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Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
              …stirred her iron ***,

Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot,
             …home of death and rot,

Abigail Primpot sewed and stitched a lot.
She produced a sweater that shined like treasure,
                           …and no one else has ever seen much better!

Abigail Primpot learned to cook from old wives’ tales in an old dusty book.

Frog legs, bird gizzard, wolf’s bane, small lizard, one rotten apple and one sharp tooth, …cup of mead, some spices and a bottle of vermouth, a chant and a song and a wizard’s spell, …and a whirlpool in the cauldron that went to Hell! Abigail Primpot likes to stitch ‘cause she is a witch and though she was quite young; she lived with snakes, bees and scorpions and things that stung!

Abigail Primpot would become a Beast when she wrapped herself in her shining fleece!

Abigail Primpot,
              ...her home stunk of death and rot,
Abigail Primpot,
              ...sewed and stitched a lot,
Abigail Primpot,
              ...she had an iron ***,

Abigail Primpot,
Abigail Primpot.
A children's rhyme. The beast, the golden fleece and webbing are all ancient mythological cosmogonical symbols of the rotating stars of heaven. New Mythology
Abigail, Abigail, keeps haunting me
I don’t remember when it started
Has to be the first seed of love
That planted Abigail in my heart
And etched it there for good….
In Martha I saw Abigail, in Ethel
In them all I chased Abigail
They were good, all of them
Flawless, spotless, free from blame
Lovable, dependable, transparent….
Yet I kept seeking Abigail
With a hallucinatory torment!
Did ever my eyes touch her once?
In a dream woven with fleeting romance
Or her face shone once in the moon
And melted as dew drops in the dazed dark!
Abigail my perpetual phantom
I neither get her nor fathom
I age, Abigail is ageless
Always there, but beyond embrace!
Matthew Walker Sep 2013
It’s on nights like these
You feel like it isn’t worth
Going on another day
It hurts too bad
When you try to stay
It feels like your only options
Are the razor blade
Or leaving this place

But before you give up
Let me tell you a story

This isn’t an ordinary story
It’s a true story
But at the same time
I’m making it up right now

There was this girl
Her name was Abigail
Abigail was a caterpillar

She was born with many siblings
Lots of brothers and lots of sisters
They were a pretty happy family

But when they were still young
All of her siblings were murdered
As were her parents
Abigail was left completely alone

It took her a little while to get the
Hang of surviving on her own
But eventually she did

It was just after she got used to living on her own
That it seemed like things when downhill again

Abigail liked food. A lot.
She couldn’t control herself
She tried eating healthy things
Like salad and fruit
But she ate so much that even
The healthy food made her gain weight

She ate food
She dreamed food
She lived food
Abigail became obsessed with food

As if being overweight
Wasn’t bad enough
She was constantly made fun of
Because of her eating habits

Abigail’s biggest dream
Was to fall in love
But it seemed impossible
Because she was always torn down

She used to think that
If someone would just give her a chance
They would maybe possibly like her
And someday they might even
Fall in love with her
She was sure that true beauty
Was stored in her heart
Not in how thin her body was

But as the bullying continued
She decided she wasn’t beautiful
Not even on the inside

It was at this point
Abigail decided to commit suicide

She didn’t have pills
She didn’t have a knife
She didn’t have anything that kills
Or anything to take her life

She was sitting in her room
When she decided to die
And the only thing near
Was a silk blanket

She decided that she would suffocate
Herself with the blanket
Slowly, she wrapped herself in silk
She took one deep breath
And she squeezed her eyes tight
As she released that last breath
Her eyes relaxed

But she didn’t die
She opened her eyes
When she awoke
She felt like she was in a new life
She looked in the mirror
Abigail was a butterfly

She had to endure the trials of life
In order to become the beauty
That is a butterfly

In the deepest pain
Abigail found life

Just when the caterpillar
Thought her world was over
She became a butterfly
1/11/2013
Q Oct 2013
Abigail is words, whispered in the dead of night
Abigail is pearls, so meticulously shined
Abigail is wind, personal yet public
Abigail is din, a beautiful ruckus

Bigail is books, every breath is a story
Bigail is gems, rich in her glory
Bigail is breeze, a soothing chill
Bigail is ease, with a bit of thrill

Igail is water, playful but cold
Igail is stormy, brewing and bold
Igail is calm, willing to wait
Igail is balm, soothing this place

Gail is half, fading quickly
Gail is worn, fragile and sickly
Gail is Earth, loving and warm
Gail is mirth, behind her thorns

Ail is sweet, and yet so sour
Ail is blood, of the hearts she devours
Ail is tears, as she turns to leave
Ail is fears, that she can't retrieve

Il is less, than sweet Abigail
Il is more, for she left a trail
Il is mad, raving lunatic
Il is bad, coughing and sick

L is tired, ready to go
L is crying, way down below
L is left, hanging by a thread
L is befret, the words she said

* * is nothing
There's nothing left of Abigail
No words left to whisper
Gone without a trail.
There are three ways to read this poem:
1. Read as written
2. Read only the phrases before the commas and the last stanza
3. Read only the phrases after the commas and the last stanza
Enjoy
   -Chaus
https://twitter.com/ChausVocamini
JJ Hutton Jun 2012
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.

"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.

"Is she eating?" my mother asks.

"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.

My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red ****-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.

Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.

"I forgot my trunks."

"That's no excuse."

I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.

In the living room.

While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.

Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:

"All roads lead to me."
Lain Ender Oct 2011
Do you know the darling Abigail?

She lives inside my mirror.

The little ****** girl,

With the wicked smile so queer.

Do you know the darling Abigail?

She laughed and smiled and danced.

The she beauty beheld at once,

Did leave me so entranced.

Abigail is in my head,

She’d never been before.

The ****** beauty lies there,

Smiling calmly on the floor.

Oh behest the silent beauty,

She creeps beneath the bed.

In solemn mocking silence,

She crawls inside my head

I regret that faithful night of poisons,

The dancer i did betray.

It was never my intention,

to send Abigail to her grave.

