Blood from blood, bone from bone,
Under the partially eclipsed moon of a burgundy-red sky,
A murder of crows gathers on the barren carcass of branches,
Whilst mist clings to a chipping tombstone.
Hardened petrichor shifts ever so slightly,
Awaiting the awakening of revenge incarnate.
The witching hour is almost upon us;
Noir-cloaked figures emerge from the passing shadows.
A High Priestess holds firm an ancient Book of Shadows.
As the metaphysical clock strikes two,
Yellowed pages frantically flip to an incantation.
The underlings take their positions at the four corners,
While she takes her place in the center.
Chanting the passage simultaneously, resurrection is forthcoming,
As shrivelled nightshade blooms to ritualistic life
And the paramount witch returns from her unsettled slumber.
The Wheels of Dharma turn in their favour.
Scorched lands and vengeance follow,
As Armageddon ushers in a new era.
Death approaches
We have no regrets
Dreaming improbable dreams.
Reality betwixt the unfeeling
Monuments souring unhindered.
No longer enslaved slaves
Thinking the unthinkable
To be what we truly feel
Tears that can’t be cried
For pathways to the unknown
Soft velvet sparks so subtle
Teardrops fall in puddles,
Weary eyes forge forward
Forlorn ekphratic meandering
The pain as its vile pungency
Scorns the soul of the angelic
Drives goodness to the brink,
Mighty swords flow protests
To the unyielding winds of time
To defiantly stand up to demons
For a valid worthwhile cause
As the lyrics of memoirs spill
And gazes turn to wonder,
Amid lonely nights of fear
With only love unblemished
If not ourselves what can we be?
Untold ethics to be true.
To ease our savage thoughts
claiming not fame nor fortune
this be our claim to fame.
Doing it our way evermore,
The righted wrongs unsaid.
When God questions us,
We will stand erect.
This was utterly stunning
Held on the petals tongue
Twisted Machiavellian
Acid rain in neon-lit carmine
Ineffable lyrics: sum41
Grapevine entwined the mead mind
Rapid rhyme mainline propane
Fuse-lit C4-paint-explosives
Interpretation may vary
Melting behind every word
Jellyfish pulsing through
Pushed unexplored avenues
Stork dropping off an award
Blues scale toward the top
Fingertips slide without warning
Solo-bass drop within drumsticks
Dripping water from a flask
Walking hexes cloudy dishes
Mirrors fractured pieces whirling
Framing fractal front seats
Past mistakes remembrance
Olive branches infect organs
Pulse systematically
Pixels dissolve surfaces
Birthing surreal fantasy
A dandelion
protruding sidewalk cracks
filthy air
most rotten of cities
A hummingbird
flitting face-to-elephants-face
tiny
delicate chirps
The acacia
belittled by oaks through storms
bending easily
leaves unsupervised
Take a deeper look
and the lines will appear
backwards to forwards
realization
Tall and stealthy
stranded in lonesome
resiliently surpassing rose gardens
the dandelion
Fierce and courageous
now eye-to-eye
self assured pecks intimidating its peer
the hummingbird
Stability and boldness
leading skies dance
roots so firm refusing to break
the acacia tree
Cleaning the dust never ends,
There is always a girl in a wardrobe,
Who does not let go of your hand,
There is always a girl in a museum
who does not look at Matisse and Cézanne,
There is always a girl in a garden
Who steals apricots and oranges,
Cleaning the dust never ends,
There is always a cat on a pink chair
Who yawns seeing you happy,
There is always a blue cat in yellow sheets,
Who waits for someone to stroke him a hundred times,
A young cat in trouble who thinks
to the mango that you covet.
Cleaning the dust never ends,
A wild orchid asks for water and love,
A wild orchid is still waiting
May a poet change his life and color,
It is enough for Matisse to comb flowers
To remove the dust from the world, that
Grapes in the fruit basket.
Shape of the mouths
Silence of the footsteps
Harmony of the tears
Firmness of the handshakes
Emptiness of the buffet
Declare:
Were they in love or in need.
In scales of steel, the city sleeps
Where dragon laws in darkness creep
The streets are veins of ancient stone
Where freedom's blood has long been flown.
The towers pierce the smoky sky
Like claws that grasps and never die
The people move with careful pace
Under eyes that watch each secret place.
