"direful" poems
Trapped in a cage with golden bars of light
Of ancient habit and direful duties;
Below the water crashed into the bight,
The whispering waves baiting with beauties.
But her shadow lurked around the coast,
Dashing her to the beach like drifting wood.
Preventing her from what she wanted the most
To reach new shores from where she stood.
She wanted to travel and sail the open sea
Beyond the shingle, seaweed and shells
Closer to the horizon where the birds flew free
Or to the arenaceous ground in diving bells.
And coming back to where she started
She found her seaside changed since she has parted.
Or did the widening horizon change her perceiving?
For returning was not the same as never leaving.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
Flag on the hilltop
Waving in the breeze majestically equal to the mountain it is built on
Soldier in the war
Standing heavy and direful, facing evil with brothers and valour
Heart in the chest
Lead the way, fight the war
Be open and keep the sword at the readiest
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
The danger has passed
with its shadow cast
and you feel relieved
if you're not deceived.
When it was around
there wasn't a sound
and all that happened
nearly time flattened.
'Twas on such a day
that it came your way
but did not expect
let alone suspect.
You'd never have thought
that way to be caught
but who knows when fate
brings death on their plate.
It's only when time
finds the hour to chime
and it strikes you down
with no one around.
So helpless you'll be
until you are free
from the direful hour
if life is not sour.
On such occasions
of life's invasions
which are distasteful
be not ungrateful.
Give thanks to the Lord
and study His Word.
Apply it with heart
as Grace will impart.
____________
Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 4:44 AM UTC
I've been contemplating suicide,
as of late.
Not your standard,
bullet to the brain,
ending ones physical existence,
type of suicide.
No,
I'm considering something... more direful.
I'm going to commit a writers' suicide.
I'll start by deleting my various internet caches,
like the bat of an eye they'll all disappear.
Blink, blink, blink!
For extra measure,
I'll stick an Ice pick through this computer,
then sink it,
in the lake.
I'll follow that up,
by dissolving my pens in a vat of acid.
To the wood chipper!
Go the pencils.
I'll have a bonfire,
burn all the physical text I have,
and every single scrap of blank paper,
within reach.
To finish it off,
I'll break my thumbs,
pull out my own tongue.
Is a writer really alive,
without his word?
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
Tick tock tick tock
The clock struck
twelve.
She clutched her pillow
tight.
All the fiendish voices
in her head and the
Unforgettable memories
lingered in her mind.
His dulcet and enticing
face, she remembered.
It had been a year
and still found herself
struggling
to get over that
direful and painful
incident.
How could she forget ?
That night , when she prepared
scrumptious food and
arranged a candle light
dinner with a mellifluous
melody to dance to.
And a bottle of champagne.
Everything so perfect
and dreamy.
She waited desperately
for him to arrive in
his car.
It was thirty minutes
past twelve.
She bit her nails
in agitation .
The bell rang
and she rushed
to open the door.
He stood there
sparkling, shining.
He looked beautiful
nearly beyond belief
He entered and
held her waist ,
her hand
and they danced
dreamily on
the resplendent
melody.
A knock on the door
Interrupted their dance.
She wondered who
it could be at this
hour .
She opened the door
and to her surprise
she saw cops with
flowers and chocolates
in their hands.
The cop reached his
pocket and pulled
a photograph out.
Her hands and legs
started trembling
when she saw the photo.
It was his photo with
blood all over his face
and his body.
She couldn't believe.
She rushed into
the house that was
now lonely.
There was no sign
of him..
She screamed
on top of her
lungs as she
had lost him and
there was no way of
getting him back.
Was it her imagination?
Or did it actually happen?
His car met with an
accident due
to the failure of the brakes
the cops explained.
They handed
the flowers and chocolates
to her.
Her address written on
them made sure it reached
her.
Tears rolled down her
cheeks as she sat there
mourning.
He was gone. All he
left behind was the pain
she had to live with.
She never thought that
this one night could change
her life drastically.
She looked up at the
sky.
The sky looked tragically
beautiful like a grave yard
of stars.
