Phobic Poems | Examples

KILLER ON THE LOOSE

I
abhor
the way that
you’ve silently
stalked me in my house
I have begged you to leave
But you steadfastly refused
I’ve just found you in my bedroom
I’m rooted to the spot in terror
And yell so loudly my son rushes in

 
Help!
I scream.
My son looks
At my white face.
He bravely squares up, 
corners the intruder
then pounces like a cat.
“Gotcha”! He says in triumph
As he captures the small spider
“You are safe to move again now mum”
How I hate being arachnid phobic!

Shower Puff

Shower Puff

My shower puff is
a news phobic.

Life Preserver

Escaping the depths of the murky lake,
leg-kicking upward in frantic haste,
arms grasp for purchase
in what surely will be my watery grave.
Head breaks the surface,
lungs gulp for precious air,
burning, aching subsides,
drown-panic-dying moment passes.
Another failed attempt by me
to prove I am not aqua phobic.
So reminiscent of our years together
as I flail in the waters of regret
for sticking with you
for better or worse – mostly worse,
suffocating from my fear of you.
You stand on the shore 
of Lake Verbal Abuse
while I flounder
in the depths of inadequacy,
never doing enough to please you.
I don my mental life vest,
swimming away from your cruel intentions.
Embracing the water’s cool surface,
its buoyancy, its life-giving waves,
I float my way to freedom —
if only in my mind.

Flaccid Fleet

Gluggy margarine marine grips keels
        Apex sun spreads sickly circle of lard
        Plugged lungs, gust momentum marred
        Strait elongates co-ordinate, pace killed


        Gliding knife grease fixed current kestrels
        Impotent motor pendulums drowsy matelot
        Exhonerating tranquillity served seas slow
        Exoteric tampers spatula flat vapid vessel


        Crusading armada cruise aquatic canyon
        Rigid crucifix mast meanders evangelical
        Illusive land sinks split quills, sodalite inkwell
        Top-gallant swallowed, whale snack plankton


        Inert surrender line honours, hundred strong 
        Quelled by existence Earth centric
        Universe of solar centre offensive 
        Encourages complacent latent symposium

 
        Rigging ties tradition to methods regaled
        Order drifts on brittle fine line filament
        Oceanic only planet confirms familiar 
        Moribund remains phobic, slick oil sailed




                 18th February
               Fear of Anarchy 

         GAPS GIVE CRITIQUE ROOM

Skills

I've never learned to change a tire.
It's not a skill I wish to acquire.
If stuck I'm always going to hire..
Also, can't change my car's oil,
perhaps I was a bit spoiled.
Cooking I botch, even with foil..
Couldn't dance til I took aerobics.
I've always been math a phobic.
Don't have the patience to be stoic..
There's just one skill I'd like to hone,
speak Chinese on the phone, so
telemarketer's will leave me alone...

Sweeps Her Broom

Weaving the literary loom
Words marry, blends warp and weft;
Fell in love a splendid groom
Soon his death leaves her bereft,
In haste writes of worldly broom.

She wrote of flame on chilly nights
Old men reliving the war;
Victims all of infinite fights
Witness the scars on faces they wore
How they jest to shroud phobic plights.

Life began a thread from the womb
Now her misdeed that of old?
She sits in her lonely room
Case of dementia, we are told
A silhouette of life’s long bloom.
 
© Harry J Horsman 2022

Insane Jealousy-A Monotetra

Jealousy is a ball and chain 
 worn by those who always complain
  Blah, blah, blah in echoed refrain
   With such disdain   With such disdain

What does this person hope to gain?
 One like this will never hold reign
  When pessimism is their bane
   Shamefully vain    Shamefully vain

Something's off-kilter in the brain
 Perhaps they drank too much champagne
  Have a noodled mind of chow Mein
   They can't be sane    They can't be sane

This phobic one must feel the strain
 Lack of love fills a heart with pain
  With pretense they righteously feign
   Harsh words, inane    Harsh words, inane

Genre Phobic

Closed mind open mouth,
running and shutting yourself out
of so many wonderful beats;
All those voices full of fire,
but it’s always the wrong genre;

Closed mind open mouth, 
it never quite fits in the box 
of what you’re dressed up to be;
You could be watching them smolder,
but it’s always the wrong genre;

Closed mind open mouth, 
putting everyone and everything down; 
You end up looking like a clown; 
So much rhythm, joie de vivre
but it’s always the wrong genre; 

Closed mind open mouth 
it’s too much for you to handle; 
There is no category or label;
You could just feel that thunder, 
but it’s always the wrong genre;

The sound could be straight up sick, 
can’t hear it because you’re Genre phobic.

