"hauntingly" poems
this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong silent greens silently lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
34.7k
Blades of grass shivered
As the fingers of the wind strum
A hum ever soft and hauntingly serene
Sweetest song my heart reluctantly would welcome
I stare into the minuscule expanse of land
The horizon does not exist far here...
But still my eyes would stretch
To see the obscured very clear
All alone save for the company of a lone tree
And the jovial chirps of annoying birds
On this island with very little space
Trying to find comfort in ill-arranged words
My eyes do see but my heart remains obstinate
Beauty of the universe would always invite
I could just jump and join in its merriment
But... I am just a tethered kite
I'd want to rise to the highest skies
To be one with the nature's song, composed and tuned
Alas bound to a string, I can only go so far
I am my own island,
helpless and marooned...
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
*I'm too fixated in each moment -
Each moment feels so intense,
I'm lost
On the dark side of the moon,
And nothing here has any warmth,
Worth or substance ~
Nothing here makes any sense.
Even my own shadow has left me.
The Monsters, still lurking
In the darkness,
Have stolen all of my hopes
And dreams away,
I can hear the wolves,
They are hauntingly howling -
There's nowhere safe that I can run to,
On this, here, dark, dreary day.
There will be no stars
To light up the pitch-black night-skies,
They have already fallen,
Just like the Angels
That I once loved and knew,
Everything that I once held onto
As sacred, has been molested -
I've been abandoned, once again;
Hell, again, I am being forced
To walk through.
Alone, I was born and raised,
Only my pain has been consistent-
It has held my hand
Throughout my entire life.
At some point, somehow,
I stupidly gave birth
To expectations,
Luckily, I woke up
And divorced reality,
Hence becoming solitude's
Dedicated and loving wife.
On the dark side of the moon
Compassion, loyalty and trust
Are nonexistent.
Evil dwells in almost every man
And woman,
Each with his or her own agenda,
Each with his or her own selfish plan.
Saviors do not exist,
Superheroes all wear masks,
Unconditional love is but an illusion,
Here, I revert to relying solely
On the harshness of reality,
For, the truth, it always exposes
And unmasks.
The dark side of the moon
Is a very lonely, isolating place,
In which to dwell,
There is no sunshine,
No stars or Angels -
The only light visible
Comes from the flames
Of the evildoers'
Raging fiery hell!
Placed here against my will,
No lush green valley in sight,
Taken away
From the divinity of nature,
I was cruelly robbed
Of my radiant life-giving daylight.
Doomed for being too real,
Too open and too honest,
Doomed for loving too much.
Doomed for believing in superheroes,
Doomed for allowing a human
To become my crutch.
Doomed for being too empathetic,
Doomed for being too sincere.
Doomed for being too kind
And too generous,
I'm doomed, abandoned here.
I blame only myself
For allowing my intuitive awareness
And intelligence to fade away
Like the stars that once adorned
Every exquisite night-sky,
I blame only myself
For not using the blessed insight
Of my third eye.
I'm too fixated in each moment,
Each moment feels so intense,
I'm too passionate about life
To give up and remain imprisoned
On the dark side of the moon...
But I'm too emotionally weak
And disappointed to jump the fence.
By Lady R.F. (C)2018*
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
This is the Devil’s hour.
It’s when George Lutz hears the ghosts
And murders his family in Amityville Horror.
Shia Labeouf get’s high on acid at 3:15.
I decide to write a poem.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For 4 hours
I’ve been trapped in the Internet.
From Facebook posts about feminism
To related searches on Google.
“Mexican **** Takes Huge American ****
A video of a man receiving oral from
An eighteen-year-old Hispanic girl.
After ******* on her face,
He spits in her mouth
And slaps her with a foam finger
That says, “America is #1”
The cameraman then says in Spanish,
“Still happy you’re doing ****
------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I watched this woman degrade herself
It became hauntingly aware
That I could have stopped watching at any time.
The men in the video were pigs
But then what does that make me?
