"eeriness" poems
The nightingale is titillating;
its songs shiver down my spine
while listening to its melodious voice;
hearing the pitch-perfect harmonies,
is as calming as the summer sea
I watch the nightingale, perfectly perched on the tree
whispering sweet sounds of seduction
beckoning to her mate
its voice echoes throughout the night
Filling the eeriness of the pitch-black sky
My own nightingale, won't you sing to me?
Your voice is my sanity,
soft-spoken and light, solace rests in your songs,
It covers me like a blanket,
shielding me from all harm
Safe and sound in your presence
captured by those gentle brown eyes
your peace is like the moon,
Resting still in the dark
But always following around
My nightingale sings me to sleep
as the sky changes from dusk to night
the sweet little notes caress my ears
while I gently close my eyes
dreaming to her lovely lullaby
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
The place was dangerous as hell; we had no business being there. It was a complex, composed of four immense structures, looming on the bluffs between Lake Michigan and a ghost town. I'm not sure which side of the fence brought forth more eeriness - the sight of four massive industrial skeletons was indeed an eerie one, but within the village that must endure it's haunting presence persists a dwindling heartbeat... and together they produced a heightened effect of slow decay - and that was what drew me in.
The place was magnificent day or night.
By day, we'd explore the groundworks while the light allowed us to admire the massive machinery, which by then had accumulated copious amounts of corrosion. All those dead giants, never to function again. In the spring time, beams of light would penetrate the ceiling above, caving in from years of stress sans stress tests. Even when the light was not shining through, one could make out where the beams have been because in their wake they left a trail of life. Up to that point in my life I thought that was the most beautiful scene I had ever seen - a thousand tons of old machinery, and a stubborn sunbeam poking through, incubating it's au natural industrialized chia pet.
By night, we would ascend to the rooftops of these four story horror stories and gaze up at the stars. Sometimes, when our ***** were feeling particularly swelled, we'd venture across the rooftops as if in some post-apocalyptic videogame. And sometimes when we were feeling a bit rebellious and artistic, we'd bring along some cans of spray paint and redecorate to our desire. Oh, and another reason the place reeked of death was surely due to it being a glue factory... wherein horses were killed in order to gain access to their foot-stuff. I was told by an unfortunate local that they'd bury the unwanted horse parts in big pits back behind the place... this man had told me that he fell into one while wandering around back there - nearly died trying to get out.
We knew the place was soon to be leveled, but we did not know when. Eventually I ended up moving out of state for a while, and alas, upon my return my childhood fascination was no more. shrugs... So it goes.
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
Deep silence
Restless peace
and my mind started chattering
about the eeriness of the surrounding
The sun's down
and everyone's home
Me and my shadows
walking through the meadow
The sky's starlit
but still darkness meet
I shiver through my skin
Watching the night spin
Searching for answer
As I see moon slowly disappear
My eyes stay wide awake
as I see morning about to break
but my thoughts still remains unclear
tinged with fear
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
"look at all the lonely people"
i waltzed into the desolate church on the corner of a street in a town i didn't know the name of. i've turned into one of those people who spends time in cathedrals on their days off in towns i've never heard of, due to loneliness, mostly. to my surprise, there was a young lady halfway sitting and halfway standing in a pew next to a stained glass window. her breathing was heavy, i could hear her across the room. she had a somewhat horrified expression on her face, which was pale and almost ghostly. she looked so dejected, it was absolutely heart-rendering. once i took a step towards her, the priest of the old church appeared and told her she had to leave her sad state and her pew next to the stained glass window. her melancholy expression remained as she walked slowly out of the church, letting the wooden door slam behind her, never once looking up at me or the priest. he took his place in the exact same spot this young girl was in, and began to write words in a small leather journal with a quill pen. i turned around and left, and decided to come back at the exact same time i did the next day, in hopes to relive the past few moments.
--
as promised, i promenaded down the center aisle of the pews in the church, the carpet crackling under my feet, due to old age, adding to the sense of eeriness that lurked through the establishment. the young girl was not there. i sat in the pew she sat in the day prior, in hopes of her walking in once more. i waited for hours, and she did not show. i faintly heard the sound of a violin just as the priest walked through a door near the altar. his hands were covered in dirt, and i was curious. i approached him.
"hello, father. might i ask why your hands are so *****
"ah. you're the man from yesterday." he said, a slight glimmer of fear in his eye.
"yes, that is correct."
