I sense something skulking in the woods
It is darker than dusk
I see nothing; the evening is silent
No rustling, no twig snap
I do not know how I know
But I know
I head for my house
Expecting to get pounced and eaten
Oh, death
You skulking bastard
Why doest thou hide
As life struggles
To be free of you
Escape your torment
And life
Why must you linger
On the edge of death’s scythe
Fading ‘neath the darkness
Of his rancid robe
Oh, life
We cling to thee
Yet still you fail us
And death’s
Ignoble presence
Cannot spare us
No rosebud should ever experience a seed of fear growing in them.
Quote by poet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seed of Fear
A cryptic shadow slithers
Across a moonlit floor
Past tea parties, glass slippers
And naïve unicorns
Wearing feather boas
To reawaken a seed of fear
Deeply planted
By ashes in driving downbeats
Of thick moonbeams
That penetrates artless innocence
In a requiem for mercy.
Paralyzed in a coma of terror
A rosebud hears
The strident flute song mount
To sing an epitaph for stolen magic
As it bursts from its calyx
On rotting moonbeams
Sowing repeated ebony nightmares
By the full moon
That whirl and spin
In shades upon the ceiling
And like a thorn
The pulsing root sinks embryonic genes
Deep into shivering petals.
In satisfaction the shade withdraws
With skulking footsteps,
Oblivious to the rosebud’s tears,
Leaving pure petals wilted
In muffled agony
The callow flower’s story
Told in silhouettes
Of shadows on a moonlit wall
Each moonlit night
A ravished garden
Watered by mangled tears
A eulogy grows for ever after
In an epitaph for innocence
Poetry is
A mish-mash of scattered words assembled into a cohesive formation allowed to march across the page to the beat of a different drummer and danced to by an errant passerby.
A smooth stirring of a simmering broth brought to a culinary conclusion leaving the mouth of the reader hanging agape.
A dark coated mystery skulking on the edges of each word stalking the unsuspecting reader
An hilarious visit to the loo
A venom-soaked rant raging about the ragged remorse of regret
A whispered toe tapping bed time story
A gathering of words in valiant attempt to assemble a cohesive thought capable of expressing the innermost feelings of a bewildered poet
The undefinable gift we call
POETRY
When I was coal you mined my soul
and treasure there you found:
a heart, stone cold, but solid gold,
was buried underground.
So long I hoped and blindly groped
for rescue by the brave;
from skulking fears and sour tears
that haunted my dark cave.
The sifters left my heart bereft
of airy thoughts and dreams;
in all their toil, neglected soil,
but splashed in barren streams.
The dirtied face of my disgrace
you polished with your sleeve;
your zeal above mere heartfelt love
in silken arms we'll weave.
My luster bright in dawning light
forever shall I owe,
to she who dug beneath my shrug
and found the golden glow.
A creature dwells behind me
Always lurking, skulking
Robed in shadows, waiting, hovering.
At times a ferocity of claws, shrieks -
Icy vice like grips plunging through me!
Others; a gnawing poisenous whisper...
...seeping slowing...
Through me. Again. Again.
Armour of rational thought and pragmatism/
Disintegrates upon his command.
Positivity swords rebound and shatter!
And so once more I slip, unnoticed,
Back - back - back
To his chosen lair.
there’s a lady dressed in rags and robes
she’s slowly skulking by the stones
of names and dates and faded mark
as mist and crows guide through the dark
she’s looking for her grave
a single bell helps set her tread
a steady toll of calling dread
beckoning eyes that chance upon
this ageless figure’s soul now gone
she’s looking for her grave
her mouth it holds a large round stone
that forced a blooded fractured bone
and shattered teeth and stayed her tongue
to threaten not those she’ll rise among
she’s looking for her grave
a witch they called her when alive
who’s words and spells brought all a strife
as village folk by stone they saw
to end her knives of blackened scorn
as each moon she leaves her grave
As The Rising Sun, The Dawn Came In Softly & Slowly;
&
So Did My Suffering.
Maybe Unexplained Or Unexpected Feelings;
Which Have Been Ignored;
A Sudden Melancholy Skulking In The Silence;
Awaiting The Arrival Of This Day.
The Days Have Regrettably Passed Since We Parted Ways;
About 4 Years Ago, & I Now Wonder If There Was Anything I Could Have Done;
I May Not Have Needed To Spend As Much Time In The Closet;
I Probably Need To Have Paid Closer Attention To How You Felt About Being Anonymous;
Or;
To Anything Else That Would Have Kept You By My Side;
I Am Sorely Missing You Right Now.