A ****** A lonely man?
Not to say I gained pleasure from this.
I don’t get off on
Women being demoralized by
A ***** (the true icon of male dominance)
For the ****** entertainment of others
Man is not a wolf,
Man is a parasite.
(My self-included)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My eyes are made of glass
My head like a bag of hammers
Insomnia got the best of me.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
Cactus blooming red,
matches the blood in my veins,
hauntingly precious.
Oct 26, 2020
Oct 26, 2020 at 11:49 PM UTC
We were just like stars.
Exploding and crashing into one another.
It was beautiful at first glance.
Like glowing specks dotting the night sky.
But it was painful like deafening explosions.
And ashy clouds suffocating the inhabitants below.
As your hands enclose themselves around my throat.
I used to think that passion came from the heavens
It doesn’t.
It comes from a place of evil not unlike this.
One where wars are fought over control.
And can only be thought of as an enveloping abyss.
One that I know, you no longer miss.
Because now I am yours, with or without consent.
We were like stars glittering, so very far from the rest.
I thought it would last forever, that we would dance
Into eternity, with your hands locked in between mine.
The moon dust splattered like droplets of fresh paint.
Across a vast canvas that was never to be finished.
I was unaware and unprepared for the intensity of
An abusive relationship.
That to outsiders looked like desirable goals.
If they only knew what happened behind closed doors.
We were beautiful, just like stars
But we were just as violent.
With a hauntingly quiet release, a single star fell.
You return to the evil that you call home, but that I call hell.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
My Dearest Black Dahlia
Stumbling in these neon streets
Waiting to be torn in two
Be my carrion pin up model
Adorned in imprinted diamonds
With porcelain skin icy stale
Murderous glamor
Gleaming and serene
Posing like a minx
Half here and half there
A hauntingly mesmerizing woman
Should I be fearful
Or should I be in love
I suppose this is maddening
But I am smiling all the while
Bright and all Irish
Welcome to Hollywood
My Dearest Black Dahlia
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
In the depths of the night, where shadows creep,
Lie tales of darkness, so hauntingly deep.
A moon cloaked in mist, a chilling wind's wail,
Where spirits awaken, and courage may fail.
Beneath gnarled trees, a graveyard awakes,
Where restless souls wander, their rest at stake.
With hollowed eyes and whispers of despair,
They yearn for release from their eternal snare.
Amongst the tombstones, a figure does tread,
A specter in black, with a cloak like the dead.
Her name is Lilith, the mistress of fright,
With a wicked grin, she conjures the night.
"Oh! Hear my call," she whispers in the dark,
As she weaves her spells, leaving her mark.
Bats take to the sky, their wings spread wide,
Guiding lost souls, to the other side.
In the haunted manor, spirits do dwell,
Where echoes of laughter turn into a knell.
Ghostly footsteps echo down the hall,
As the present and past collide and enthrall.
The clock strikes midnight, the hour of dread,
When the veil between worlds grows thin, it is said.
Ghosts emerge from their slumber, seeking release,
Their ethereal presence, a haunting caprice.
In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance,
As witches gather, their potions enhance.
With cauldrons bubbling and spells on their lips,
They conjure enchantments, with mystical quips.
Oh! Beware the night, when the jack-o'-lanterns glow,
And spirits arise from the depths below.
For Halloween's magic, a captivating lure,
Where darkness and mystery forever endure.
So, as the moon rises, casting an eerie glow,
Embrace the enchantment, let your fears go.
For on this haunted eve, when the spirits unite,
We celebrate Halloween, in the shadows of night.
But tread carefully, for darkness is near,
And the spirits are watching, with ghoulish cheer.
Enjoy the thrill, the ***** and the fright,
On this chilling Halloween night.
