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Norman Crane Oct 1
I found the two-headed baby deer dying
on a bed of soft pine needles under cover of an overturned oak,
not five kilometres from my cottage,
Its lungs still pumped,
Its crimson heart beat weakly through a thin,
translucent skin,
that decayed before my eyes,
until there was no skin,
and all the organs lay warm and still,
in a heap upon the earth,
like waste.

A god evaporated.

It is human nature to disbelieve
that one may be witness to epochal events,
so I did not believe that I,
of all people,
should be witness to the death of time.

Epochal: the concept itself is dead.

How lucky we were
to know time at its cleanest,
and most linear!

We know now that such constant linearity
was the consequence of a living entity,
It followed the creature like stench follows a skunk,
and we basked in it
as if it was the natural state of the world.

No more.

Time no longer heals,
Things do not pass,
Or pass only to return.

At first we believed this would be manageable,
Yes, we thought, we will relive our pain but also our love,
Everything shall be magnified!
Welcome to an age of great emotions,
a new Romanticism!

Yet we overestimated how much we help,
failed to accept how much we hurt.

And we did not realize the nature of evil,
which accumulates in a way love does not,
To re-experience our love is to know it,
again and again,
at the same intensity,
but to re-experience pain is to increase its volume until it overpowers us,
deafening us to everything else.

I will never forget the creature's eyes,
full of hatred or hubris,
yet seeking aid it knew I could not give.

How does one save a dying god?

It was not my fault!

I was but a child asked suddenly to solve a deathbed equation
expressed in an undiscovered mathematics,
I had to fail,
yet in failing I have brought it all upon us.

I relive it constantly,
Every time its eyes are louder.

But it is the hour for my afternoon walk,
so I will take a pause and enjoy what remains of living.

I will go to my favourite spot overlooking the city,
and sit on the iron bench,
from where the view is magnificent,
Above me,
the clouds will form,
a tangle of pain and human corpses,
and I will sit and ponder until the first blood drops fall,
Then the screaming will begin,
the final storm will rage,
Beating, crimson corpse-clouds under a thin skin
of dissipating reality,
raining blood until we are left
warm and still upon the earth.
Norman Crane Sep 28
/1975/ My mother died,
And forever cold she burned: cremated
No ceremony, no final goodbye,
Her will leaving me uncompensated.
Alone but for her ashes in the urn,
Which sometimes buzzed like bees and wheezed like breath,
I kept it shut until the day I learned,
That she would be my burden even after death.
Now every day I lift that hideous lid,
Remove the tiny skeleton within,
And place screeching in its awful stead,
Held by the tail, still in its fleshy skin,
A freshly caught rat / Hungry ash covers,
The dead too devour their living lovers.
Norman Crane Sep 25
On snow, his padded footfalls echo low
Heart beats: haste, fear
As none but its reverberations know
The ancient horror lurking near
A flash! Before the darkness rushes in
Not night but something deeper
Tentacles binding from within
Swift minions of a speaker
Whose very voice is sin
Whispering, listen, listen, in the language of the wind
Across what remains of summer's leaves
A murmured knowledge of the fate of thieves
And as the stolen idol drops
And the ancient one appears
His eyes begin to bleed
Discongealing the accumulation of his fears
Lovecraft-inspired narrative horror about a thief who mistakenly believed he was stealing from a human.
Norman Crane Sep 2
Once upon a tiny planet,
a hunter and his rifle stalked their prey,
It always got away,
  until the day he fired—
Dropping dead,
with a bullet in the back of his head.
Attempt at microfictional poetry: a few lines and rhymes telling a story. This one's scifi.
Rescel Aug 14
You searched the world for a lullaby
and found it in their screams and cry.
Your greatest art was death itself
and your melody was their beg for help.

But let's go back to your story's start,
when you still didn't have a monster's heart.
Let us go back to your innocence,
when your world was confined behind your backyard fence.

You once had been a young good boy
but with a family like those broken toys.
Your parents' fights were your fairytales
and your bedtime story was your mother's wails.

You'll go to school with hidden cuts--
black-blue bruises from your father's bat.
And though they tried to be friends with you,
their happiness was your source of blue.

Until one day, you found a cure;
her name's Emily, a bliss so pure.
Her smile, your happiness; her eyes, your stars;
her hugs, your haven; her tears your scars.

You learned to find the sweet from the bitter,
hoped that maybe there's a happy ever after.
You've buried your heart in darkness' grave,
not knowing that soon enough, you will be saved.

Yet fate won't let you get away;
peace and joy will never stay.
Your precious one, they took and ****--
Emily's dead, lying cold and still.

The pain you've buried for many years,
the darkest past, your endless tears
the rage you've buried brave
came crawling back out of its grave.