I guess there is no repenting,

There’s nothing i can do.

At night i feel her cold dark hands,

And her smile of  “how dare you.”
She lived in a strange old gabled house
But she rarely came outside,
I’d glimpse her up on the balcony
But she’d see me, and she’d hide.
She seemed a nervous, tremulous thing
But I thought she looked so sweet,
Her hair in a long blonde ponytail,
And a dimple in either cheek.

She lived alone with her grandmother
Who was old, and sharp of tongue,
A sort of witch with a constant itch
She had scratched since she was young.
She wouldn’t allow young callers, who
Attracted to Abigail,
Would try to court but were overwrought
By her, till their efforts failed.

The two who had breached her sanctuary
Who had forced their way inside,
Had only stayed but a single day
Then emerged, and had later died.
It seemed that a curse lay on that house
There was something in the air,
A sense of sin that had lain within
Caught up in the word, ‘despair’.

The more that I glimpsed of Abigail,
The more that my heart would leap,
I’d stand and stare on the corner there
And I’d sometimes hear her weep.
I’d hear the drone of that dry old crone
As she snapped and snarled at her,
‘A man is a fret that you’ll soon regret,
There’s a thousand more out there.’

I finally braved the woman’s wrath
And beat on their old front door,
I knew she wouldn’t invite me in
But hoped that her mood would thaw.
‘I’m coming to call on Abigail,’
I cried, and I pushed on past,
And racing across the hallway floor
I ran up the stairs, at last.

Abigail stood and smiled at me
With her grandmother aghast,
She took me out to the balcony,
I thought that the dye was cast.
I said that I’d seen her from afar
On the balcony above,
‘I want you to know I’m here to show
That I’ve fallen for you, in love.’

‘And I’ve watched you from above,’ she said,
‘I saw the love in your eyes,
I knew that you would finally come
So it’s not a great surprise.’
At this the crone had mounted the stairs,
I finally saw her smile,
She carried a platter for us to eat,
‘Some sweets, will you stay awhile?’

Abigail tied them up in a cloth
To take when I left that night,
Some cherry whirls, and peppermint twirls
And chunks of Turkish Delight,
She scribbled a note that she placed within
And she’d underlined it twice,
‘Whatever you do, I’m telling you,
Don’t eat the Coconut Ice.’

It seems that the sweets were all home made
In the kitchen under the stair,
‘My grandmother takes great pride in these,
But still, you’d better beware.’
At home I unwrapped them carefully
And I checked the Coconut Ice,
The smell was bitter like almonds so
I took Abigail’s advice.

The chemist confirmed that cyanide
Was part of the recipe,
The police arrested the grandmother
And now Abigail is free.
I wish I could say she stayed with me
But she went with Raymond Bryce,
So there was a lesson learned, you see,
I never touch Coconut Ice.

David Lewis Paget
Terry Collett May 2015
Abigail Abthing drew breath like water,
Breathed in the cold frost of morning.
Abigail knew pain like an old friend,

Knew its bite that gnawed her bones.
Always trust. Never leave it to others,
She’d say, gripping her hands together,

Biting her lips, closing her eyes.
Abigail knew cancer; knew its false promise.
Trust to none, but He who loves,

She said, feeling the burning
In her heart and head.
Abigail knew time was near,

Knew the knocking at the door
Was death; drew her last breath
Like a long forgotten word.
An old poem. Part of the collected poems just out as an e book called: DEEP SOUTH AND MID WEST POEMS.
Outside Words Sep 2018
On a gusty autumn night
Another husband was swept,
Somber under the porch light,
Abigail watched and wept.

No men were happy,
As they dealt with poor Abby –
Day in and day out,
So miserable and naggy.

Nine is such a tender age
For a father to leave his daughter,
In horror, Abby waved,
Her mind underwater.

Crimes of parents, what a shame
Those with good ones count your blessings,
Lest we forget little Abby’s pain
And teach our children similar lessons.
© Outside Words
Abigail sweet Abigail, Your beauty is overwhelming, your future a loving one with family of no better mix. Your small fingers and tiny hands so young, so sweet, such bliss, how blessed to welcome you to our family mix.
Abigail sweet Abigail, so lucky to be you to be loved by so many for only being you!
Andrew T Jan 2017
For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.

And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.

Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast.  I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.

Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.

We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”

After that, we never touched breakfast.
Chris Thomas Jan 2017
Abigail, I don't know what is left to say
My words have come unraveled, and meticulously undone
I slipped off my boots here in Amsterdam
To be something, somewhere, someone

I spent six weeks staring at these surly walls
You became the chorus of my melodious lays
I felt homeless in that dreary, empty room
No dreams in bright colors, only nightmares of grey

Still, I wish you hadn't noticed me standing there
I regret how my faithless eyes danced across you
While trying my hand at simple clarity
You disappeared from my field of view

Abigail, I failed as my father's son
Shadows followed me, by day and by night
I savored each twilight kiss we shared
But from this westward pedestal, at last, I must alight

It's true, we share a common vigor
But the disparity of our song is audible
Don't fret, my love, for time has not yet ceased
And the space between is a meager obstacle

I will carry your light within me
Because the darkness is just a parasite
Our orbit is forever decaying
But our legacy has now taken flight

Abigail, I know I won't arrive in time
To witness you emerge from your chrysalis
But delay not, for you are beautifully outlined
And it's past time for our past to be dismissed
Jeremy Duff Feb 2014
Abigail Turnman walked along the same sidewalk she did every morning before she had to work. She had the same breakfast from the same dive as she did the morning before.

As she was sweetening her coffee she looked up and into two very dazzling blue eyes, belonging to a young man seated at the table across from hers. She looked down quickly, sweetening her coffee, while she blushed.
She usually didn't get flustered like this and she hated that she was just because some dumb boy was looking at her. She looked back up and he smiled at her, revealing a mouth of uneven, yet not horribly uneven, stained, yet not horribly stained teeth. She blushed again, this time she smiled back.