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 9:12 AM UTC
The tangible entity of consciousness is fleeting
Scene:
A elegant party but not quite extravagant
Clinking wine glasses echo through transparent walls
Twenty-two hundred lulls over the city like that of a shadow
This isn’t an ungodly hour nor is this a typical night
It starts when She enters in a red gown that elongates her figure
A pianist smirks in the corner — a grin that’s almost sinister
The clinking of wine glasses abruptly stops when its replacement of grim notes fills the glass house
The attendants still seem cheerful
(How peculiar?)
A stranger pulls her into a waltz but his eyes look hauntingly familiar
Unbenounced to her, He too dances with a stranger
Both on separate sides of the glass room
Both dancing with the unknown
Yet each pair seems to recognize some prominent feature
Nostalgic for what has never been
(How do you preserve a memory in reality?)
Through the glass house mirrors sit in obscure angles
One could see that within each reflection He and She were projected into the other room
Each glance towards the mirrors posed no questions
For both pairs seemed identical
Now their lives may have been content in accepting this dance with a “stranger” I suppose
But that was not the plan of this party
For guests grew tired of sipping on Beaujolais and listening to solem tunes
The pianist presented a different song, more lively yet equally eerie
Their feet paced with the new rhythm which called for a spin
(An act as dramatic as such was only proper for the scene)
With a grand gesture She turns, finally seeing the glass barriers
And for the first time that night He and She were face to face
A perfect dilemma to entertain an audience
In a frenzy She tried to speak
“I love you”
“I love you”
“I love you”
But each plea for affection deemed futile
For the grin on His face became that of the pianist
Her emotions were a downward spiral of gray shaded confusion
And with a sinister laugh He (or he) smashed the glass, shredding all source of reality
He was the hallucinogen and She was angry at him for making Her feel
And each guest cheered “bravo” demanding an encore
But this tragedy, dear friends, has come to the end
She’ll never know how the stars look where he is
(Is such a loss truly a loss?)
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
Pale-faced and stiff,
he stood...
Unmoving - frozen in time.
His chest no longer heaved,
his limbs dangled dead.
His painted lips were parted
with no spoken words.
We have before seen him breathe.
We have before noticed his wordless actions.
We have before heard his song.
And this is his end -
A space
unaccompanied by his usual
careful and subtle gestures.
He bore no voice now as he did then.
But his story was told loud
through the lyrics and music
of a hauntingly, mournful song...
Showcasing the lone relatable teardrop
that never dries.
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 7:43 AM UTC
He sees her now, merely a stranger in passing.
Disposing the past that led up to this.
It only takes a glance,
Their minds battle.
They are released.
Two demons.
One love.
An addiction to the addict,
A desire to be desired,
Two demons.
One lie.
She sees him, merely a stranger in passing.
His once soothing face now stirs up rage within her.
Her smile distorts, with only intentions of mocking him.
He receives her smile and replies with a menacing chuckle.
They break out once again.
Two demons.
One passion.
An overdose of emotion,
The pleasure of pleasing.
Two demons.
One mistake.
Two strangers cross paths,
Glaring straight ahead as if they are trying to penetrate everything before them.
No soul knows what they know.
Two demons.
One loss.
Hauntingly, they fade into the crowd.
Jan 8, 2011
Jan 8, 2011 at 2:37 PM UTC
That face is excruciatingly beautiful
Blinding as platinum confetti
For the new year of the soul
She is my conch shell
When I hear her, I hear me
That body is hauntingly whole
Strong as a steel gerder and just as smooth
For the structure we are building
She is my mirror
When I see her, I see me
Those hands are soft as silver
Holding the pages of our life
Strongly into the new book
We will write together.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
Your eyes
Shaped like diamonds and brown
They exhibit so much emotion
Although they can’t make a single sound
Your lips
They are against your pale skin and ruby red
They look as though they belong to a zombie
So hauntingly beautiful, lifeless, and dead
Your voice
So magical, low, and monotone
Raspy and ****
From when you speak, to when you moan
Your body
Curved as an interstate highway
If you would only let me
With it, I would have my way
But your personality
I could fall in love with
For all your physical attributes
Can’t compete with it
You’re beauty on the outside
Can’t measure to how amazing you are on the inside.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
It was at the cottage, by the marsh,
Where the husband slipped through the threshold.
