"haunter" poems
HERE at right of the entrance this bronze head,
Human, superhuman, a bird's round eye,
Everything else withered and mummy-dead.
What great tomb-haunter sweeps the distant sky
(Something may linger there though all else die;)
And finds there nothing to make its tetror less
Hysterica passio of its own emptiness?
No dark tomb-haunter once; her form all full
As though with magnanimity of light,
Yet a most gentle woman; who can tell
Which of her forms has shown her substance right?
Or maybe substance can be composite,
profound McTaggart thought so, and in a breath
A mouthful held the extreme of life and death.
But even at the starting-post, all sleek and new,
I saw the wildness in her and I thought
A vision of terror that it must live through
Had shattered her soul. Propinquity had brought
Imagiation to that pitch where it casts out
All that is not itself: I had grown wild
And wandered murmuring everywhere, "My child, my
child! '
Or else I thought her supernatural;
As though a sterner eye looked through her eye
On this foul world in its decline and fall;
On gangling stocks grown great, great stocks run dry,
Ancestral pearls all pitched into a sty,
Heroic reverie mocked by clown and knave,
And wondered what was left for massacre to save.
2k
Crooked, brick teeth behind
a curled, silly smile
Brown, glazed irises swimming in
blood-shot eyes
Smoky hair, thick on top,
more wispy as it descends
but dense as a forest the hair
that hides your sycamore
when you're not using it
to haunt the young.
Betraying your lusts,
you mixed your sycamore
with a full-bloom *****
and brought me to be--
The white skin and purple hues
of my mother
cannot hide that I am
of the monster.
Dare I, half-pansy, half-sycamonster
in my full bloom,
become pollinated by
the quaking aspen,
so we may risk bringing to be
another haunter of child's dreams,
or return to the earth,
never knowing who could be?
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 10:05 AM UTC
I shed egos
like a snake sheds its skin.
Forever changing.
Forever growing.
Forever running from the broken whimpers of last nights wishes.
I will always be that lonely spirit.
You never wanted haunting your life.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
nothing seems real anymore.
i am roaming the earth
with transparent feet
trying not to fall through the ground.
my bones are always cold.
i am trying to scream
but no one can hear.
no one sees me anymore.
i am not quite dead; not quite alive.
a stranger in my own skin
but not a ghost.
even ghosts have homes to haunt.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:19 AM UTC
She holds herself like a sacred kiss
Silent, cool in the ether
Turning ever so elegantly
In a Firmament of whirling starsoup
I am just a girl, lost in my own time
Pale haunter of underwater gardens
Cthonic dreamer of a far darker poetry
Needing night to tend my visions
Under the care of a gentle mistress
La Luna, beloved milky soothsayer
And I, an uncanny odalisque
Quite in love with the Moon
She draws me in...I run
Run to the tall stone fountain and the waiting ghosts
Run with lifted arms to catch their songs
Run like the mindlessly besotted
Run like a shooting ribbon arrow
She draws me in...and I leap
Leap from the edge of the grass in tumbledown bliss
Leap from the edge of hope, wishing
Somersault through the impossible
Leap into my Lady’s white eye
Weaving cobwebs from labyrinths into wings
Laced inside my corsetry harness, l
Climb upon a diamond, star-bellied cloud
In tune with the Moon’s sibilant call
Pianos are playing in the key of longing as
I step into space, out into the air
Trusting my forever home
In the arms of my bella donna Moon
Asleep in her like a swooning dove
Dreams, keys in the lock of fate
Moonsong in my veins
And the green Earth is far away..
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 1:56 AM UTC
Gorgeous Ghost
Hauntingly beautiful,
a most lively ghost,
a unification of The Dualities,
is what best describes you,
time to make a choice,
fame or the family life,
put it all into my artistic endeavors,
or put it all into making a boy and raising him right,
what does it take to make a life,
what does it take to take one away,
better get out there and live your life,
because we both know tomorrow isn’t promised today,
hey,
hello,
is anyone out there,
anyone at all,
I’m feeling possessed,
like a house that’s haunted,
and that haunter is you in this moment,
but only when you’re being brutally honest,
I know I’ve got talent,
and yeah I know that I waste it,
reality bites I bit the apple,
bit my tongue drew blood and can taste it,
Martyr me now,
or forever hold your peace,
US Embassy moved to Jerusalem today,
I’m still shouting “Peace in the Middle East”,
May 13th 2018,
see they say the Devil’s in the details,
I say Satan knows me well,
but I’m here in God’s honor so what does it all mean,
I don’t know but when I do I’ll send you the email,
or send it to you in a way that’s ethereal,
like a seance when a Medium’s in a trance,
kinda like Poltergeist or better yet Ghost,
because it’s less of a horror film and more of a romance,
hauntingly beautiful,
a most lively ghost,
a unification of The Dualities,
is what best describes you…
∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
I know that you and me are done,
But I think and I think, and I cannot move on.
