Long Wraith Poems
Long Wraith Poems. Below are the most popular long Wraith by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wraith poems by poem length and keyword.
I experience inappetence, yet nevertheless hunger for victuals
Mine corporeal complex edifice
unleashes convulsions of anxiety.
Lack of appetite
to savor even smallest bite
unlike Pavlov's dog,
I neither salivate nor excite
at prospect (parking) body
against table not low but fahrenheit
unfair punishment fates did indict,
whereby yours truly decreed
to suffer wraith inflicted
akin to ghastly revengeful Jacobite
asitia struck with vengeance
sucker punched pit of stomach
with furious dog forsaken might
unsavory predicament figuratively
eating away me passion
to relish comestibles day and night,
hence feeble effort to craft poem quite
lame rhyming for no reason right?
Yours truly cannot remember,
how many days, weeks, months... ago
elapsed, whereby with voraciousness I ate
(above mentioned statement veracious -
food for thought) I plainly communicate
hoop fully buzzfeeding, dishing out quandary
in fortified effort to elucidate
thee dear anonymous reader great
if newfound (albeit tenuous) intrigue
awoke courtesy mine artful ruse to initiate
reciprocity, cuz regret iz the stealer of joy
thus verbally athletic, cryptic, enigmatic,
generic, idiotic, kinetic, magnetic, opportunistic
quixotic, solipsistic (ha) troubadour
who heartily hales within
southeastern keystone-state
dares himself to reach out across cyberspace
in an cautiously optimistic effort to mitigate
and extend his metaphorical (albeit empty) plate
maintaining netiquette, an amorphous,
yeah flirtatious nebulous groovy savoir faire,
which mine body, mind, spirit triage
suddenly seems restoration of natural craving
toward sustenance doth oscillate.
What relief long starved taste buds to appease
cuz methought (courtesy obsessive compulsive
worst case scenario catastrophizing)
one garden variety guy
acquired some generic disease
A deep sigh of relief he dryly heaves!
Elan's word?
Zulu's sword?
Heartsichordiums-convulsive-verb
"Anabantium", O wraith of mord.
So is it, it is for Hilerides-Dales,
which green-discourse,
Southeast of Wales
or some other perch
of liaisoned Angeles-porch ?
Is one-way with a steep of glades newly born.
No sooner have we besmirched.
Self.
Nostra-damned-us, Astrogalus,
Nostragus.
Nemean Lion- first-of course;
eat us- at these quatrains,
like a double edged verse
candlelight-consuming in a dance of
strobelight nurse.
Neon-Cry that Mercury-Tear.
Filter-through, Mushroom Signage
of Modern glares.
As is-with directions,
one way streets to the Dens of thieves.
Dropping, dripping, burning eaves.
Robbing hoods and so also
there was some relation at worst-held
at bae or backwoods, back alley deed.
Err thee connection-theta warded-word
to say in it's assumed position,
bemusing Gaias':wraith de morgue.
Wraith de Morgana, r ape Avalons' Mist.
Undo the handmaiden with a new Word?
Unkiss? Disrobe? Amiss?
The Nostracina in turn be as it may.
Apologetics-Hilaridesics,
seems originally as being male; alone,
an Ictinopharctic poet
(nere-accompliced drunkenly-bare.) Was
named as for it a "Father-Door".
Now abyssmal opening, "Abaddon or Apollyon"
for who we to christen in sinful-adornment
of the riding of the unrepentant-whore.
To make her implore(doors? to whom?),
Ihttiphodar-Apath-Anamethat-Anathema,
that fore-in the family to grow-in-swore.
There have come much
tumidity and variety, little understanding
nor humility of season or station.
Of which that may be confusing for some.
Critique the weak, in terms of being. "Able to know".
Is just in it or have you
see to it's evening-glow?
Civilization? No.
Then this, also which I'll have to explain at night.
Among other that I have also,
left traces from the rite,
(their language of love,
of also of a possibly anamallan),
is then saying, (Elan!), more is the pain.
Till that which comes, comes as that Latter Rain.
No?
All other which I cannot know
for thee for it is hermetically sealed,
Bibliopsysicly sown.
She's often seen on dark and stormy nights according to local lore,
Gliding among the ancient stones standing in that fearsome moor.
Mists wafting about the burial ground add to this spectral scene,
And circling above, a sinister murder of ravens is usually seen!
'Tis said that this hapless wraith seems to be on an endless quest,
Searching, ever searching as if for her own eternal rest.
Or does Raven seek a specific grave upon which to wreak revenge,
Whose occupant for some wrong she is determined to avenge?
She kneels at each stone and peers at the name etched thereon,
Is heard softly sobbing, then slowly rising, she moves on.