"you seemed to be quite fascinated by miss eleanor." it's almost as if he knew how intrigued i was by her, although i didn't know her name until now.
"eleanor? the lass from the day prior?"
"indeed. well, it upsets me to break this news to you, but my hands are battered with dirt because i've just come back from burying miss rigby in the cemetery."
"you mean there was no formal ceremony to celebrate her life? what is the matter with you?! how did she die?"
the priest looked me dead in the eye, and spoke the chilling words in a completely monotone voice.
"she was one of the lonely people."
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
There she was on stage
The Theatre was packed full
Her face painted
Like a porcelain doll.
Lights shone down on her,
Red velvet curtains draped
It's like we were in
The Eighteen Hundreds
She was in full view
Her long black hair was
Camouflaged with her leotard
The spotlights must have
Blinded her eyes
She danced as
Delicately
As a feather,
Mystically and
Artistically,
It was entrancing to see
My friend who was
Starring the show.
The audience were captivated,
Gentlemen smoking their pipes
Nodding heads of approval,
Swift,
Soft,
Subtle movements
Mesmerised the greater crowd...
And then she speaks.
She speaks poetry
In so many words,
Words I can't relay,
I wish I could remember,
But I remember
How it made me feel;
How it made every one feel.
The strange eeriness
Mixed with elegance,
Her words harshly whispered
But true...
The crowd errupted
With applause
"Bravo" "Bravo"
And then I wake....
© Karen L Hamilton, 2012
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
The night’s silence invaded by rains
Cutting through the darkness
Dingy streets exposed by the lightning
Howling ferociously, with vengeance
Street dwellers soaked to the spirits
Helpless against the outburst of nature
Scurrying to salvage their meager belongings
Cold and wet streets offer them little solace
The old library portico offers some respite
Nefarious activities are deluged
Tonight no one is on the prowl, no prize catch
Although cold outside, it’s been a sleepless night
So many memories rain down my thought crucible
Filling it to the brim, I feel drowning in them
So many emotions raining down on me
A shiver runs down my spine, cold eeriness
Stormy night stirred up my past
My silent present invaded on a rainy night
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
I live my life alone with you
You're here, but not with me
You travel in a different orbit
That only sometimes crosses mine.
My cup of joy is not half full
It's cracked and liquid seeps away
To vanish in the same place as my tears
Though it looks pretty at a casual glance.
The things that once beguiled my heart
Now chafe up blisters on my soul
I try to tell you of my pain
But we don't speak a common tongue.
Our eyes don't look at things the same
Our ears perceive two different tunes
When I reach out to take your hand
It feels like 'dead man's finger' -
Childhood game in a grown up world-
A guarantee of shivers
In the eeriness of misperception
That so mirrors all we do.
Now I'm lonely in bed beside you
Back to back with dog between
The distance that we've slid apart
Measures out in months and years
And I long for a sharing touch
To tell me I don't live alone
It isn't there although I search
Leaving me empty, lost, and all alone.
ljm
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
the day my cat was about to die
i was in poland, visiting my grand-parents,
then i became psychotically nervous
and asked my parents to be flown back
to england, i had all goosebumps eeriness
on me, they didn't allow me,
my sikh neighbour was taking care of
the cat, a sadistic ***** who on any given
opportunity would whip her husband,
the cat's name was Oscar, a grey maine ****
days later my parents returned from their
holiday in the maldives, the cat was dead,
died of kidney failure, he had a heart condition,
but cats that have kidney problems
live for years to come, they **** very slowly
as if they have prostate cancer than narrows the
****** oesophagus ;
the cat used to be cared for by my hebrew neighbours
and was fine, but then this sikh ***** took care
and in my post-mortem analysis killed my companion:
take away the descriptive elements of a person,
whether religion, ethnicity and you're racist to be honest,
you bleach people, leave me and my vocabulary intact
before you turn into a **** english teacher:
leave people intact for descriptive language, o.k.?
but you know what i did afterwards?
the cat was toast turned into ash,
sat on a shelf in a cardboard urn for a long time.
but you know what i did after?
i marched into a world war i memorial ground,
where a graveyard was once,
now like a hebrew graveyard with the gravestones stacked
back-to-back... i took a croquet trolley,
a hammer, and a chisel.. and there in the graveyard
hammered each grave to wake the dead,
until i hammered at one long enough to hack
off a piece of it with writing, wrapped it in
a black bin bag, put it on the croquet trolley
and wheeled it off... and then in the moonlit night
with shovel dug a shallow grave,
in the garden, opened the cardboard urn of remains,
scattered some into the dirge hole,
closed the urn's lid, and put it in,
covered the remains with dug-up earth,
and then placed the gravestone on the dug-up site.