The Bass boots left marks of silt and clay on the worn wooden floor.
He dropped the shovel on the floor as well.
And globs of mud, sawgrass and marsh water seeped in the cracks, forever to stay there,
As a silent reminder.
He sat down at the dinner table, a table for two,
With only one chair.
The coo-coo clock chimed above his head,
It was dinner time, where was dinner?
His thick gruff hands made fists and smashed the table top,
Breaking the maple top in two, which now made it a table for one.
He just needs sleep, his temper was getting to him.
As the husband climb up the stairs to the spacious bed,
And laid his head upon the pillow, he fell asleep.
But if you follow the muddy tracks down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the door, into the rain,
to the marsh, you will see a pile of mud that looks misplaced.
The sludge will begin to shift and slide away to reveal a hauntingly beautiful women.
She will rise, and walk through the marsh, in the rain, to the door, through the kitchen and up the stairs to see her husband in a fitful sleep.
And as any good wife would do,
She'll kiss him and lay next to him to ease whatever could be on his mind at this hour.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
flipping the pages of the last book you made me read makes me feel like i've been suffering dyslexia for some time now
so hauntingly familiar
not in any way foreign to me
a photo falls so delicately onto my stained rug
the photo i used as a bookmark
the photo of us i've kept hidden
and forgotten
the photo of you handing a couple dollars
to somebody not in the camera's view
the photo with me beside you
gratefully smiling
as i munch on a waffle
the waffle i spit out right after
the photo that reminds me of the horrid taste of that waffle
it's taste almost as bad as what i feel for you
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
***Fundamentals of madness
wraps the skin around my brain
miter'd head splits wide open,
like blue skies wanting to thunder
dark heart leapt out from under
blinded burnish'd eyes
world looks annihilated
from the validity of upside down
birds have severed vocal chords,
butterflies shed their wings
there's no dance left, aside from
ghost steps of a psychotic menacing waltz
& one dark raven hauntingly swaying***
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
i'll make a wish on every dead dandelion i find
blowing my dreams away on every seed
hoping that they'll flutter away in the wind so far away from me and i'll hope that life may sprout from the ghosts of my past
why do we wish on dead dandelions?
why do i find them so hauntingly beautiful
i wish on dead dandelions
and their magic
i pluck them gently out of the ground and
****** my wishes upon them
i whisper
godspeed, dandelion
i'm relying
on you
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
We visited
the Van Gogh museum,
said Dalya, Benny and I,
he loves his art, has
a Sunflowers print on
his wall at home he said,
I love Amsterdam,
love the laid backness of it,
we went to
the Anne Frank Haus,
too, hauntingly sad,
my Jewish relations
brings it home.
Benny came to my tent
(the fat dame was off
visiting the sights)
and we made love,
hoping she'd not return
too soon or at all,
the sounds from the camp-site
loudspeakers, rock music,
guitars and drums,
a slight wind shaking
the canvas, the sleeping bag
rough beneath me.
Van Gogh speaks to me
Benny had said, the yellows
and black, the assumed
madness, the birds,
cornfields, the sun.
I prefer Monet, I love his art,
his capture of nature
and the wild,
the touch of brush.
After making love
we lay smoking and talking,
I thought of the last
few days left before
homeward bound,
the farewell,
the parting
at the English shore,
we kissed
and made love once more.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
Shall we drown together in deep lagoons of forensic cognitions, my seductress of medieval echelons?
As your mouth is already full, I strongly recommend that you masticate that which you initially intended to ingest.
We could become spellbound by the moon. What do you think my Vedic chant of austere arrhythmias?
I suggest that we simply need to interact without reserve amidst this toxicity of inhibition. The sound of the violin is hauntingly beautiful as it conveys literary intensity.
