do frighten to the core
I know that I should not have looked
I’m curious all the more
For there behind the thicket
where the beasties come to play
Lurking in the underbrush
and thorny mass decay
Drooling on the pathway
when the blood begins to seep
Eating pieces of your heart,
the fears they long to reap
Carving out a warning
in the dark archaic stone
Arches built of victim’s
empty vestibules of bone
Gathered neath the shadows
falling bleak the universe
Twisted, barely visible
the message fills the curse
Dare not seek what leads the eyes,
upon this sanctuary tread
None shall live to hear the cries,
echoes fall among the dead
Follow forth another way
lest death become your wandered path
Turn about this end of day
or face the heartless aftermath
There behind the thicket
where the beasties come to play
It’s best this evening to beware
and look the other way
For the I should not have looked Poetry contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose
5/31/17
Wearing her zippered jumpsuit of lime
My queen loves to survey the valley's field.
She dreams of finding a perfect place and time
She can make her dream city something real.
Megiddo was an ancient and famous city
Where starting at Solomon's gate then entering in,
Delight, pleasance and joy showed no pity,
And t'was no comfort not to be found within.
This proud city of great power and zeal--
The glory of some rare ancient engineer--
Has seen dust fly from many a chariot wheel,
When victorious kings came to holiday here.
Perhaps ancient Israel's most splendid city,
It soon captured every kingdoms' eye.
A diadem of the Jezreel Valley so pretty,
It invoked the kiss of the Assyrian sky.
Surrounded by its high double-thick stone walls,
Megiddo’s palaces did lavishly and amply abide,
Containing their ornamentally furnished halls,
With towers, storehouses, and courtyards alongside.
And then there are temples—believed to be three,
With vestibules for believers to enter in.
Then of course the altar for only the holy to see,
Where doctrines are given a positive spin.
Where’er perfect foundation might lay,
My queen shall find a delightful field.
And there to be in full domain and array,
The promise of Eden most
empyreal.
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Contest Judged: 8/30/2025 4:27:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!
Before it’s too late
Distant bells clatter on cloud fed weathered skies where
darkness creeps past low light vestibules, faded beams flicker
Short skirts wave in a winter wind, breezy attributes
revealing fishnet thighs calling to the next hidden passenger,
batting lashes and blowing bubbles of stale gum placed under
crushed velvet seats worn in places, stained deliberately
for bragging rights and handkerchief blotting
A ghostly mist lingers as lips are touched up, bright red, crimson,
shades of desire, occupational decisions, advertisements leaking
into sewers and hopscotch squares spread along the avenue
Silhouettes in porch lanterns, whistling…so unladylike, ducking
constables with nightsticks swinging like the clapper in those damn bells
waking the unsuspecting and spooking the transients offering
a few coins for a ten dollar dream
Swine wallows in last week’s gossip, slimy little beings
fat on sausage and biscuits, cursing the rats pushing their way in
below curtains and kitchen windows framing inquisitive eyes,
watching cash change hands and satisfied smirks
on the faces of those wiping feet on mats,
greeting the family in disguise, shirt un-tucked,
long day rewards and dinner on the table
Yesterday’s newspaper tumbles down the walk,
clinging to sign posts, featuring headlines of death, a warning in bold print,
still at large, a menace to society in a grey overcoat,
double breasted and fancy shoeprints in the fresh mud
No further traces except the body, contorted and frozen, smeared faces
littering cobblestone gutters, frightening children and pets,
as passersby look to second floor balconies, oblivious
Midnight calls, staggering drunkards exit Chauncey’s,
hard up and spent, slurred laughter, boisterous to hide worries
and tomorrow’s jobs, time clock lies and penciled in wishes
Iron fence posts rust at the gateway as they glance to the headstones
of friends long past and recent memories, sensing the urge,
seeing the painted nails and low cut blouses, thinking…
before it’s too late
While from a secluded archway…