Wispy River

I cherish your dreary safe house; I share your cover trick. 
The nightfall apparition is unmistakably pitiful, not majestic. 
Alone, yet not the only one, I walk around my sorrow phobic 
Almost when a heron offers a final chance, it is laded with panic.
The maelstrom witch hurls an illuminated usurper mystic.



Written: August 25, 2021

Finding My Break Point

On days such as this
When all lessons seem lost
I wander the forgotten labyrinth of my mind
Unable to recollect a single detail of it's construct
So many secrets lost I may never regain
The resulting numbness keeps the pain at bay
Beauty also is kept just out of sight
An adverse effect of the Universe's need for balance
The agony I felt that night was beyond my capabilities to bear
I sit alone in this cold hell
My strength became my weakness
How I hate a cliché
The belief that no obstacle exists that I cannot overcome
Causes the strength and comfort I need
From those I hold most dear
Heartbreakingly, absent
I am not in the least overly self-critical
But I have only recently acquired knowledge 
Known to so few
Self-awareness brings pain
Equally, it comforts
Unfortunately 
My human nature
Without acknowledging the benefit
Frequently allows the hurt to overshadow any peaceful haven
Doomed to remain hidden
I seek stillness yet allow chaos to reign
My fears have turned phobic
Paralyzed 
I choke on the essence of tomorrow
As my spirit rages
Demanding a freedom only remembered in
Whispers of forgotten dreams

02/2021

Thew Russians Are Coming

The Russians are coming.
Listening to Portuguese Tv, there is talk of a third wave
of the coronavirus, it is not a wave that flattens out like the calm sea.
It will strike when people get careless and insist on celebrating
X. mass (Jesus can do without his birthday for once) can you?
Then there is the pesky New Year, food, alcohol and dancing
oblivious of the virus that is looking in ready to strike.
The best we can do is to wear a mask, stay indoors and 
If you must have a drink with Facebook or the skype.
The Russian has a vaccine that is good and powerful but
we are so Russia phobic we think of lies told by the press
that extoll an American vaccine that the makers of the
the vaccine is not sure of if it really works.
Coronavirus has become politics, and that is gloomy
For us all.

A Limerick a Day Keeps the Virus Away

There was a shrink whose name was Pink
he loved to read and in books sink
A virus phobic case
at night went to his place
The shrink in sink searching a link.

Hydrophobic

HYDROPHOBIC

This man was from desert Arabic,
had child’s mind behind face cherubic.
As an adult he was free,
but never went to the sea,
for he was born a hydrophobic.

When needed to cross the Atlantic
by ship, he sank in bout of panic.
Lost faith in fate he could find,
mastered strength in phobic mind,
for the ship was not the Titanic.

July 31, 2019
Syllable count : 9/9/7/7/9
Checked on howmanysyllables.com

Newspapers

Newspapers 
 
 I read a few people read the newspaper anymore
I have in the shed the English written publication going back
twenty years also have some copies of the Guardian
which no longer sell their broadsheet abroad.
Regarding the local newspaper that first was run by a Canadian
It was fun to read they even printed my eccentric views
but it has – the paper- gone down it 
is aimed at the affluent
and those who play golf and the little they have of news
is invariable right winged and that is sad, and I think of any more
good dammed self-satisfied than the English community here
but the paper has its use some supermarkets give it away
for free and it is an excellent way to lit the fire in the winter.
But I lament the passing of the Guardian as broadsheet it was
more liberal than it is now and it wasn`t Russia-phobic
I read the Guardian in line every day as it is their politics 
and their harping harridans aside a good newspaper.
But I`m getting off the point which is that what is written
on papers endures what’s on internet Internet disappears in a cloud.

The Iron Lung

The Iron Lung

Haunting in the shadows from the Fifties' years
turning up for unexpected shock,
why does it recapture all my hidden fears,
whether having known its ways or not?

Panic pulsates deeply in the iron lung,
phobia that swells from feet to neck.
Man and machine working as a rhythmic one,
encasing all but head to chasten death.

Huge, steel, 800 pound, drum respirator,
imagine a hundred crowded in a room.
Many once depended on this life saver.
Without the giant monster, they’d be doomed.

The sight of it was used in cheap subversive ads
by a world so vile that scared some little kid
into receiving polio shots they had to have
or face the suffocating fate that others did.

Dark pictures live in furrows of my mind
with the onset of no other phobic blow.
The helpless sight of someone so confined
may be the frightful truth that vexes so.

8/13/17

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