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed
in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether;
breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm
He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation
within a pervasive spirit light
an oft misunderstood
common thread shared
this hallowed land’s night
An uncommon Zen stirring from within,
stifling apathy ..,
. . . of rumble deep beneath
a dormant volcano reawakening ;
that which lies undiscovered
just before the ruptured moment ..,
liberation of release ―
dust and ashes taking flight
Through open window insomnia churns
fifty shades of blue ..,
cast in shadowed hues of broken silence
Coyote stirred the stillness
with a hauntingly familiar cry
reading the ridge-top echoes
like the book of my mind
" YIP YIP A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea
For it is in these final hours chosen chore
the recurring torn
these chains and things
Coyote was going there ―
to stand these watermark crossroads
this hour of need
Accepting brother has always been lonely
sometimes anything
means something - -
and so it goes ..,
Coyote communes in pulse
from ancient realms
this sacred blood ..,
Om
the lost chord
wounded healers ,
. . . one mutual spirit
runs marrow deep
where dogs run free
The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn
. . . always known these days
too soon do come and gone
What once was a life well lived ,
s l o w l y e v a n e s c i n g
like the summer river’s flow
some say ..." you never miss the water
'til the well runs dry "
. . . regrets a waste of time - -
Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie
a taunting unsolved koan
an unplanned oxymoron ,
beget of a deafening silence
. . . dust sleeps with indifference
veiling a beautiful handmade
unstrung guitar
muted - - abandoned,
tone poems, unsung
and so "re-begins" the task ...
come what may rise up
into the dark star's light ...
Coyote was going there - -
a dawning metamorphosis
under another nebulous sky
. . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn
in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ...
harlon rivers ... 5. 21. 2015
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Darkness had fallen over as the minutes crawled
Far down the road to belief
Standing on a small covered porch I saw
His painful lines of strain
Turn into relief
A handful might have suspected, turned on all the lights
Seen the streak of dirt on his forehead
How his eyes happened to seek out the night
Real fear shot through my breast
Then quickly spread
I knew if I tried to stop him, said a single word at all
No one else could see his fraying edge
They turned away from the vision, but I can recall
Something hauntingly familiar
Crying from a ledge
Air burned into my lungs as I gasped for breath
A silent scream struggled within
Darkness had fallen over spilling into death
The road to belief was drawn closer
As I remembered then
His eyes, happened to seek me out the night
He pushed me over the ledge
Now he has returned to turn off all my lights
And no one suspects
His fraying edge
*Happy Halloween
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 10:27 PM UTC
This little nightmare comes and goes
Its dark and tainted when it comes it grows
it taints all my dreams it crucifies my night
its hauntingly fast, I'm losing this fight
this creature of dark this son of night
fleeing again at the first sight of dawns light
It holds my terrors and haunts my dreams
But the demons it carries are demons from me
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
*Combat....
though morbid in nature, there is a sense of beauty....
for example -
the bullet and it's chamber
the slickness of steel, and the power of the trigger
which together correlates the symphony of motion
from the time the trigger is pulled, to the
daunting escape of a bullet, and then finally to the *********** of it's victim.....
Quite morbid... yet hauntingly beautiful.....
Then come's the bullets quintessential cohorts
The Chemical and The Armored Car (a Tank)
The brutal barrage of steel cartage
crashing into unstable masonry
then the soothing smog of golden mustard gas...
The echoed shrieks, the violent shakes,
the ****** eyes and mucus filled noses
whose violent episodes finally conclude
when the eyes of death stare back at them...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....
The finally... how can we forget the noble foot soldier?
his footsteps, silent to the earth....
out of the hysteria and chaos
two men, two weapons, and a whirlwind of emotion
nationalistic pride, paranoid fear, and scattered tranquility...
A sign, as is to say....
"I don't want to fight, but I have to..."
Which all correlates in the ****** of the bayonet
a twinkle of blood, and then finally the gentle weeps...
Quite morbid.... yet hauntingly beautiful....*
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC