morose depressive
meet you on the river styx
sure said optimist
they met at the bonfire
faces lit and lively against this light
both looked better after dark
we watched the show unfurl
they were oblivious to the rest of us
drawn to each other like cats to flames
alley cats that is
we made jokes about it
laughing too loudly
for we had beer and we were not used to it
October football had confused us
we were not ourselves
but neither were they
the bonfire laughed as the trickster that she is
with her yellow, red and orange flames popping
a matchmaker from the River Styx
Our life is as evanescent as the
trumpet flower of the morning glory.
The merest chapter in the history
of mankind’s ever compelling story.
Various serendipitous ramblings
ultimately contingent ‘on quarry;
retold to captive audience in tones
melodious as silver-tongued lory.
Redolent of an evening-scented stock,
with a crown of wispy hair as hoary,
we insist to recount all endeavours
in its minute shocking details: gory.
An experience that's unsavoury –
remnants that cross river Styx in dory.
Poetic form: XAXA Sonnet. See my article, Introducing Three New Sonnet Forms, here on PS for more details. Also, a 'Summary of Metres' is depicted.
In the shadows of the Montezuma mountains there lies an ethereal river
Ancient Greeks knew of it, and wrote legends, many which are lost.
She is the River Styx. Where your soul travels beyond flesh death.
It is a silent river; no words are exchanged. There is a somber feeling.
A hushed atmosphere as boats carry away newly returned souls.
An empath might hear the whisper of the paddles gliding in the water.
Gaia listens as the water is dipped, and souls return to the underworld.
I stand in the swamp by the riverbank
clutching a coin I have stolen
as my heart still beats within my breast
It is only my spirit
that has slipped away
to await the ferryman of Acheron
Charon who
skillfully pilots his skiff
from there to where it flows
into Styx
He arrives and I pay the price
He places the coin in his pocket
and grabs hold of the pole
pushing away from the shore
as I lay indolent with lament
in the bottom of the boat
the icy chill of the water
seeping through the wood
Shivering I stare at the stars
silently weeping
remembering the many wishes
I made on them that went unrealized
unheard
for the Gods must have
found me unworthy
Cerberus will step aside to admit me
heads snarling
as the snakes on his back writhe
Hades will welcome me
Or he may hand me over
to be judged by Aeacus
and plunged into the pit of Tartarus
for my many sins
to be tortured for eternity
starved and beaten
my liver eaten by birds
May he have mercy on me
this sorrowful lost soul
for all I ever wanted
was to dance
carefree and content
to the music of miracles
in the golden flower filled
Elysian Fields forever
with you
Below indigenous herds of species’
Soft stampeded tramplings,
Profound caves water rivers underground.
Roots grow their nether forests
Down to a shadow fathom depth of earth.
Tendrils leaf out only tuber leaves of dirt.
Flooded backs of charcoal catacombs
Snake like water moccasins through
Aquifers to rise disguised as springs and wells.
Here there is a bargeman who
For pennies holding eyelids down
Will help you to forget
Vaguely chambered
Urges of the heart.
Alone on the river Styx
untouchable by experience
in reach of warm safety
a reward constantly carroting
the current icy morrow
my solo journey
exciting lack
grey and without embrace
without redemption
without nature
away from god
While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
from branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
with dangling pearls and diamond studs in dripping crimson clots,
midst gaping wounds and bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
for wrapped like rope around your throat’s the Reaper’s grim garrote.
"It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God." (Matthew 19:24)
Oh waiter
at the river styx,
striking down the might and meek.
Thou scythe
is camped outside my door;
waiting...
as with us all.
To take the good ahead of schedule.
Forming a crossroad
Between the living
And the dead
Down this river
To the world of evil
Darkness appears
Ravens flying near
The reaper comes fourth
And take souls from the north
Putting them in pain
Making them go insane
Feasting upon there souls
Making there hearts, turn to coal
This is where the dead roam
And call there place home
The golden eagel's
Sharp talons
Jack-knifed into
The River Styx
Catching prey
For her nesting
Young eaglets
Tonight, the
Elevator doors
Open and close,
Satan believes
Down is up and
Up is down
We all fall
Fall deep
Unto the
River Styx
Young branches of
The sycamore tree,
Brushes the pastel blue sky
Then, I released these magic stones into
The hands of the sky, and
Witness the ripple reflection of
The ancient River Styx
With headphones, to escape in wordless song
From the clammy claustrophobic, squeezed mass
A grinding stop and sliding doors open
The rush of cool air, and the exodus
The sound of diesel engines and bus brakes
The smell of exhaust and stale urine floats
Large flocks, divided by streetlights, spread forth
Peeling into vast canyons, left and right
The endless broken conversations hum
With invisible listeners afar
Eyes straight ahead and never in focus
Unseeing and anonymously vague
A taxi’s horn, the door sliding open
A destination given and silence
Kaleidoscopes of imagery pass by
Before halting at the entrance to Hell
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