"Are you Abigail Turner?" The young man asked in a voice that sounded as if it didn't get much sleep the night before. While he was asking this Abigail noticed his hair, a dark shade of brown, lighter and shorter on the sides, as if it had months before belonged to a military man.
"No," Abigail responded humorously, "My name is Abigail Turnman." She blushed again, at the stupidness of her joke. God, how she hated that this young man was making her blush this way. As if in response to her stupid joke or in embarrassment in having gotten her name wrong the young boy laughed and blushed, but not as much as she had.
He had only a coffee on his table and so she asked him if he would like to join her for breakfast. The young man smiled again before standing up. As he did, his hair fell into his eyes, which he quickly brushed out of the way before nodding and sitting down, across from her, coffee in hand.
"How did you almost know my name?"
Again, the young man laughed.
"Mark, uhh Callahan. He said he cleans up at your office and that I should speak with you."
Oh, Mark. There's a sweetheart if she ever knew one.

And in that instant she knew she could grow to love how this young man made her blush. Instead of hating it she would prize and cherish and she would include characters modeled after him in all her novels.
She didn't even know his name.

"So, you're a friend of Mark's huh?"
She asked this in a more confrontational way then she meant to and the young man seemed to recoil before he saw her blushing again, knowing that she had not intended to ask it in such a way.
"Yes, Mark is a friend of mine. Since high school actually. Uhh, my name is Henry, but uhh," he laughed softly, "my friends call me Hank."
"Well Mark is a sweetheart. So, if I'm not mistaken, you must be native here? At least since high school."
"Yes, I was actually born here, but uhh, if I'm not mistaken, you're from uhh New York, right? The city?"
As much as a sweetheart Mark was, he sure was talkative as hell.
Before she had a chance to say anything, Hank began talking again.
"So, uhh," he laughed softly, nervously almost, "I uhh, I hope this isn't too upfront, but I was hoping, uhh wondering actually, if you were doing anything tonight. My band and I are playing at the Stonehouse, it's a uhh, a charity show for Jonathan, our drummer, uhh his mom. She's fighting cancer, uhh, her condition has been improving but she still needs money for bills and stuff. I mean, you don't even have to pay, you know, I could ahh, I could sneak you in the back or whatever, I mean, uhh, it woudn't technically be.."
She cut him off,
"Yeah, sure I'll go. What time is it?"
He smiled even wider than he had the whole conversation,
"It starts at 8, uhh, it's at the Stonehouse, uhh, ****, I already said that. Oh ****- oh, sorry, pardon my language."
She pulled a pen out of her purse and began writing the address to her apartment on a napkin. Hank continued talking, mumbling, uhh-ing, but he trailed off as she handed the napkin to him.
"Pick me up at 7," she said, "We can go get some dinner before the show, you probably half to be there early right?" He nodded, "Okay, make it 6:30. This is the only diner I know, I've only been here since the start of summer, maybe you could show me some nice place to eat?"
He nodded, smiling and blushing and pushing the hair out of his eyes and scratching his arm and shifting in his seat anxiously.
"Now, it was lovely meeting you Hank, but if I don't leave now, I will be late walking to work, I'll see you at 6:30"
"Yeah, I'll uhh, I'll see you at 6:30"
She stood up and so did he. She was halfway across the diner before Hank kicked himself for being so stupid.
"Hey, do you need a ride to work? I mean, it's uhh, it's no trouble."
"Thank you, Hank, but I'll walk. I'll see you at 6:30, okay?"
She smiled a dazzling smile of white teeth, framed by golden hair, cut short, almost short enough to be considered a pixy cut.
She was out the door as Hank mumbled something stupid.
Shofar  Ashera
Once set, they begin to direct their destination to the heart of the nativity area, where their origins and areas of the omnipresent West Bank belt were. They entered with strong winds clinging to their bristling camelids, everything had the atmosphere of a city as if it had never been inhabited. The fringes in floods of sun were distinguished orange-reddish weakened before the stormy gradients of the Red and Mediterranean Sea appeasing the Hexagonal primogeniture. Although they were seen squalling and with agile movements on the local atmosphere, several layers crossed with the inheritance of Persian cloths in colorful bluish and orange tints from the Red Sea and the quarrelsome storms of Aserá "The mother of all gods", and The one who was the "father of the gods." Known among the Babylonians as Ishtar, originally called Athirat (or Afdirad). She is the great Semitic goddess of fertility. In the Bible it is called Astoret, a distorted pronunciation of the original 'Astart, through the inclusion of the vowels of the Hebrew word boset (shame) according to the custom of the rabbis, to discredit the pagan deities. Bronze Age Ashera (before 1200 BC) the Greek form is Astarte. Astarte was considered the "goddess of the Sidonians". In the Amarna Letters, it is Ashirtu and Ashratu. The Ras Shamra texts identify Ashera ('atrt = atirat) with the goddess wife of El; They call her "Lady Ashera of the Sea" and "progenitor of the goddesses", here she would be the mother of Baal.

These discredited Babylonian forms caused discomfort and discomfort, in the face of a living past and present in the intangibility of the inheritances that greet others that could supplant them. This caused soil heating in the legs of the animals with abnormality of Greek-Babylonian wormwood prostrate on the feet of Ashera, leaving an odorous wormwood atmosphere in the land of two native Kings of this jurisdiction. Attracting dissipation from the roofs of some neighboring houses to the precise place where the Messiah saw the light of the lights and of those who waited for them cabi-together lighting it with candlesticks. This sacred wind caressed everyone's hands, insinuating them to take hold of the new Bethlehem, an event that was being reborn with the Apostle's illustrious visit. Their consolations expanded, like any caravan that increased its predictive volume, equalizing the pressures of the air that surrounded the streets, where no one appeared and was seen generic. This centrifugal force rotated their earthly spirits, originating a thick source of the orange gases that populated the roofs of the village. Creating greater weight and highlighting the freshness of the essences that were torn from the soils with the aroma of grazing.   Explaining to themselves the presence of sub-zones in the West Bank, insolating redemption of the arrival towards a protocol merit contrasted by the permission to be hosted next to this at night.  Varying many times to bring them the blessed condensed sacred water, deregulating the thermal sensation.