mother inquired what i'd done with the ashes,
i told her... walk to the back of the garden
and see the gravestone.
once too in the same memorial grounds
i took a rock cross and put it on my shoulder,
walked with it, and put it at the foot
of the memorial where enforced memorisation
of the 1914 genesis took to a public spectacle
of where poppy wreaths are laid,
and i put the stone gravestone crux over
a poppy wreath - it must have weighed about 40kg
if not more: a roll of roofing felt weighs about as much.
but i buried my cat, and that's that.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 10:22 AM UTC
there's always talk about the calm before the storm, but I think there's an eeriness about the calm after it, too. it's almost as though nothing's happened at all. almost.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
I close my eyes to a world unknown, at my side a figure is shown, familiar at heart but I cannot see, the face of this being next to me.
We walk in silence, side by side, I couldn’t make sense of this place if I tried. So plain and boring; dark and cold, everything in sight looks stone and old.
We stop next to a huge dead tree,I look to my side and all I can see, this figure in dark now has eyes that glow red, I realize now I must be dead.
Out of nowhere appears a gate, I beg for forgiveness but know it’s too late... Harshly pushed through and I’m on my own, now I know the true feeling of being alone.
I was scared though, once we departed, to walk through these realms alone and unguarded. I moved uneasy through this Gothic art, I was scared for my soul, and for my heart.
As I walked this path alone, I heard a voice other than my own. It wanted me it yearned for me, it called with the most desire….
SILENCE!! One must never speak, of the devious evil which conquers the weak. Of the one who feeds off souls and sin, he’s hard to get rid of but easy to let in.
I could feel the evil at the depths of my soul, the eeriness of night had taken its toll. Stranded and lost,cold and confused, I wanted to escape but was incapable to move.
“Come closer my dear”, and I shivered with fear,so softly it spoke, and then I awoke.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
*i can **** a bottle of wine out no problem, with beer i tend to knot my stomach tight with beer acting like spaghetti - the other superpower carbohydrate; yesterday i met my first suicide, standing on my nightly route, a young boy, “depressed,” just staring at a phone screen, we exchanged a few pleasantries (who you with? no one, just me. who you with? beer), i climb over the footpath fence, knock off something that’s perched there, it’s his, i apologise, but he doesn’t mind, so i ask again, no, it’s ok, a good night i say, clear skies, plenty of stars, he apathetically drifts with the words - like a canadian flag in the hands of an american patriot - we part, away in the distance, past the horse field i saw a morse code signal of the suicide kid’s phone flashing, i have no clue whether he thought he was alone in this little patch of countryside wilderness. all i know, upon encounter, is just that eerie feel of it all - and if i was to theorise that eeriness, i’d simply write: at least systematise those thoughts, you can’t censor them! honestly, i feel like i’m engels in the victorian factories with these mental health services of england - it’s not exactly communism that’s around the corner this time, but where will this existential experiment take place if the ****** one took off in the mongolian buffer before boomeranging back? i’m going to bet on red 32 - china - because of the one-child state policy.*
i drink wine so cheap i either have to add sugar to it,
or drink it as kalimotxo,
but at three quid a bottle it’s a bargain and a barrel too;
but the wine i make once a year
(12 bottles by my last count)
is much better, a full bodied essex vintage,
that i can drink straight,
but i drink it within a week,
which makes me wonder - if man was still
attached to nature with the seasonal consistency...
would a little word beginning with al- lism?
never mind, i know that we wouldn’t be eating
watery strawberries from spain in winter.
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Up along the snakeskin hill where palaces still hold court
where the rain comes in thick and the cloud gathers thin.
Out to the right of me the open sea.
I stab at Atlantean waves with a finger that points to the stars.
There is an eeriness as the darkness descends,
all palaces and houses of men depend upon light coming in and laughter drifting out,
this is only a summer place for living and for the eyes of the tourist a
place to enthral.
We sit at the 'Paris' in Cascais drinking tea and partaking of cake,
the crowds tumble in as we tumble out and make tracks back to the old town of Lisbon.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
It registers as soon as I open the door,
a keen foreboding feeling.
An unfamiliarity never felt before
sends my senses reeling.
This is my home, my haven sweet;
yet today it does not belong to me.
