Pitchy Poems | Examples

Torpors

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.

Dark Dimension

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

Bix

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

A Dead Crab

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.

Fe Fi Fo Fum

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…

Libby Was Christened

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

Muse: a Pantoum

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) :-)

Midnight Poet

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

Lost the Key

.

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

John Kunno

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.

Countryside

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

I Miss You

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.

A Sailor's Warning

~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~

She Is Royally Consorted and Orgasmic

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!

Hawaii /Cauldron of the Crone 2002

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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