The density and buoyancy of the animals' legs made it difficult for them to select the right moment to stop and dismount. The aerial relief that rose and fell rose on the walls of the few rooms linked to the stable of nativity, pressing on them the adjacent words that joined from the ground to soon arrive in an upward spiral, turned into light and wind on the seventh horseman ; King David, appearing to them right there…, right there before Him, his Abigail, the third wife who gave him an early re-conception, presenting him with an altar, which he will endow with Eucharistic missions during his admission to Bethlehem. An unexpected phenomenon swirls on the gradient that led to the hill of the stable, affecting their vision and consequences, rotating them all to the rear of the original access to the stable. Converging the winds on the ground and upper external part of the stable, originating an anticipated effulgence of space that would prolong them to understand that they had already arrived, but they were still seven hundred meters from the main access and that the city was not Bethlehem, but another that It seemed to emerge from the arid soil, next to the stable, dividing itself into inter-zones that rubbed against the original and current ones, in such a way as to generate a great development of the sub-soil on the vertical that sounded stentorian and vibratory, as in a long stay, on the distributed assistants in this supra-abnormal regimen. They arrive exempt from grievances but dismounting gentiles ..., they leave the twelve camels in a friendly and predisposed circle, so as not to expose them to the strong winds that raged from the Canaanite gods that prevailed in personalized and ceremonial theocratic.

David speaks: “when I approached where Moab I requested asylum in protection of my parents…, thus I myself would burst the eardrums of the Philistines for each mountainous network of links that join me to the refuge of my advance counterattack towards their dominions. In its unknown enemy territories, a noble and friendly joy appears before me; Abigail, who fills the history of my land with beauty, before a very cruel Canaanite son; Nabal. She enriches my lands more than the entire multiplied population of animals, every time I count the units, I look into her eyes and I forget the greater amount that moves her heart towards me, because of that I did not shed blood on Nabal's house . Being Abigail the one who replaces my union with the Faith that moves my passion. "

Then Abigail kneels and touches the ground where he was, crossing himself after assigning a cross that kissed his hands, on his forehead and his chest. Thus from somewhere her parents rearranged the garments to enchant Vernarth for her bi-related purge with that of David and the Messiah-Vernarth. As in the Jericho story, Alikanto, Raeder, and Petrobus galloped around the periphery of the citadel. With all the strength of the steed's Golden hooves, they kicked liquid dust from the Bethlehem's fleeces. Alikanto did not carry a mount on his back ... he carried an Aspis koilé from Hoplite Vernarth. It was useful to re-sediment the sand covers sifted by the ergonometric forces of the shield, thus causing everyone to retreat and take the reins of the animals, to resume their advances in buttresses to build the walls that they had to mediate, to weaken Ashera's insinuations to disagree with the edges of the citadel. The Apostle, Etréstles and Vernarth blew the shofars, the times they surrounded the perimeter of the city, and they believed that there would be more turns ..., on the couch was the Shofar that could sound more times and louder, it was intact ..., but it ran to blow it Vernarth not leaving a drop of air looking at the sky that would appear with three bright stars filling the anxiety and love to break Easter bread for everyone. But it was not that effect; it was the astral echo of Betelgeuse of King David, which emanated with his blowing also helping to raise the walls that would protect him from the staunch invasions of the lackeys of Ashera. In such a way, the partitions were raised until reaching the governorships of the words of the watchdog angel who coordinated everyone saying:

Guardian Angel: "For us the partitions, for you the rooftops, on the heights mediate the limits and on their Shofar they will end Aserá, without any city to come and go" Such exordium is fulfilled and Bethlehem is surrounded by golden barred partitions, Walls were hoisted at remarkable heights to appease the winds and roars of the Canaanites, as in Jericho, but the other way around, here they succumbed by divine command, to allow them to settle in that millenary town hall.

Finally they withdraw the twelve camelids from the front circle that did not allow them to settle in the settlement, and they manage to settle to revive the bi-natality and double reign of whose splendor he will only speak with the luminances of the Messiah and King David embracing them. From the continents outside of the walls left desolate, revive Abigail's pristine and angelic countenance by bringing dinner and an amulet Shofar to each of the components of the Hexagonal Birthright that began to continue the seven weeks in Judah.

Magraner's ministers "Punica granatum", were bushes that appeared to him in the focus of the micro center of the fire, they entered with some tenuous and sinuous branched thorns becoming muddy as they descended from the tassels of the Shofar, feeding the curiosity of all who were camped, surrounding a campfire full of sounds with new positions, of devout sounds of pupils from high Jewish principalities, cordoning off the objects of the Apostle, who shared it with Etréstles ..., who gave sonorous instrumentalizations to the rams that approached around them ..., looking for the crows that were missing from their heads. Due to the cracked set of the shofar, in the opposing works of the luminosities of the bonfires, the wise ministers hung on the same faces, who displayed them with their young branches, glossy sheaths before the yellowish-greenish under-exposed with their obtuse apices. Leaving in its marginalized exceptions, polygons of pre-flowering  shofar-form, on the valves that escaped from the ashes of the valves that were released from the last fleeting flame of each minute run to the right. Everyone collected the nectars that the ministers poured into goblets, drinking them lying down to swallow them reclining and being able to look at the stars that emerged from their albiceleste flavors, rinsing each one's arms by touching them with the shofar, like petioles stalks on the seven rams that they sought to recover those that made themselves sound heavenly.