I exhale and follow my tentative feet
while I repress the urge to flee.
I feign bravado by humming as I
go check every room casually.
I get more comfortable by and by –
the eeriness wanes thankfully.
Apr 13, 2019
Apr 13, 2019 at 11:25 AM UTC
He was like reading a book
at the kitchen table, while waiting
for the kettle to boil, and the
blinds letting in just enough light
as to not disturb the cat (if you have
a cat) in its peaceful slumber
on the counter, next to the flowers
you have set out.
That overwhelming sense of
home before the eeriness of too much
silence crept up on you, and you’d
have to move because suddenly the
air no longer held the serene
feeling it had only a moment ago.
He was danger. But you loved it.
Because he kept you on edge,
that alert he made you feel.
Your sudden awareness to everything.
He made you feel so ******* alive.
But he leaves, almost too quickly.
Like sunlight behind the clouds,
and as abrupt as the screeching
of steam as water boils.
And you realize he doesn’t
quite feel the same way you do
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
i’m convinced we let go
twice
once
in order to
leave ourselves broken
and alone
on a cold floor
till we flatline
then once more
to realize
we always were
broken
and alone
we
always
were
ironic
ain’t it?
it’s special
that kind of silence
somehow comforting
only after the eeriness
of no one caring
truly
sets in
and no one is supposed to
i was surprised to learn this
especially as a child
i learn it every day still
especially as a man
and you’re lucky
if momma does
some mommas don’t
some mommas can’t
yes
as a man
i must learn
to bloom
not only bloom
but to hide
the uglier colors
and only display
the primaries
the strong ones
the vividness of manliness
never my grays
and blacks
where i tend to color
most of my mind
i sometimes hate it
and sometimes i like it like that
there’s no lines
or borders i can’t cross
i’m not expected to be
good
at it
i’m asked to
handle things
and to listen
intently
while i can barely
handle the echoes
to begin with
nobody asks about those
nobody needs to
nobody should
not even momma
why would i worry her?
she’s the only one
ever around
when lingering drumming sounds
rise
it’d be nice to be asked
but a lot of things would be nice
and this silence is nice
sometimes
most of the time it ain’t
but i lay
alone
drama free
and no amount of company
can take that peace from me
or piece from me
givers give
and
takers take
beware the silence
that roams that
strong silhouette of his
for he definitely
opens up fully
to his shadows
and his shadows
really listen
he doesn’t have
to let go of them
they never leave
in fact
they’re his followers
and after a chat
and a quiet cry
he goes back
to momma
and no one else
as it should be
as it is
and
as it will be.
-melancholicreator
Jan 29, 2025
Jan 29, 2025 at 5:12 PM UTC
Colourful virtues
I see the sun set over barley
I see black horses playing in the rain
I have Angels dancing with my brain
It feels just like a movie with stained glass windows and a Gothic eeriness to the church purposefully ingrained
All the colours make a picture to again provoke some pain
Twelve men dressed in purple pass me by with a golden cross aloft like a symbolistic nuclear bomb that was so vain
Simple men have virtues some of them can only be described as colours so gather them together and forget about the blame.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
I remember when the worst thing around were these shadows that dance on my wall
Open windows served as music, for the wind’s rhythm drove specters to sway
Standing in the doorway, with the lazy hum of bees outside, my eyes panicked
That was years ago
The shadows were just glimpses of the realms that resided in my head
From the cavernous depths sprang a Panther colored like silky ink
It prowls both my mind and waking reality with an equal vibe of eeriness
Recently, a quiet day of class turned gruesome within seconds
Caught up in a cold fit of hatred, I saw my classmates’ bodies slumped over
Their blood formed a massive pool reeking of crimson
I saw that **** cat stare at me with liquid eyes while it lapped it up
A few blinks later, Geometry class was back to its usual dull droning
I honestly don’t know what to believe anymore
I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not ******* crazy!
Or am I?
