Poems I can't but LOVE - Hello Poetry

Apr 2017

Pagan Paul

i.
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

ii.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now he is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late, far too late, to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

iii.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
and screams and screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

iv.
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we? Please?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember anything about Daddy?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember anything either.
Not even his face. Its very strange indeed”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
toward the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody
still
screaming.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)

.

#poetry #npm #judderwitch #revenge #horror #love #hate #npminspire

Apr 2017

Lora Lee

beyond screens

what is this
the sound of a voice
a faint crackle
over the line
burning icicle dipped
into ink of my dark
zipped in a fracture
           through space
woven in time
the sound of it
           penetrates
a heated
         arctic zing
of light
into the soul
and your words
caress places that
would not be reached
in life's daily hold

I would look into your eyes
my blues to yours
two vast oceans
never ending
This might express
the divinity
of the word "love"
This might express
a fraction of the feeling
                and this alone
could be all consuming
but the real expression
would be my mouth
devouring yours
      my tongue
exploring your lips
and all that's inside
my starlight
infusing your being
as we press into
the silken matter
as the levity of skin
that brushes like silk
as your actual saliva
and ***
are my nourishment,
like heaven's milk
and our cells
ignite in slow movement
as we gasp and sigh
the air around us
invisible velvet
I want beyond
internet
I want beyond
a small, mirrored screen
I need to drink your luster
as we inhale the soft, molten folds
as we break open
and drink deep
inner liquids
as we crack
and the flow of the
      electric river
slides
    through
and within,
intermingling
auras tingling

Just take me,
      already
let me feel the imprint
of your fingers
upon my wrists
let your kisses mark
my secret spaces
Rush into me
as a river
before we
  simultaneously
         combust
for if I have to hear your
vocal chords
one more time
I will
    explode
into
     fragments
of
     crystallized
                  dust

This was supposed to be for #npm internet but it applies to many things and speaks my heart when it comes to certain kinds of love

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bzSaQdYgDw4

#connection #unconventionallove #internet

Apr 2017

Laura Slaathaug

Baby, Don't You See?

This is a cliché for you.
I would decorate you.
in these rows of letters,
maybe paint it on your skin
because just saying it isn't enough.
I want to see it.
I want to hold a mirror to you and me,
and say, See baby, don't you see?

So, I write it and hold your hand and kiss your cheek,
my head on your shoulder.
If only I could give a touch
of the love
you give to me.

Day 10 of National Poetry Month.

#love #cliches

Apr 2017

traces of being

so much closer than the sky

Cottonwood flurries gently lilt
like the impending summer's dandelion wishes,
before lightly descending wistfully
under the weightiness
of the morning coastal mist

The nearness of the blanketing stillness
is now so much closer than the sky
I can see clearly now
where all my shadows once dwelled

So nigh, this echoing silence at hand,
it firmly grasps a weighing loneliness
left drowning in the waning grandeur
of fading dreams

The poignant pang
of the dawning of the day;
nature’s soul stirring
silent manipulation

A conscious moment,
always rousing the potential
to evolve into a beautiful thing

. © April 2016

Listen To The Wind, It Talks
Listen To the Silence, It Speaks
Listen to Your Heart , It Knows

Native American Proverb

#dreams #nature #loneliness #aloneness #wilder #abeautifulthing

Apr 2017

Kai

good old days

today, i looked into the mirror,
and under the hollow cheeks and tired eyes
i saw the ghost of someone i used to be,
back in the days of dimpled cheeks and gap-toothed grins
and oversized jumpers,
and i yearned.

those were the days of hurling ourselves off swings
to see if we could fly,
of doing backflips off monkey-bars
for the sheer joy of it,
of chasing each other round and round the playground
until our legs felt like lead and we were breathless with laughter
for no reason at all.

those were the days of dirt caked under fingernails
and knees covered in scabs;
souvenirs from various painful encounters
with the sun-soaked concrete.
i hated the sight of my own blood back then,
sharp and red as it was,
and so i’d wail in banshee fashion
until it was all patched up under a nice neat bandaid
which i'd proudly show off to my friends
(“no, I didn’t cry at all!”)

now tubes chew at my skin instead of sunlight,
and i am always out of breath
even though i do not run.
there is scarcely a scratch to be found on my body,
but my pulse has never been so weak
nor my legs so tired.

i hold the memories of those distant days
- tiny glowing bodies -
in the palms of my hands,
and maintain a reverent distance,
because there is no way
i will ever be that young or that carefree again.
still, sometimes i look into the mirror
and can almost reconcile my weary reflection
with the person i used to be.
and i long to shed this ruined skin, this brittle body,
and go back to the good old days
when everything was simple
and pain could be fixed
with a dora the explorer bandaid.

and sometimes, i want to burst through the doors and run,
atrophied limbs flailing, frantic heart pounding,
and catch muted copper sunbeams
with my hands outstretched.

most of all, i want to stumble.
i want to stumble
and i want to fall
and i want to bleed -
just to prove to myself
that i still can.

for robyn. i'll never forget you.