I awaken to the pitchy darkness covering my face
and I roll over to dig through the nightless dark.
I peep out hoping to find the warm sun; I sigh
and scurry back to the warmth of my bed
amongst the nuts and seeds we stored
and snuggle with brother and sister.
Tomorrow, I will try again.
I know it will come.
Just not when.
Could I simply call it hell?
Wherein every evil dwell...!
Does there ring a constant knell?
Don't matters midst men go well...?
Dormammu ruled Multiverse,
By bitterness turns a curse;
Strange, and yarrow-like itchy,
In which each cell gets pitchy...!
It's a game like games by gods,
When and where they win all odds;
Ant-man and wasps have been keen,
tricks of Kaecilius, seen...!
Rifts, trials, and tests, genuine,
Though seemed a heavenly sign;
Enters Wilkes in entire wrath,
Attacks sanctums in his path...!
Kaecilius breaks the spell,
Empowers himself as hell;
Beats, meters of mystic arts,
By this, does he break art hearts...???
Hooks and crooks, seen all around,
Rhythm does not round so sound;
In the dark, the world is drowned,
Will, now, Dormammu, get crowned...?
Umar, Clea, Piper Jack,
Like arrack-nuts soon get crack;
Lo, like the Constellations,
Frenzy freezes all nations...!!!
15 January 2023
Dark Dimension Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
black ...
as the vault,
those tresses
(your momma's ire),
and a universe beneath ...
smile to rival Sol
where hope dances,
and fearfully dark, those eyes -
a pitchy pool ever
deep enough to plunge ...
to swim through ...
to drown in,
(sadness disturbs its depths)
hips that toss killer
curves to any fool's gaze,
with a tempo to tame ...
and torture -
a sway to beguile the gods, themselves,
and transform a simple stride
into coy seduction …
oh, I'd give a galaxy of suns
to be your paladin ...
your Ferrix ...
your beloved
home.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, November 2, 2022
The grandfather clock solemnly struck two.
In the pitchy night, shadows seem to flit about.
I close my red rimmed eyes tight
Yet I can see all around me for sleep eludes me.
I lie on my bed like a dead crab on the hot sand,
not daring to move lest sleep evades me.
I imagine phosphorescent planes flying over fallow fields:
This is not a night dream that conducts to slumber.
For dreams can be soothing, this is anything but.
Almost dark despair as my tired eyes are wide awake.
I shut my eyes and imagine red full blown sails
weaving their way in a rubicund sunset
towards their berthing quays.
How quick they arrive and I am sleepless.
I think of you, dazzling and lovely,
covered in golden sand....like the crab.
No, no this does not work much for me.
The grandfather clock struck six.
Did I miss a beat? Did I sleep?
I don't know, I feel like the dead crab.
What would I do if there were only one of me
and not this raucous house on sky high stilts
shouting Fe Fi Fo Fum
rooster proud and peacock pitchy
like Baba Yaga, with her chicken legs
but many more mice,
and they are all writing this poem
from inside a giants eye?
What if this was my last brew, last blow,
last blathering?
What if this was my last poem,
unfinished, tragically abandoned
because of some unforeseen poxy palsy
that splits my cranium open
letting all the air out?
Would I be content, or bent backwards forever?
No not content, not content at all, no indeed not.
What good would high stilts do me then
and how many blind mice
must be beheaded in order to gag
a never ending last breath?
I think I smell some blood in a still chewing cud.
What if this were the only poem in the world
tattered, incomprehensible, and soiled as it is,
why then, I would be just one, only one,
and that would not do - not do at all
or perhaps…
Cicada shell needed discarding, fast
Desperately ready for what she will become
Stepping rapidly out of her pitchy past
Towards freshness, her chance to succumb
Wavered mirage solidified as suitable man
Opportunity usually slashed with cruelty
Sigrid's vehemence needed a complete ban
Skin uncovered to reveal her new duality
Kind intentions filled fault lines, offered aquit
Approaching face to face day stirred her
Softer side on show, finally primed to submit
Pleas to release rancid shield heard her
New page turning requires vibrant virgin title
Her odd request, capable Ace conjured
Renewed endurance from Libby arises vital
Crowned with liberation, love pondered
Dazzling effect flung her mortality's motions
Scope to partake in romance unafraid
Libby's demeanor walks as waterfall, potion
Christens her effusive decision made
17th September
cloistered in this dark chamber
a somber muse keeps me captive
ringed in by gloomy colors
obscured inside her pitchy tower
a somber muse keeps me captive
with only a pen and paper
obscured inside her pitchy tower
i write poetry for my captor
with only a pen and paper
dressed in umber i stay active
i write poetry for my captor
and play a part in her theater
dressed in umber i stay active
i write for you her reader
and play a part in her theater
cloistered in this dark chamber
* this muse (she) could just as well be male (he) :-)
Writing in pitch-dark pitchy begin
Upon the stroke of silent pen
Touches my words across the night sky
Where me inner self meets a spirited lullaby
Silent space is a lonely place
Where altar sits in poet grace
Night sweats; pearls of sweet verse hone
As I cradle and nurture in golly forest home
An owl calls goodnight hoot
The vista of darky shadows across the woods salute
While scribbling lyrical in darkness peep
Poetic drift, rush past, looking deep
Writer man licked in night-time dew
Shedding sleep dust to the dusky view
To sound of rhymes, the scripter re-awaketh
The wellspring of motivation for the Midnight Poet
.