Through gates of fire, the rulers pass
Their shadows cast in endless glass
Where every breath must be confessed
And dreams themselves are put to test.
But deep within the burning core
A spark remains that dares ignore
The chains of law, the weight of might
And whisper still endless light.
Ancient poems resurrected and recited
From the murky depths of history,
You hold, against your breast,
The fresh warmth you now perceive.
I tell you tales of my youth
Of day and night, dawn and twilight.
Alive still in my beating, aching heart,
And now held in my hands to reveal.
You ask me to start from within myself
As I recite these vivid scenes.
I feel still, loneliness when you don’t notice
I’ve shared my sacred dreams.
Moonlight’s bright tonight.
Let’s go outside and play
In the streets of the city.
Morning’s far away.
We’ll dance in the streets,
Race under the stars,
Staring into the eyes
Of oncoming cars.
They’ll tell us their wisdom
In archetypical style
Of the roles that we play
And if we survive.
The dogs of the city,
They howl and they fight,
Then fortune they share
For our hungry delight.
When morning comes early
With its fresh silken dreams,
We shake off the dust
Of what we have seen.
We’ll feel the warm sun
Wake our guarded souls,
To feed us again
As we make our way home.
Our lives have been spent
Living other’s requests.
Now is the time
For our own conquests.
The streets of the city
Are daring and sheer.
Come with me now.
Experience no fear.
Do the leaves of our cups also turn yellow ?
The rooms of green grass collect cobwebs
From the Kafkaesque vermin, fly away cuckoos
Questions galore in the river's tide and ebb
____________________
September 5, 2025
Gondola was prepared to welcome you
You desired the white clouds instead
A void settled on the palm of my hand
The bird too couldn't unfold its wings
_________________
5 September 2025
The hat hangs on the wall,
not as a relic,
but as a witness—
to mornings that began before the sun
had made up its mind,
to arguments with weather
and the quiet pacts signed in sweat.
Below, the boots—
faded, cracked, obedient,
still loyal to the shape of a man
who walked with purpose,
even when purpose was
just getting through the day.
They are not symbols,
though we make them so.
They are not sacred,
though we treat them gently,
as if disturbing them
might sever the bond
that holds the past
to the present.
And yet—
the window is open.
The light is not wistful,
but new.
The boots do not mourn.
The hat does not sag.
They wait,
as all things wait
for the next hand,
the next step,
the next story
to begin.
Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.
The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral spirits.
The silence of the night breaks, with chants of *Burn the witch* filling the void.
Leering eyes and foaming mouths scream obscenities my way.
But even among this fanatic freakshow, I hold on to my dignity.
I do not let them see the fear festering beneath my eyes,
nor does my lip quiver.
With insurmountable strength, I hold my head high
as I watch the torches preparing to set me ablaze.
Closing my eyes one final time, I breathe in everything I have ever held dear.
Memories flood—of loves lost and gained,
of the changing seasons,
of my connection to this glorious earth.
I can feel the flames licking at my feet now.
But I will not scream,
for my resurrection will come soon enough.
The Printers clipped her Dash—
And caged her Breath in Chains—
Yet Time—
its Lantern flickering—
Restores what none can name—
They pressed her Thunder flat—
But Silence wove the Wild—
One Century—betrayed—
Another—keeps the Fire—
The Raggedness they could not mend
Fulfills her single Desire—
She would not sell her Storms—
Yet—
Time perceives—
Dashes leap the narrow Page—
Where Songs could never bow—
Letters she sent—
To Sue—so near—
Held beyond the Press—
In twine between the Lines—
Her Voice—untitled still—
Dwells in Quiet Rooms—
Waiting for the Lantern
To scatter Hollows—
Ink may fade—
Fingers cut—and bend—
But jagged Breath survives
Where Silence will not end—
Storms were never meant for Shelves—
But for the Open Sky—
The walls are closing in & the air is getting thinner. Where can I go to escape the walls of life and breath air that is not so thin? What is it that is holding me back? I can go anywhere I want. Getting to the abundance of air is what I seek. Oh what is it holding me down? Is it me or is it the life I live. You see we are the ones that sit on our on chest. So why do we try and protest?
Specific Types of Symbolism Poems
Definition | What is Symbolism in Poetry?