She noticed one star that
that shined the brightest.
With the smallest crescent moon
of a smile on
her testrained face, she thought
that he had always been the
brightest star in her
sky.
Sep 10, 2016
Sep 10, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
Pieces of you scatter and sway
With every footstep underneath
Like a string of steps beneath the sea
My hope is silt
And my thoughts are of you
Though the tides may turn
On a direful coin
As they press for only the most history true
It’s forever in memory and in mind
And in the quiet corners of my conscious mind
Where you will be
Drifting like the sparkling sands
Are the memories of you renewed
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Oft in the secluded quarters of the
unshared
intellect, lie a poets
unpaid debts
of deeper thoughts
hardly written,
therefore surely unread.
His notes are past due,
but they may subdue
the sublime in kind,
(upon the turning of every runic stone in thy head.)
But in those moments of
creative famine
do direful phantoms
make a struggling poets thoughts
their ruinous home,
'til
something
ultimately
will
loan
a response
-thru which we bards are touched to the heart,
the nucleus,
the core.
'Tis the acumen of the unchained
Mind
where lies
the tranquil pleasure
of discovery,
which can be found alone,
here beneath the tree
which we
lovingly
call the laughing sycamore.
Suffice it to say,
we must have that need to write
fulfilled,
or feel blank
and hollow, lying quiet,
still,
there where
our inspiration also lay,
dearly killed,
by another sullen day,
whilst surrounded by the
many offensive forms;
and every essential structure
of our being, being forced
to shut out
the ghastly tidal wave
that has ever poured o'er our
personified dream.
It is a dreariness
which foreshadows
the greatest theme,
that mustn't be
ignored.
Therefore e'er will I seek
the nascent flame of ideas,
searching solely to feel
inspired, bright, and clear;
and here display
my regards
with barely
a downcast
awe
-'til the portrayal of metaphysical line
reveals itself in it's own time...
each
to
each,
one and all.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 1:29 AM UTC
Can’t you hear me?
My tongue hurls your name
Into the wind
Moving east
Urging storm’s brewing
Rising with the chill
Of eery lake
Carrying my echoes
Through clouds of haze
Damp desperation
Voice, strained, releases
Surges of rain
And sleet. Pooling,
Pleading at your feet
Drown in my essence
Watch as it breathes
Watch as it weaves
Through the valleys and summits
Of your goosebumps
In intricate lattice
Ice lace tourniquet
Asphyxiating sadness
From sore hands. Solitude
From weary eyes. Silence
From blackened lungs
Darker than the thundering sky
Reverberating anthems
Of my unfulfilled soul
And my direful need
To be made whole
By you
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
the sleeper...
riled in slumber
her face fevered
cussed about the terrain
of a floral breeding
bedding patterns and the print
bunched in struggles
in smudges
an amateur trial with sisters makeup
primal cosmetics
make a mock
daubed
ceremony for slumber
dusty and museum are her dollworks
an amphitheatre audience
overlooming her berth
flaunting the gallery shelves
sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
and they sluice their gull gall
a sick drizzle
over the sleepers form
from the exterior
wild wails the weather
its being
drubbing
peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream
she is fumbled in dreams...
abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
a bleed of vandals
siling her muted childhood
parading the playground
berating old
once loved playthings
adopting no sympathy
adapting in favour
of the wild riding will
of the direful pre familiar
into the woods...
a ***** charmed breath
dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
of grandmothers doting
stern teachings
like fragile pottery
come to harm
broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
this nocturnal forest
busy in heat
bonding death
to refract the hustling moon
a company of wolves
fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
and sexing the other
fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale
...agitation in her sleep
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 2:11 AM UTC
There commenced a prevalent time,
Not knowing many would float above.
A direful action that not one could mime
Now saying their woes to the ones they love.
A surprise had happened once before
Causing many to run and cover one-self
Now again surprise is knocking at our door
History does like to repeat itself.
Hence it began on a clear blue day,
When souls were happy and bright.
For many to work they go away
Not knowing disaster had taken flight.