I dance in desperate movements,
stepping on toes as I go
Spinning out of control as faces grimace in my wake,
changing scenery like mirrored ball illusions,
tiny reflective squares, blinding as they move
Still you stare, questioning gazes,
not making eye contact
but sensing my heart through the song…
playing in steady repetition
Fingers in your ears for fear
that it might touch you
in rhythmic hypnosis, shining pendulums
swinging in reverse tempo, challenging these feelings
you hold but still can not admit the lyrics
Prideful walls of bricked fortitude
built around your emotions sing of
locked entryways and barred windows
and It seems I have lost the key
Misplaced along out of tune wavelengths
while pitchy corridors of doubt
fill in the shadows of this that I desire
Still I extend a hand, “would you care to dance?”
Dark eyes squint as you focus, looking beyond the bandstand,
finding mistakes of the past playing in three quarter time,
heading towards the stage door exit,
tapping your toe in cadence with the drummer
who now stops…along with the beat of my heart
I am john kunno
Drums dancing on Christmas morning,
Breaking the silence
That bans my tongue from telling troubles here;
Masking my face
And the new identity forming before your eyes;
Dancing pitchy-patchy
Distracting you as the devil's whip draw near;
I am john kunno
From slave barracks memory, from huts
Far away in Africa forgotten by mutilation.
I am john kunno
A child dancing in sorrows with jubilation.
As long as I wear
This mask, this clothes that is not me
I john kunno have no past, no history.
I am john kunno
Breaking the silence with drum forged liberty.
How good to be in a
countryside,
Where there is full of
laughter;
Chirping birds,folklore
stories,
Where there is freshness
in
the soil;
Tall trees magnificiently
grown,
Untendered
flowers blooming wildly.
Ways
are narrow,pitchy path,
Yet give an exquisite
pictureque;
Mountains and vales
with misty clouds,
Carried away by the azure
sky;
Where your mind gives
room,
For peace and freedom of
thought.
How good to be in a
countryside,
Where evening never
passes
without gatherings;
Where you can hear
sopranos,
Never makes you feel
tiresome;
With same enthusiasm
you
open your eyes,
For another cheerful
day
Wanting the hands of time to turn back,
Just so I can have one last try.
I want to hear the perfect
Pitchy
Proud voice sing.
I want to listen to every empty promise.
You’re the one who ran,
But I’m the one who cried.
You wanted to be free,
Like the Beatles wanted to let it be.
Not knowing where you are makes it hard.
Knowing you know
Where I am
Makes it hell.
I try not to miss you,
But I do.
Because every time I look in the mirror
I hurt and long to be near you.
My sister, my friend.
My guide till the end.
I miss you.
~The sun sizzles on the horizon
like a fried egg in a cast iron skillet.
Yellow yolk bleeding across the treetops.
Semi-solid seeping across the backlit hardwood forest.
The dusky branches of maple and blue black pitchy pines
dress in liquid light, a sailors warning…
The air, wool muffler thick, smothers the early eve.
Drought burns the landscape and the wilt is on the lilac.
Gnats flitter, lighter than the dense layers of ashen evening.
Sucking creatures invade the weakness in branch, leaf and man.
And so the malaise of August continues
into night gasping~
Genuflecting specks of passion, stupored,glistening
waltzing gel of probing and probed, simmering
yet tranquil in streams on plateau milky whites,
each rivulet wailing its tale rosy ballad sung,
spasmodic staccato on pitchy highs
volcano erupts hot and high
the writing intensifies etched deep
air is filled with stifled and escaped gasps,
yet neighbors do not seem to arise
faces flushed with oxygen,
blood rushing in good gather
closely entwined they tether
vines riding on each other
sometime this one and at other that
the royal tumble is an intense rumble fumble
victorious apparent is a loser all right
won the fight but lost marrow juice anon
the winner takes it all, bitten lips and contorted (sic)
gleefully smiling draining the juice of the lemon
guess she is royally consorted and orgasmic!
A froth of turquoise topped waves
pummeled the lava stone
grinding asphalt-black slabs into bits which hugged the waters edge.
Skeletal shards of white coral were scattered
amongst the dried, scorched after birth.
Relentlessly, the ocean pounded
leapt with a jet-engine roar into the air.
Balancing droplets of salt water
upon lichen covered shelves and prominences of pitchy rock
Growth in the cauldron of the Crone.
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