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Best Poems Written by Priscilla Settanni

Below are the all-time best Priscilla Settanni poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Storm

Tilt back your head and cry havoc.

As blood and bone twine beneath your skin,
overlaid, with a kind of raw madness,
that has you running to the storm.

Tilt back your head and cry havoc.

Twisting, Turning, Tearing, those winds
from out the shrieking void come.
Echoes of the things you lost trailing in their wake.

Tilt back your head and cry havoc.

The gale sweeps down, and you rush to meet it.
The cruel, cold, cut of the rain strikes your face,
and in the blind despair of the would-be dead, you let it.

Tilt back your head and cry havoc.

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Bite

Teeth fastened in his throat,
Claws buried in his side,
Blood gushes out of your mouth.
As he falls to the floor,
You pray he understands
You had no other choice.
This was always how this story was going to end.

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After the War

Happily ever afters are for fairytales, 
But this?
This comes so close to one it aches. 
The scars you bear will not disappear,
The nightmares that grip you may never fade away,
And the things you've lost will never be replaced
Yet, 
Despite all that,
You survived.
And that, 
That is a triumph which no God or mortal may ever tear from your grasp.
So struggle upwards on your shaking legs.
Drag air into your heaving lungs.
Raise up your tear stained face and scream out at life,
I am here! 
I am alive!
And you will not break me!

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Glory and Madness

They were twisting, shaking, breaking,and
mad.
The shattering of their minds went unseen,
and unheard.
They were the lost generation.
Spilling the remnants of their tattered souls,
out along with their whiskey.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
And from what they had failed to do.

The women in their knee length dresses,
dancing like they were warding off death.
The men in their spats and suit,
drinking like they wanted to drown.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed  to do.

They had gone to war,
raced to it with burning hearts
and open arms. Ready for glory,
and greeted with death.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

They lost something there.
In the trenches, on the fields.
Among the barb wire and the blood.
Something they never regained.

They were running, 
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

Then, when it was over, 
they were sent home.
Either lauded as heroes,
or mourned as them.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

The war followed them back.
It found them in every shadow.
In every sudden noise.
In every sharp move.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
And from what they had failed to do.

So they ran.
They ran to speakeasys, to dance halls, to back alleys.
They ran to drugs, to liquor, to people.

They were running,
running from what they had done,
and from what they had failed to do.

They ran themselves to death, 
And now? 
Their lives are all so much madness and glory on the wind.

Details | Priscilla Settanni Poem

Icarus Rising

Little boy with eyes of
cloudless-sky-blue.

Hands lifted to trace trails
in imagined aether.

Climbing, climbing, climbing,
a boy no longer.

His father, bent over his drafting table,
bringing forth mammoth birds
of titanium and steel.

His dreams haunted by man-made wings, 
bearing him upward, ever upward.

Climbing,climbing,climbing,
a boy no longer.

Five-Ten-Fifteen-Twenty
academy, airforce, fighter pilot.

Dreams shifting, with sleepless nights
spent grasping for his future of flight.

Upwards, into the sky,surging forward.
Over mountains and deserts,
grazing his fingers against the sun.

Climbing, climbing, climbing,
a boy no longer.

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Warmth

Icy lace scrawled across the window,
Four star bright eyes looking out,
One pair lit with sleep addled child's curiosity,
Another alight with kitten-ish mischief.

A hand reaches lazily toward the chilled glass,
A soft paw is raised to gently bat it down,
Soft fur and cold frost, and 
The smile of a boy and the purr of a kitten.

09/04/19
3

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Fall

Leaves of crimson fall,

Cold wind cuts through woolen coats,

Winter following.

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Maybe An Angel

The sun, like liquid gold fell
upon her shoulders.
Her hair,a shade of wet crimson,
spilled down her back.
Her eyes, like fire lit amber,
gazing out at the world.
Right then,
you could've sworn,
she was heaven in high heels.