Etréstles says: “When the shofar speaks, their past pastorals speak inside and outside the community; the most outlined thing has been to understand it as a trumpet; of a bony projection, that is to say, formed by a bone and pointed material that arises from the frontal bone, sealed by a layer of keratin that forms an aerophone horn cover. The horns of Moses come from a translation of the original biblical text by Saint Jerome. When Moses descends from Mount Sinai, where he has interviewed God, "the skin of his face had become radiant," says the Bible (Ex 34: 29-30). In the original Hebrew the verb "to radiate", "to emit rays", is from the same root as the noun "horns", so Saint Jerome did not think twice and translated: "cornuta esset facies sua", that is, "His face was horned. Taking into account its timbre and sound quality here with you, it is not difficult to associate it with the sounding with the golden patina, simulating with my Messolonghi fingers ..., which three by three piston their bony reaches, linking of some forms of beauty, goodness, clarity, brightness and stories that will accompany us in this bonfire between these raised walls to pave the vaults of the Messiah's nativity cries.  Calibrations and catechesis on the real moment of his symbolic Lineage in the awake dawn and alive. With waves of graces voices with goat hosts rearranging the urban matrix of the erected town ..., everything will be at the expense of surrounding us and pouring out the voices shuffled with the shofar to protect us from Ashera, in their desire to get away from the fundamental site. "

Vernarth intervenes: “In this passage it is clear the capacity of the shofar…, and the sound produced by it and our similar voices being amalgamated with it, shouting and modifying the environment, to a multipurpose physical dimension. Now we are a herald of goodness, beauty and reconstruction, part of a noticeable dialectic to the neighboring Canaanite cultures as a sudden reconversion between what is built and what is to be built, even if something in it itself had to disappear. The wall was actually rebuilt surrounding everyone, beyond the golden glow of the shofar. Producing today creation and not devastation, encapsulating kingdoms in wisdom and learning ..., this is where we have all come from the return of the didactics of cultural forms, independently to attract us to its teachings in an anonymous world converted with a purpose of reconverting itself, in solemn alert in the one that precedes us, before unilateral events of antecedents of an apocalyptic shofar period”.
Shofar  Ashera
Eliana Vieira Oct 2018
You're innocent like the people of Salem.
But you're Abigail Williams.
We can all be a Reverend Hale sometimes. It's human.
But you are the witch.

© 2018 Omni Winters
October 26, 2018
Saif Shaikh Jan 2013
Staring at the world
Sitting by the window
watching it pass her by
Sitting by the window
All alone

Her eyes dried red
Forever Incomplete
Regrets left unsaid
She has no retreat

Willingly Given
Forcibly Taken
Pulled Back
to yesterday

Clothes neatly repressed
Easily suppressed
She puts on a new smile
Disguising inflicted vile

Perfect Darling Princess
Daddy's little girl
Alone in her world of shadows
Voices calling out to her in the swirl

Nail Paints
and a Bloodstain Manicure
Cold Faints
feeling so impure

Some wounds
aren't meant to heal
and some scars
are better left unseen

"please!"

There she lays now..
... Forgotten

Darling Abigail
Beauty so broken
Like the promises i made
Holding you against the wall..
Melody Dec 2010
Abigail.
I'll tell you once more.
You're amazing.
Just like you told me but I resisted hearing it once more.
I'll tell you something.
Don't be like me.
I'm too oblivious and obvious.
And I can't say no to you.
And yet.
I still have yet to reach you completely.
Thank you Abigail Rayna Bailey.- From Unreplacable.
Terry O'Leary Feb 2014
THE MEETING

Alone one night neath lantern light, I trudged a weary mile.
Forlorn, I went with shoulders bent (the storms around me howled)
until I met a Silhouette behind a sultry smile –
She gazed with eyes that mesmerize (Her body caped and cowled)
and stayed my way with question fey, ‘Why don’t you while awhile?’

Though timorous (with slow address and gestures pantomimed)
Her voice was gracing echoes chasing waves in evening’s tide.
The churchyard groaned, an ***** moaned, the bells of midnight chimed
while wanton winds awoke and dinned, and mistrals multiplied.
The Persian moon, like stray balloon, arose and blithely climbed.

The Silhouette (a pale brunette) arched eyebrows meant to please,
and down the lanes, on windowpanes, the shadows danced and sighed.
A meadowlark within the dark, somewhere behind the breeze,
ennobled Her with wisps of myrrh while deigning to confide
to nightingales veiled whispered tales of human vanities.

She doffed her cloak before She spoke with sighs of sorrow sung
(like mandolins, as night begins, when mourning day’s demise)
and spun Her tale of grim travail and tears She'd shed when young.
As jagged volts of thunderbolts lit up the dismal skies,
a velvet fog embraced a bog in coils of curling tongues.

Through summer vales and winter gales Her secret thoughts were voiced.
Midst storms so cruel (neath lightning’s jewel that glistered on the ridge)
She reminisced, She touched... we kissed... Her lips were wet and moist...
A lighthouse dimmed, while moonbeams skimmed across a distant bridge
to avenues where residues of shallow shades rejoiced.

                        HER TRAGIC TALE

“Midst sweet perfume of youthful bloom, the lonely spirit braves
and often cries and sometimes dies in quest of her amour.”

While starry-eyed, a ship I spied, a’ sail upon the waves –
the galleon docked, the gannets flocked, the Captain swept ashore
where, debonair with gypsy flair, he led his salty knaves.

In passing by, he caught my eye - I tried to hide a blush,
but ambiance of innocence left fervour’s flames revealed.
His gaze (defined by eyes that shined) beheld my cheek a’ flush.
I bowed my head while caution fled, I felt my fate was sealed
- a bird in spring with fledgling wing - he’d snared a  falling thrush.

He said ‘Hello’ - I answered ‘No’ and yet before he’d gone
said I, ‘I’ll wait at Heaven’s Gate not far beyond the Pale’.
At dusk he came neath moon aflame, and left before the dawn
just humming tunes between the dunes that lined the sandy trail
beside a pond where morning yawned, where swam an ebon swan.

We met again, and once again, and once again, again
entangled in a love called sin, in whirls of make-believe.
While in my arms, with voice that charms, said he ‘I must explain -
the tide awaits in distant straits and I must take my leave’.
Then tempests stormed as passions swarmed through ardor’s hurricane.