"Evil is good, retribution is fair!"
Goodness became something you don't want to care
Justice you'll bring with bloods on your hands
Farewell to the angels, by the devil you stand.
Killer's Tale
Mark Toney Aug 8

Practicing mindfullness
on my high-rise roof
I notice you across the street on
your balcony seemingly aloof
listening to vintage Carly Simon
          "... you say we can keep our love alive"

You stare my way and energetically waive
          "Babe all I know is what I see"

I hesitate, smile and then return the gesture
          "The couples cling and claw"

As if on cue you stand and press against the railing
         "and drown in love's debris"

Still smiling as my heart beats faster
          "... we'll soar like two birds through the clouds"

"What's your name?" you playfully cry out
          "But soon you'll cage me on your shelf"

"Who wants to know?" is my surprising reply
          "I'll never learn to be just me first by myself"

Suddenly flashbacks hijack my thinking
          "... it's time we moved in together
          and raised a family of our own, you and me"
 
 
Why is this happening?  Why am I sinking?
          "... that's the way I've always heard it should be
          you want to marry me, we’ll marry"


I hear your beseeching, unintelligible shouts as I retreat
Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet—
       p
           l
              u
                  n
                      g
                          i
            ­                 n
                                 g

Lost and languishing in isolation's inner prison





© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
8/8/2020 - Poetry form: Narrative - Italicized lyrics from the song “That’s the Way I’ve Always heard It Should Be” (1971) written by Carly Simon and Jacob Brackman - © 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Anwer Ghani Aug 7
When we left the icy land to drown in the scent of the bustling city, the streets were rippling with hearts stealing. There is no quiet in the bustling city nor winter, so there is no place for any cold word or heavy souls. Everything here smiles, the eyes are filled with incense and colors, and mouths have hymns. In the sweet moments here, you can't find anything but amazing moments and deep stories. Colorful lights paint the walls and cheeks and bloom with henna on the hands. I cannot forget that tree-covered road caressing our heads and the skyscraper that stands at the heart of an enchanting beach.
Mark Toney Aug 5
When I was coming up
momma and daddy both said
"Finish your plate, son.  Eat the rest!"
More often than not there'd be something
I didn't like, or didn't like enough
and momma or daddy one would say
"Finish your plate.  Eat the rest!"
I'd eat a little more, ask to be excused,
momma or daddy see my remnants
"Eat the rest, child!  Eat the rest!"
I'd eat a bit more. "May I be excused?"
"Listen to me, boy, you best eat the rest!"
So I'd sit there, pitiful like, and eat the rest.

Reflecting on this, I am keenly aware
proponents on both sides argue 'beware'
Forcing a child to always finish their plate
can lead to obesity's worrisome fate
But letting them stop whenever they want
selfishly teaches life's lessons to flaunt
It doesn't matter which side you're on
I'll agree with you so let's move on
There's a deeper darker side to this
that I need to mention lest I be remiss
After year's of being told to eat "the rest"
is it possible I actually consumed my rest?

The rest I seek when I try to take a nap
The rest I pursue when I wear my CPAP
The rest that eludes me at work or at play
The question my wife asks me every day:

"Were you able to get any rest?"

No, dear.  When I was a kid, I was forced to
finish my plate and eat the rest, so there's
none to be found.  I done ate it all.




© 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
8/4/2020 - Poetry form: Narrative - The ramblings of a man raised by a momma from the South and a daddy from the North ;) - © 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Unforgiving wall braces my back.

Just seconds before the door slammed,
I truly thought I'd appreciate quiet.

But now the empty air constructs barriers so claustrophobic that my limbs won't twitch -

Forget functioning.

A single carpenter ant skitters across the floor before my grass-stained mesh sneaker, as if called from the slimy couch shadows on cue.

And then another.

(Note: The poet is self-conscious enough that he needs to say : "The following should be horrible writing, but after hours of thought I couldn't think of a better phrase to express our ill-fated protagonists' malice towards these insectile invaders than": )

I hate them.

I told (The One Who Escapes) on Monday that I'd handle the infestation.

Every time I saw an ant crawling after that-
I felt a swarm of mandibles tear at my brain tissue

and a burning in my intestines courtesy of burrowing.

A feeling that's amplified ad nauseam by current cacophonous quiet.

(The One Who Escapes) bursts back through the door, gasping for breath and blabbering with darting eyes about:

"They're coming right now!

We have to go!"
All Feedback Welcome!
Aspen Jul 6
“Depression, how long will it be ?”
“𝑼𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.”
“Where’s Empty?”
“𝑯𝒆’𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆.”
“And happiness?”
“𝑫𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒅 𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒆.”
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