My Thoughts Are Hitting Barriers, & My Tears Are Falling Like Waterfalls;
All With Photographs Of You;
Including Your Wild Hairstyles;
Wild Kissing Technique;
All-Gleaming Beard;
Lovely Eyes;
Beautiful Voice;
Undetectable Abs;
&
Silly Smiles.
The Monotonous Music You Listened To In Your Place;
I Can Still Hear Them Playing In My Head From When I Visited;
I Still Occasionally Hear Them In My Brain;
Which Is Shocking, But I Genuinely Miss You & Those Awful Songs.
quick sight… caught
a creamy, frothy tail
skulking behind bins
caramel
this creeping tod
wry trickery, claw
prowl and sly, brazen
he's getting too brave
soon…
a knock on the door
i found it skulking
in a pile of broken poems
it glared at me accusingly
as if demanding that i read it
the more i read
the worse it got
i knew what I had to do
i had to edit
i had to edit the hell out of it
maybe with a sledgehammer
or an axe
relentlessly I persevered
chiseling out any trace
of punctuation and commonsense
the words were dying of exhaustion
by the time I got done with it
now i thought
now at last it is not the worst i ever wrote
but much more like
the second worst
When I was a child, outside of Christmas,
Halloween was my favorite time of year.
I loved crafting homemade costumes
from old rags to wear trick-or-treating in the neighborhood.
And yet, I got the most fun from carving
the scariest pumpkin my mind could conceive.
It was the only time I was allowed to wield a knife,
and I reveled in it—to me, carving pumpkins was an art.
Dad would drive me to a pumpkin patch,
where I'd pick out the perfect pumpkin:
worthy of my artistic talents.
And when I brought it home,
I'd start by slicing the top off my pumpkin
to gain access to its skull.
And with my hands, I'd scoop out its brains,
which felt mushy, gooey, slimy, and gross
while removing them to sculpt my Jack-o'-lantern.
Then, with an eye for the hideous, I'd prepare to carve.
Creating grotesque features—gouging out its eyes,
a deformed nose, and a toothy, grimacing smile.
When finished, I'd proudly present my monstrosity to Mom,
who'd light a candle and place it inside my gargoyle
then set it out on our stoop;
to guard against any evil demons
skulking in shadows on this All Hallows' Eve.
I don’t need to be told what I’ve seen
whether it’s real or a sinister scheme
I need a world where I know the rules
which we call wise which we call fools
Where the lines in the sand are a lot less hazy
and people agree on who people call crazy
But the lines in the sand have gone every which way
from the truth of obscurity growing each day
We’re a nation of leaders who’ve lost their way
where all are consumed of crescendoing fray
skulking in darkness on weakness we prey
leaving in question what’s lighting our way
This dreariness some are beginning to feel
the mental fatigue of discerning what’s real
Confusion and chaos have run us aground
far from the winds in our sails we had found
I don’t need to be told what I’ve seen
but I fear what I’ve found that remains of the scene
folks with no compass no maps and no guide
colliding in wastelands of deepest divide
Where is the ground upon which we can stand
steady behind the lines drawn in the sand?
For what shall we fight still united as one?
For what shall we die when it’s all said and done?
~Jeannie Cronin
"The wind is the pounding of my heart."
My scruples join the wind which hammering hard
can cause my pulse to race in constant onslaught
against the gales of greed and pride caught off guard.
My buckler, the Spirit, prods with pause for thought.
Foreknowledge of pending storms illumines doubt
preparing a path where my heart figures out
that I can add prayer's peace as further light
to clear the skulking shadow of jealous spite.
August 18, 2022
Author's Notes:
Constance LaFrance's sponsor
Writing Challenge - Let Your Muse Be Inspired - R Form Poetry Contest
I used the rispetto form, rhymed abab, ccdd, quote #3
The ground is white with powdery snow
Thankfully, I have no place I need to go,
The arctic north wind has ceased to blow,
I see one bird outside, a large black crow
He flexes his wings occasionally for show,
In yonder meadow stands a single doe
Despite the frigid cold, she’s wary of a foe,
The fox she saw skulking in a near hollow
All is peaceful, the atmosphere is mellow,
And I feel like an extremely lucky fellow.
Down pour of rain
velocity
skulking residues.
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