I try to fit with the metre, to churn out the pattern
Of a beating heart or a dulling thud,
But it’s too slow, it’s too ******* empty
********* sweet haunter, I’m boiling in blood,
I am lost, and weeping, and beyond and above,
And always without you, my dear ******* love.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Collector of souls.
On the blackest of nights, as the winter sets in,
There is a shadow moving in the distance
And I can see it is approaching.
Through blood-stained memories, I am nervous again;
The haunter is coming once more to be born inside my brain.
Without reason he is here and he is without reasoning;
I can lie all I want to, but I cannot lie in peace.
He is becoming every fear and he is cast in sin;
He is a future buried beneath a stone and I have no release.
I am eternally trapped and forever living in fear;
No salvation to be found in this unlit night, for he has reappeared.
The reaper is here with his scythe in hand;
He is the collector of souls, he is the taker and he is ******
Time is of no consequence and we are all without defence,
When he comes to take us, along the River Styx.
You can plead to a Godless being, you can promise him anything;
But there is nothing you can say,
To make him stop what he is doing.
He has been here since long before you were ever born
And he will still be here long after you have come and gone.
He took the soul of the man underneath the crown of thorns
And he doesn’t answer to anyone; he has no God.
He is immortal and not living;
He is the coldest being to have ever walked upon this world.
He is Death; he is The Grim Reaper;
He is The Collector of Souls.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 1:49 AM UTC
Deep within shadowy grottos,
I've been chased by her presence.
Unable to escape from below,
I've been faced by my penance,
My penance for letting her ****
**** in the name of acceptance.
She wanted desperately to be accepted,
But The Haunter would never let her.
She could not run from her dreams,
So she fought to be intercepted,
Intercepted by her own insidious instinct,
By her own ghoulishly foul instinct.
Now I wake up with scars every night,
For her knives always find their way.
Now I'm chased with scars every night,
For her knives always want to pay,
To pay me for letting her ****
To thank me in the name of acceptance.
Now I'm the one who can't run,
From myself and herself in my dreams,
For she's always watching me run,
In the dark and in silence of dreams,
In the dark of my own violent torment,
For giving her my loving acceptance.
Written by Ericson Willians.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 9:51 PM UTC
I Hate Modern Poetry
I feel like true poetry has been ruined by teens who write ********
Modern day poetry writers are like a fandom now
Who write things about their emotions and how they feel about themselves
Two words:
**** You.
That's right. **** you for ruining poetry.
I honestly don't give a **** about your emotions or if you're a ******* "demon queen or king" of high school
I remember the real poets.
Maya Angelou.
Walt Whitman.
William Shakespeare.
Langston Hughes.
Edgar Allan Poe.
'But now who are the "real poets"?
Jasmine?
Alexa?
Haunter?
Brianna?
Just to name a few.
**** No!
Like the great Kanye West once said
"Does anybody make real **** anymore?!"
You are not "rotten".
You are not "a demon".
But you are not a poet either.
Sure, there are some truly beautiful modern poems.
But until more of those great authors make real poems and the emotional ******** ends
Poetry will be a stupid.
Worthless cringeworthy crap.
I don't think this a correctly made poem.
I don't believe that it's a poem at all.
There are no rhymes.
No rhetorical devices.
But what is a poem anymore?
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
The memories, the loving,
the longing, the dread.
The ghost of me still lives in your head.
You see me, you shutter, you stutter turn red.
The ghost of me remains undead.
Alone with him.
There’s nothings left..
My ghost still haunt
your lovers nest…
The obsessions, the confessions,
the unlearn lessons.
Until my ghost is no longer pleasant..
Sep 21, 2024
Sep 21, 2024 at 7:18 PM UTC