‘Forsake your home and we may roam’ he smiled as if to tease
and still naive, said I ‘I’ll leave, in silver buckled shoes’.
He took the helm in search of realms, and quickly quit the quays -
with tearful eyes, I bade goodbyes to fare-thee-well adieus
and sailed above a wave of love across the seven seas.

We swept one morn around Cape Thorne while bound for Bullion Bay.
With naught to reck, I strolled on deck, a baby at my breast,
while flurries blew and seagulls flew within the ocean’s spray.
Our ship soon moored, we went ashore and off to Fortune’s Quest -
with gold doubloons which shone like moons, he gambled through the day.

‘The deuce is wild’ he thinly smiled; another card was drawn -
he’d staked and raised with eyes half glazed, was dealt a dismal three.
With betting tight throughout the night, the final ace long gone,
meant all was lost, at what a cost; alas, the prize was me.
To my dismay he slunk away and left me doomed at dawn.

A buccaneer with ring in ear sneered ‘now, my dear, you’re mine’.
He held my wrists to thwart my fists and then... my honor stained.
On sullied swash, the sky awash with bitter tears of brine,
I broke his clutch with nothing much of me that still remained:
a residue when he was through, left clinging to a vine.

In morning dew, the good folk knew, and spurned me in my plight.
The preacher man pronounced a ban and wouldn’t condescend,
ignored my pleas on bended knees and prayers by candlelight.
While cast aside, my baby died... my world was at an end.
Until this day, I’ve made my way beneath the shades of night.


                        AT HEAVEN’S GATES

To set Her free from destiny was far from my design,
but, though unplanned, I touched Her hand to give Her peace of mind.
She told me then, and then again, that providence Divine
had cast a curse, and even worse: despised by all mankind,
She walked alone, unseen, unknown, Her soul incarnadine.

To break this spell of living hell, of loneliness enshrined,
and end Her days within the haze, a sole redeeming deed
would give reprieve and maybe leave our destinies entwined -
Her final quest be put to rest if only I agreed,
but no surcease nor perfect peace nor hope if I declined.

The shadows, shawled in silence, crawled, the night Her fate was sealed
as vespers tolled across the wold beneath the muted fog.
The heavens cracked and sorrow slacked as chimes of children pealed
while in the hills (where midnight chills) there wailed a daemon dog -
with no delay I lead the way, the path to Potter’s Field.

Her weathered face was lined with Grace, Her eyes shone emerald green.
With me as guide She stepped inside to grieve and mourn Her loss,
and thereupon, though pale and wan, the night took on a sheen.
With weary eyes as Her disguise, She placed a wooden cross
upon a mound (unhallowed ground) and whispered ‘Sibylline...’.

A falling star flared in the far and burst, a bolide flame -
beneath the light, the Final Rite no longer hid undone.
And kneeling there in silent prayer, we seemed to share the shame
but could atone if left alone, forevermore as one.
Before we both could breathe an oath, I asked Her once Her name.

Through lips, pale red, She simply said ‘Some called me Abigail’,
and neath a birch where white doves perch, I took Her for my bride,
beheld Her smile a little while, but all to no avail...
Her cloak and cape, and shrivelled shape lie empty at my side...
for now She waits at Heaven’s Gates, not far beyond the Pale.
Katlyn Orthman Sep 2012
Valor Gates poured her younger siblings cereal, they sat at their broken kitchen table.  The cereal was stale and she wasnt sure if the milk was spoiled.  Her anxiety was through the roof, her mother hadn't come home last night.  It wasnt anything new, her mom was a drug addict, she would go out to the club and not come home, sometimes not even for days.  She wouldnt call, or text to let Valor know she was okay, or where she was.  She couldn't even call the police the times she went missing for days, because she knew they would call child services, and they would take the twins from her.  Angela Gates was the typical ****** mom, got pregnant at sixteen, she had no way to support a child except through her now ex boyfriend Charles,who she had cheated on, hence Valor.  Charles had sacrificed his teen years to try and raise Valor, he'd been a father to her, and she loved him for it.  He left six years ago, a little bit before the twins were born, they also weren't his.  Valor at ten years old had taken on the mother roll when the twins were born. She'd even named them, Andrew and Abigail.  She thought of them as her own.  She taught them how to read, she'd taught herself to read.  She taught them how to tie their ripped hand down shoes, she hadn't learned tell she was eight.  She taught them how to ride a bike, she didn't know how.  She taught them how to swim, she'd never been to a lake or a pool before that.  Valor went to school part time, then skipped the rest of the day to go to her job at the hardware store.  She got payed minimum wage, her paycheck went to the bills, and the small portion left went to the groceries.  She got the twins clothes from the shelter, or from neighbors whose kids had grown out of them.  She hadn't gotten any new clothes, or new anything since two years ago when Charles bought her some clothes and a cheap ipod for her birthday.  Those gifts had meant everything to her.  Valor sat down in the broken stool by her little brother and patted his little blonde head.  The twins were beautiful Andrew was tall for a six year old with short blonde hair and giant blue eyes.  Abigail was just as gorgeous, she already had thick hair to her tiny waist in tumbles of blonde satin, her eyes though were very different.  One was as blue as Andrews and the other was the same mossy green as Valor's.  Valor wasnt a blonde with blue eyes, she saw her self plain with thick long brown hair, and shining mossy green eyes.  She worked out to stay fit, and she didnt get to eat much in fear that the twins wouldnt get enough food.  She dug out a small cheap phone that Charles had boughten for emergencies , the small screen was blank.  Her mother hadn't stumbled into the house and to her room like always.  Valors heartbeat picked up two notches and sh could hear the blood rushing in her ears.  She had a anxeity disorder that also gave her a bit of OCD.  Her OCD was extreme cleaning.  Everything had to be neat, she thought it was because her life was in such disaray that the one mess she did have control of had to be perfectly in place.  
She debated weather she should call Charles and ask if he'd seen her.
the start of a book im going to try to finish, good job if you read the whole thing :)
Sky Dec 2016
Another heart gives up, another soul gives in
Another body falls and their blood runs thin
spreading in lines through a grand school
tapping the toes of the wise and the fool
opens their eyes, makes them look behind
a mask woven from lies
And everyone denies
There is no way it could have been a suicide.
Don't be so sure, do you know what was inside?
She was hurt, she was broken, she was tired of losing hope
And when no one noticed and no one cared she cut the biggest rope
We felt it. We felt the disconnection, do you know that, Abigail? We felt you when you left. We noticed and we cared, but you couldn't see because we couldn't see
that you were drowning in a great, oily sea. You didn't know who to be, so here comes
nobody alive.
We felt it when you took the dive.
We stained the ocean with sorrow-blue tears, we shoved away the worst of our fears,
we denied and we cried and we sighed and we said
"There's just no way that she could be dead!"
How could a soul made of a kindess, a soul so bright,
suddenly just lose all of its light? How could a heart stop beating when it was so big and warm?