As she makes her ghostly bourne, heard is her plaintive moan,
As with vengeful eyes she examines each lichen-covered stone.
Is it a lover she searches for who left her bereft and forlorn,
Who broke her heart and filled her soul with eternal scorn?
Or could it be with malice in her heart she seeks reprise,
For the brutal murder that caused her untimely demise.
The thunder roars and lightning flashes as she glides to and fro.
The troubles that distress this restless soul we shall never know.
This fabled phantom presses on wearily, wearily lurching,
Determined to complete her quest, searching, ever searching!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 6 in Constance's "Among The Dead" Contest - February 2011
*~Amber silents, daylight violets;
The charm of a lover’s tender quietness;
*Custom stares;
The glimpses that express gentle care;
*Love comes here;
Between two who truly feel;
*Love is where there is caring faith;
Just as the heavenly Father saith;
*Loves committed grace;
Whatever the two might face;
*A chance we come together;
With hearts lighter than a feather;
*Writing this love letter, caressing rhymes;
Shared throughout lifetimes;
*For all times;
Joys unfold oftentimes;
*Shall we write together "letters" and "words";
Enchanted music meant for songbirds;
*O love of love lets us write nigh...
With all our hearts we will try;
*Come write with me, calvary so lets elaborate,
With true love, there is no reason to wait;
*Shall we, yes we will collaborate...
Let’s pen the date ~
*~Amber silents, daylight violets;
With a love like this, there is no violence
*Custom stares;
Whispers of what we dare;
*Love comes here;
Please bend your ear;
*Love is where there is caring faith;
It never believes of a wraith;
*Loves committed grace;
It gives back without a trace;
*A chance we come together;
Whatever the weather;
*Writing this love letter, caressing rhymes;
Never susceptible to any crimes;
*For all times;
Love for love mimes;
*Shall we write together "letters" and "words";
Never dividing our love into thirds;
*O love of love lets us write nigh...
Together, we can fly so very high;
*Come write with me, calvary so lets elaborate,
We were always meant to create;
*Shall we, yes we will collaborate...
There is simply nothing more to debate. ~
September 8, 2019
Let Us Collaborate a Love Verse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: James Edward Lee Sr.
…the seeds of neo-Nazism are germinating
Markus Nierth, former mayor of Tröglitz, Germany 2015
Germany’s rock candy windows and cookie like shingles make seeing the oven inside impossible. At first, the obsessive compulsive cleanliness of Nuremberg’s post-WWII streets is a joy. For a child of the melting pot, born after The Big One, it’s painful to recall the grimmer aspects of the Third Reich with their proposed eugenics. Nuremberg [rebuilt] roots in an elitist past hiding behind half-timbered houses of wattle and daub. Once the seat of the Holy Roman Empire seeped in power, then, a base for Hitler’s wunderkind rallies—now a soul-blighted bloom, a minor stop on the tourist trail.
Street walking pedestrians—the silent middle, staid, detached—stroll or bike along paths, immersed in white dreams. The pogroms of terror, stolen homes, and bridges made from Jewish Cemetery stones lie beneath layers of pristine paint and plaster. The Jews victimized for centuries, and the war trials, a mere subtext to tour guide chatter.
xenophobia
tamped down like an ash banked fire
waits to rise again
on a bellows breath of rage
spray painted on railroad cars
The site of my pilgrimage, The Palace of Justice—walled in panels of ashen mahogany—retains a dour mien. Judges, jurors and those to be tried, still use this hall. After-images of skeletal camp dweller and vain glorious generals rise wraith-like from the polished surfaces, paneling, pews, and copings. Greek God’s glower. A bronze crucifix castes judgment on all who pass: God fearing, or atheist. Justice is not present; horrors are not passed and conscience is now presented to the world as a fanatic in a suicide vest.
First Published in Artificium UK 2016
This poem comes from the outside.
A place where all art flows.
Below your feet from someplace
that everybody goes.
A ride to some that follow.
A place for those who care.
A heartbeat from the planet
and love for those who dare.
This galaxy that dances.
A doe See doe of life.
For those who would not follow,
a bearing made of strife.
A synchrony of watches.
A time-piece for a heart.
A melody if practiced.
The rules come out of art.
For some will say a cradle
that rocks you to an age.
While some would say a prison
to keep you in a cage.
The truth that we're apart of.
A pendulum of faith.
Where waiting is abound with
creation and his wraith.
Written: September 330, 2024 For Edward Ibeh Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A brown ribbon-like road with a blue sky.
A jungle of green, with the sky peeking high.
Asters are velvety rich, as a grasshopper's call.