Every time things go back to normal, there’s a tinge of sickliness in my gut
The grim expectation of more horror and gore
Every time things go back to normal, I think of buzzing bugs and melodic wind
I think of phantomous felines and shadows waltzing across my wal
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
I'm writing by the light of lightening as raindrops gently wet my notebook and im using sharpie to make sure that my inspiration is not lost. The horizon is beautiful, fireflies glittering in the forest like stars in a galaxy. I never knew Mother Nature could be so upset as to make god cry and the moon hide. Dont ever feel as you're not good enough because i swear you can make mountains move and silence thunder. It feels like atomic bombs are leveling my heartbeat and the ground i walk on to get close to to you. My thoughts are getting more and more scrambled and my strength is running out
of
line but the wind is whispering secrets that i must scribe.
part 1;
The beginning is now. It's only 11:11 and the raindrops arent so gentle anymore. The shadows are already ravenous for missing you and the eeriness of the darkened sky has quieted even as the most deafening lies beg to be heard and i want to trust that everything will be okay. Please, let everything be okay
Part 2;
I'm starting to miss the sun. I'm sorry for whatever i did to make you upset. I need your guidance, your light to show me the road to forgiveness as i have forgiven your sly actions. I need you to face your fear of tornadoes and come swirling home to me. I need you.
Part 3;
The end
The storm is gone and so is my easy state of mind. My paper is dry but my thoughts are not and im sorry im only stable when i long for something i cannot have but i want to be bright and reckless and strong and everything the night is the i am not.
Goodbye.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
There is an eeriness to it now
Your presence
Bleak
So complete with irony & memories
you’d think it was a
Statement
You’re blessed in the sense
Of having the ability to be
Be unaware
So unaware that there’s a
Luring feeling to you
The way you so easily adapt
To the chaos
So used to that chaos that it’s
Comfortable
Don’t be
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 12:33 AM UTC
contemporary eeriness ricochets
off the dry wall
colliding against the thinness of my skull
like a soldier firing a gunshot from a mile away
without any deterrent about the damage the exit wounds would cause
the octave changes
and the slurred speech drenches out of your lips
consonants and vowels with no connection
knock knock
here it comes again
the same lifeless language that has been spoken
time after time
and the audience applauds as you waltz off the stage
and the curtains close before i can clamor for an encore
the crowd is roaring as if you were speaking in tongues
but the novel was written for only my ears to understand the detriment
the lights dim out and the people scatter
and i am left alone against four walls
begging for the show to start over
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 12:19 AM UTC
I find comfort in the emptiness of the night
The hum of vacant streets and useful sheets
I relate to the eeriness of crickets and wonder if the bear is outside my door
looking for a midnight snack of scraps
(or looking for a friend, perhaps?)
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Walking into the room where you once resided
There’s an eeriness of seeing your pictures
Your knick knacks
Your clothing
But not you
Our laughter echoes as we try on your fun jewelry
You shine through our smiles as we reminisce
We sift through your belongings
Combing through the years of memories
Feeling your presence in this empty room
Walking through the hallways of this place you knew and loved
You were a celebrity here
Every nurse and patient would smile and say hello
Now we share a solemn smile as we pass by
We see your closest friends together at lunch
Though there seems to be an empty chair
We know you’re there
Always sharing in the good company of others
So many felt your love
So many felt your joy
Now moving through this place
There’s an emptiness
But we know you’re there
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
What It Was Like
( In The Trenches )
Sandbags riddled with bullet holes made up
the parapet, and barbed wire protected the
trenches which were waterlogged knee deep in
mud and stinking from overflowing cesspits.
Every soldier was infested with lice and from
this, many were suffering the severe pains of
trench fever. The cold wet and unsanitary
conditions were causing trench foot, this in
a lot of cases led to amputations.
Over the top "No Mansland" an inhospitable
wasteland of craters and blackened tree stumps.
The burnt out remains of buildings added to the
eeriness of this desolate hell on earth.
Brown and black rats in their thousands
were feeding on the bodies of the dead,
which were then exposed from their shallow graves.
The air was filled with the smell of cordite
and the sickening odour of poisonous gas.
Death was the trenches companion day and night
from the snipers bullet, artillery bombardment,
gas and disease. That’s what it was like.
So was it any wonder that on that Christmas morning
the troops from both sides laid down their arms
and walked out into no mansland, shaking hands,
exchanging cigarettes and chocolate, showing
photographs of their families, and wishing each
other a “ Merry Christmas ”
and guess what, they even played football.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC
i want to be as indiscernible as all my aches — as indefinite as the sorrows pressing down on my breastbone. i want to hush all the pain: loud, red, screaming — burning its way out of my throat. i want to crawl inside my own skin, until i feel nothing vaguely human — until bones and muscles dissolve into scattered, tender wounds. i want riddled endings; i want limbs taken down in such secrecy. i want the eeriness of my quiet hurting. i want to implode.
Oct 14, 2021
Oct 14, 2021 at 2:36 AM UTC