Our hearts beat for you, Abigail. We won't forget, you're alive here in us. You're not quite gone, even if there is an empty seat on the bus. We cannot know, we cannot say, how much pain you went through before the day. But we know for fact, yes, we know we can say, that you will be remembered for the rest of our days.
Hollow Jul 2014
I felt her presence,
hovering over my grave like a mothers last prayers
Like a fathers burning sorrows after thirty years drunk
Alone she stood, framed against the soft blowing trees,
and the dancing wildflowers that were placed as an ode to the dead
She held orange petals to herself,
close to her chest, as if to let them hear a heartbeat,
but the ear of a flower only picks up meaningful noises,
not the slow tempo of a withered muscle,
overworked from exhaustion

She wore black, knee high leather boots,
and a matching jacket
Her hair was wild, and she looked *****
She smelled of ***** and no showers,
cigarettes and sweat and blood
She looked of regret,
and her eyes sang tunes of pessimism
Anxiously she removed the bright flowers from her *****
Poppies, by the look of it
She presented them to the face of my headstone,
cracked and eroded with age, my name barely recognizable
Left with nothing, her fingers went to her short blonde hair,
matted and encrusted with dirt
She ran her hands nervously throughout, eyes constantly distracted

Suddenly, she focused ******* the headstone
A tear fell from her eye, and I watched it soak into the concrete
Her lips moved in familiar shapes, but words were lost to me
Every word
But one
A name

Abigail

And she turned away, walking crookedly into the wind and rain
And though I know she was talking to me,
I could feel the name on her lips, see it in her eyes
She scratched the insides of her arms as she disappeared from sight,
and I felt a longing in my own

"I walked away from myself that day. I gave it all up for hope. I guess this just goes to show what it's worth. Maybe I'll understand it one day, but for now, I am dead to everyone including myself."

Abigail Hollow
Jan 1992 - Aug 2008
A loving daughter, sister and poet.
This dream needs no interpretation, and at first I didn't want to share this, but I know I have to. It's for me, this poem.
Hollow Jul 2014
August

One foot forward, I said
And she listened, gingerly taking her first step
I held onto her shoulders as she marched
Forward unto revival

You'll be back in no time
Were the last words I spoke to her
And upon her farewell
I wept tears of hope
And loss

- *
September -

I remember hearing car doors close shut
On the days where I sat
Atop my window sill
And I would peak out
From behind my curtains
With wishful thinking

And I remember the sting of pain
When it was someone else
So I would let the curtains close
Like the end of so many
Epic plays
And the audience would not applaud

-
October -

I made a little girl cry
On Halloween
I sat in wait
Forgetting the significance
Of costumes
And sugary give outs
Remembering only the taste
Of something much sweeter
But it had been months

The knock on the door
Was like the beating in my chest
And I sprang up in some
Newfound excited hopefulness
But I had let myself down
And the little girl at my door
Dressed like a dinosaur
Was no match for the beast
Inside of myself

GO HOME!
They all heard me
Parents and antsy children alike
Who walked by in search of joy
And the stares were unbearable
The little girl who cried
Never saw that my eyes matched hers
As she fled into the night

I sat with my back against the door
And cried until the waves of exhaustion
Took me away

-
November -

Only the night would get me
Out of bed
Many times I found myself walking
Along some unfamiliar road
Winding through darkness
Like the twists and turns in my mind

Sometimes I ran
Like I was being chased
And the cool air of the night
Would fill my lungs
And when I was tired
I continued running

Emotions had been all but drained
And the feeling of loss
Was replaced with
Emptiness
Nothing
Void
0

But somewhere
Pressed underneath folds of carelessness
Was an inkling of hope
A spark of optimism
That kept me alive

-
December -

I remember the funeral
Where along with my only love
Was buried my soul
My spirit
And my heart

I was asked to speak of her
And her family bade me luck

When all was silent
And the ears
Longing for closure
Were tuned to my presence
I opened my mouth
And said nothing

No one had noticed the blood
Dripping from my wrists
But they all saw
Abigail's collapse

My head swung forward
Smashing into the podium
I remember being sideways
As blurs rose to block out
What little visions remained

And then I asked one thing
In my stupor

Is she better now?

-
January* -

The two who gave me life
Made me stay inside my room
Because I tried to take what was mine

I would sit atop my window sill
Knees pulled tightly to my chest
And I would stare outside
Watching for the red hair
Waiting for the car to pull up
And her to get out and stretch her legs

She would look up and see me
Her eyes would tear, and she would
Run inside to me

I would kiss her and never let her go
But instead, it's all the same
People come and go
Friends visit
Seasons change
And the world moves on without her
Without me
Rest in peace my love.
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
The grand, Dutch doors inside your eyes
slammed themselves shut
and this time was different because
I knew you would not be letting me back in.

I knew there would be no espresso
or red, Spanish lace stockings or you
forgiving me before *******
the breath out of me.

I knew on the nights I was a ghost
you would no longer visit my cemetery.

I knew when the old heart jar
began swimming frantic laps within my stomach
you would no longer burn lavender incense
or tuck me into bed.