Time flies—today is heat and tomorrow is fall.
Do you beguile me erratically, Hope?
The day of your birth has just waned.
But its white wings are full of scope.
With eyes that sang rhapsody, light reigned.
Grew bulky and bright and my path was clear.
Under their calming beams and smiles, dear...
A path going to some guilt-free land.
To which a star drops from the nightstand!
When did I leave the prisonhouse of clay?
My cantankerous spirit will vanish away.
We bestow all praise on the eternal elixir of bliss.
Oh, don't bury me amid rotting bones diss.
Amid a moon icy light, marble slabs shimmer.
Where a hapless mourner will always simmer.
Upon the graves of those who lie in peace.
While basking in the sun on a woodland lease.
Indulge in the September and fall faith.
September is unlike every other wraith
Colors and weather swing over the day.
No other month can claim the same way.
Season of hazy and luscious ripeness.
Loyal ally of the sun as it earns rifeness.
Crafting a scheme to load and bless him.
Vine-covered thatch-eaves surge, full of vim.
Using pears to twist the mossy home trees.
And yield every fruit its full, deep bloom breeze.
Inflate the squash and cram the hazel seeds.
With the tasty kernel, deeper buds will breed.
And further, later blooms for the bees.
Until they believe warm days will never cease.
The summer season has clogged their pores.
Who hasn't seen you often in your store?
For all the steps that were never taken;Dreams yet to be awaken
Moments that were never made;Memories that will never fade
Actions that went awfully wrong;Betrayer that made me strong
Questions left unanswered;Prayers that were never answered
Friends that turned foes;People that stepped on my toes
Enemies made in the neighborhood ;Friendship that turn into brotherhood
Lessons that were learnt;Emotional fight that got my heart burnt
Hate that almost tore me apart;Love that find it way to my heart
Words that were left unsaid;All the tears that were shed
Heart that were left untouched;Lives that were never touched
The eternal silence that got broken;The dooms that gave no token
Challenges that got my knees to the ground;Circumstances that turned my life around
Decisions that were made right;The darkness that turned into light
Waves of emotion that lasted for a while;memories that made me smile
Weaknesses that beget strength;Choices that went arms length
The restless and eager wraith;Fears that turned into faith
The sorrows that turned happiness;The joy that drove away sadness
Tears that turned into laughter;My life in a whole new chapter
I will go on living my life instead;My entire world that still lies ahead
Inspite of all the wrongs and threat;My life is that of no regret
Upon the hallowed ground past midnight sighs
'Neath trembling yews and tombstones cold and sere
Did I espy, as the tempest began to rise
A maiden clothed in spectral white appears
Her ghostly raiment danced upon the restless air
Her visage pale with sorrow finely drawn
Betwixt the graves she glided into our ghastly affair
Her presence enthralling as the coming dawn
Within her hand a missive she pressed
Gloved fingers clad in evening’s formal hue
She whispered with the wind, she, a soul distressed
“Seek thou the attic there thy fate is due”
Anon the gale did whisk her form away
(Formerly known as Mrs. Emily)
And left me alone to ponder till the day
Epilogue:
After this wraithlike wedding of our souls
I cannot abjure this vision
In my mind it rolls and rolls as it goes
The clinical sentence was pronounced,
perfumed with the devil’s royal scent ~
a relapse that smells
like an ethereal remedy
as every restless leaf abandons
its luscious green to the grave,
where her heartbeat
still sighs amidst the sleepless sunrise
beneath the loam,
where gloaming once, upon a blood moon,
homed the valiant vibratos
of her laughter,
yet if the only way to remember
is to remain unhealed,
as russet strings
of a violin ring through,
carrying sweet nightmares ~
held within the dusk
like beloved nightingales,
letting my inner calendar
return to circling the date
when she last breathed my name ~
O divine darkness,
let me fade until the face
of September’s stars wane
and phase the sorrow
into soundless torrents of
rehearsed requiems
until hurt sounds like a hypnotic hymn.
I swallowed, O Griefversary,
my penance through turning time,
the italicised letters
chronicling the chronic memoirs
while the tongue of trauma
prescribes crippling anxiety
into my thoughts,
I have long bottled
blurred hope
and summer sonatas,
with every memory crushed
like an autopsy listed as an accessory,
weaving words
borrowed from archived affections
as I leave line after line,
no longer aching
for the dark to understand that
my faith developed a stutter,
my pulse filed pleas for Prozac,
my ink confessed unseen panic,
my skin carried fingerprints
of midnight fears ~
and I still walk through
the black rose maze of memories,
around the season of
her irrevocable demise ~
September, the soulful wraith
of ghosts I love beyond death…