People have working, high in the air
Unknown, getting ready for what is in store.
They sight coming towards, a dove right there
Just larger it was, a thousand times more.
It was at this time God lifted his hand
And we smelled a breeze that didn't take care,
For there was no safety over this land
Then shock and fear struck those in midair.
In the blink of an eye existed flames and fire
But in a few minutes it repeated, the history.
The large white dove had hit the first much higher
Your eyes don't deceive you; the sight's no mystery.
Dost here there is panic, hurry and screams,
Elsewhere there is peace but not for long.
A dove in sight of five sides, so it seems,
The mad one that does not right but wrong.
Now all that's left, is the four.
And the twins have ultimately, yet sorrowfully fell.
For they are no longer visible from shore
There is a sound coming, the awesome death knell.
Finally seeing that we suffered a great deal,
God lowered his hand and struck down a dove.
We cry, for despair and loss is what we feel.
He watched and taught us a lesson from above.
Now there is no longer any urgency
"This will test our nation's resolve," he said.
'Twas a great day of emergency,
On the paper next day it was, attack we read.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 12:39 AM UTC
Wrinkled. Dry faced. Charging down old stairs.
Not what I expected, but I lunged my frantic knife.
Wild eyes turn to wells as aged bright stars stare back.
Heart shattered visage glides, bumbling. Mirage.
Please go do some gardening. Your flowers are
Sick without you. I miss you. Dream spoilt. Crooked,
Half-hearted, direful springs sprout poison youth.
Seedlings blight your wrathful name as petals grow…
The flowers you grew colourless now bloom bright.
They miss grey! True blue is cold- burdened purple.
Feel the life drink backward, clutching an endless
Night you downed tools without final reconcile
Or friend blinded from drugs.
Now staring beyond a time-stained bitter fire,
Burnt images caught and ****** through empty dark
Tortured fear-stricken blood wincing agony- ****
Fate lamenting, sharply-flashing, tortured picture,
Lying motionless. Bleeding internally.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 7:16 AM UTC
I'm shy but I can be rude
I'm direful but I can be thoughtful
I'm stooge but I can also be a subjugator
Instead
I prefer to be inarticulate
To be the best of a person I can become
To live in Gods image as I was made by the Father Almighty
But never to be a snide.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC
I was sad again last night, but not the usual kind of sad. This time a direful longing seeped in, replacing the bitter melancholy that makes my cranium its home. All I wanted was for you to fill the cold, settled sheets on the other side of the bed, to be there when I reached out, to be able to sing myself to sleep with the rise and fall of your lungs.
It was as if my heart was spilling out of my body and onto the floor before me. The sadness poured out of me in every way possible, and there was never to be a cure because you were not
there.
Too far, are you now, to rescue me from this dreadful ache.
The ache that extends out of my fingers
and into my pen as I write this.
The ache that keeps me up at night,
and disappoints me every morning.
The ache that makes every coffee too bitter
and too weak
because the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore
is you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
Please come back soon.
- k.m.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
A dream of reconciliation,
Quoi- false- sunlight bursting through rain,
Bonfire of antipathy,
Direful springs of blighted youth.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC
"The challenge with love is that there are two volumes:
loud and off"^^
=========
wasn't me who quipped this,
and he who wrote waxed
kindly referencing those
who dabble in
playing the bagpipe,
but I
do diddy!dabble in the arts of love,
and my sound not so shrill,
nor drowning direful drone of a piping;
though melodically, been know to wail,
but the worldview appeals,
for when I live in the in-between,
the volume on the very done~down~low,
that love is a not-even whispered mot,
and you wonder if the volume switch
is actually off,
and then the eyes say yes,
the tastebuds grow crazy sweet,
the earworm melodies you alone can hear,
and you are suddenly totally aware aware,
the off is no more,
and you hit the dashboard of yourred Mustang,
(see ^)
singing along, going too fast. not giving ****
cause love is back and forth, oh yeah
back and frothy
Oct 17, 2025
Oct 17, 2025 at 7:15 PM UTC