I knew there were goodbye's
that felt like black, hot concrete
on bare feet.
Three weeks ago, I saw my aunt without a wedding ring and her baby, Abigail, without a clue.

The questions that were fired at my mother after she delivered the news to me formed a ball in my throat the next time my aunt explained why Uncle Charlie wasn't at a family party.

I know my own vision was blurred but I saw every pair of eyes turn towards Abigail.
She was smiling over a bowl of chips.

My aunt hugged me goodbye loosely and although she probably needed me to pull tighter, I couldn't without thinking of his suffocating hugs.
Maybe she would feel the same.

My brain still houses a jumbled combination of every rare word whispered about it.
My stomach contorts as my grandparents fear his presence to pick up his daughter the way I now fear my own family for being so ridiculous.
He isn't dangerous.
He didn't do anything wrong.
They fell out of love (apparently).
Everything takes two.

How can they welcome a person in to the family then reject him without remorse?

My heart is sore every passing day I'm reminded that Abigail is only one years old.
I want to catch her tears when Mommy leaves her for weeks at a time the way her two front teeth catch her tongue when she tries to pronounce my name.
I want to make sure she fully understands what love is before she experiences heartbreak.
I want her first broken heart to happen when she's sixteen and the first people she learned to love to not be the culprits.
I want everyone else to stop denying the fact that she definitely has an idea about what's going on.

When my aunt and uncle told my Grandmother they needed to talk, she clapped and asked for the due date.
I sat in my bed upon finding out with that same shock,
subconsciously numbering each couple of the family in order of most likely to be divorced.
Guess who was in last place.

Their wedding replays in my memory alongside the effortless conversations with my uncle I now long for more than ever.

I worry about him.
I worry about her.
I worry about Abigail. Everyone does.

Because she sings the closing Barney song on repeat for a family who provides forced smiles framed with bitten lips.
Because I don't ever want her to think she should stop singing.

Three weeks ago, I saw my aunt without a wedding ring and her niece with a new fear.
FA12AMstorm Nov 2015
Congratulations your lies have run through this town
You have a plan to bring everyone down
And so far it's working

You've started your black mischief
You think you can't be stopped
But darling there are people who are getting on to your secrets

So dear Abigail Williams
You better watch your back
Cause when you cry out witch you'll be staring at one in the mirror

I understand you want the guy
The one who had you for couple of nights
But you also have to understand he has a wife

You have the whole court wrapped around your finger
But just remember it only takes one pull to unravel the whole thing
That's what your headed for

So dear Abigail Williams
You better watch your back
Cause when you cry out witch you'll be staring at one in the mirror

Now they found you out
Your already on the run
You better run faster or they'll come at your neck with a noose

This is what happens
When you mess with black magic
It doesn't end well

So dear Abigail Williams
You better watch your back
Cause when someone cries out witch
Your face is the one we'll remember
That fragile cry
Those tiny hands
Such a small body, such big pain.
That tiny heart that pumps much too hard,
That tiny heart was pierced much too young.

So close to death,
So close to life,
So in between,
It isn’t right.

Will they hear the pitter-patter
        of little feet running?
Will they hear the softest of cries
        so early in the morning?
Will she grow and become strong?
Will she go, and leave us so young?

Too young to fight,
Too young to give up,
Too young to die,
Too young to live.

Little Abigail, close your eyes
        you will not have to fight.
Mommy has you in her hands
       everything will be alright.
Grow big and strong in the Lord
       for you are meant for so much more.

Little Abigail, close your eyes, and sleep.
From you I want to hear not a peep.
Rest now and later we shall see.
The running, the growing, of your little feet.

Abigail Madison Elise Nevitt,
              AMEN is cried out for you.
AMEN, the name given to you.
Borne on Good Friday,
               she came home on Easter.
God bless that little heart,
              she was blessed from the very start.
A story about my baby sister.
Tupelo Jul 2014
I kept all your secrets in a jar,
put them on the shelf next to our memories,
locked them in the room filled with your smile,
left the house that we called home,
and threw away the key.
preservationman Jan 2018
My name is Abigail
I live life alone
My Parents are unknown
I am not famous
I have no fortunes
I am often abused on these mean streets
I have no place to run to retreat
I am poor
The streets are all that I know
I steal to eat for food
People think I am worth nothing
I never had a husband and never knew love of a boyfriend
Thinking back with having a life I could never take back
My teats are starting to fall
Yet all people can say is poor Abigail
I don’t dwell on self-pity
Yes I am surrounded being in a big city
Perhaps I have loss my way
The fact being I have no place to stay
The alley street is my home
It has no address but that is where I roam
I am a woman in my own right
It’s survival and I am living the plight
There is often darkness and no light
Faith is all that I have
Heaven above being my inspiration
I have weary thoughts and my eyes are slowly closing to sleep
This is my own soul to keep
It’s been awhile, but for now I must say goodnight.
Julie Butler Jan 2015
you've got a face like a diamond
I'll cut to the chase
like somebody designed it
for a woman that's so hard to find
let me find you & sleep behind it
you're a dime boo
it's blinding
and if he says he don't want you, he's a blind fool
cause you're mind food
you're a crowned jewel
they gotta **** with me to get ta you
you're better than fried food and good news
you better than Cher songs and new shoes
and I wrote this just for you
cause I heard 3 seconds of a wayne song and lost my cool
cause you're the coolest
and if i was part of a news cast i'd weather your blues
& I ain't even gay for you
I just think you're a ruler and wanna break rules with you
I wanna watch people skate like there's nothing better to do
and when the day is ******* done
i'll be like
dude, you rule
you rule
you rule
you rule
you rule
cause sometimes you gotta write raps to your best friend
In the air, the soft buzzing of my desire
My bed, yours
My peace, yours
My heart, yours
There is little I can do but surrender to you
"You are the first thing in a long time that has made me want to write poetry again"
Her eyes are still,
Amidst the chaos,
Of swirling, cycling, screaming gales,
Ripping dying leaves from,
Breaking boughs,
Till they tumble,
As they always would have,
But before their time.

— The End —