"hilted" poems - Hello Poetry

Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong

0

May 9, 2014

May 9, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC

tryst

Upon The Hill

Her wide-brim hat was pointed, and worn with ne'er a tilt Her midnight robe was flowing, and wove from satin silk Her Besom broom was hazel-hilted, twigged with fresh cut birch As she flew o'er the hill, until she spied a rocky perch The hill was trapped in moons light, caught in its silken nets And grizzled trees were swaying casting eerie silhouettes A howling wind came moaning, as it wailed a haunting sound When her swishing broom came whooshing, as she swept o'er the ground She alighted on the hill top, landing dainty on her toes And took a tattered grimoire which she held up to her nose She raised a magic talisman and cast an ancient spell Then she waited through the gloaming, till midnight chimed its bell The hill stood gravely silent, as the wind restrained its breath The grass and flowers wilted and released their scent of death The shadows neath the trees became alive and took on shape And ghostly figures rose, as Hallows Eve called them awake The sounds of horse drawn carriages, came trundling up the hill Whilst babbling jeering voices exorcised the silent still A sudden gust of wind called out the names of those condemned Each manacled and chained up, as they rode to meet their end As time echoed its memories, she watched the scene unfold The victims forced unwillingly, to climb upon the scaffold Some offered up the Lord’s Prayer, and ne'er a word was stumbled They took a final breath of life, and into hell they tumbled Their bodies swung ungainly, as they swayed a ghastly dance With lifeless spectral faces locked into a stone-like trance Their deathly shrouds were pale, reflected in moons silken sheen And she watched as they cavorted, ne'er attempt to intervene They slunk back into shadows, at the fading of the night The hill reprieved from darkness by the early morning light The ritual was completed, as she whispered them goodbye And she climbed onto her hazel broom and kicked into the sky On Gallows Hill neath stars and moon they hung And ne'er a one had done the world a wrong

34

I fumble my tongue to please my brain. To ensue the passion of hilarity for others through the shame I lack. If you write, you write wrong. No, sorry, you write incorrectly... No still not the right writing. The grammar you possess is lacking enthusiasm in construction and production. You fumble words in a loose platonic, exploitive passion of hilted disappointment. Grammar and creation grow as production does. One-to-one the tower grows on an even playing field of iron I-beams and the office on aluminum T shaped cubical walls. I apologize profusely if this has been difficult to process. Let us consider this a difficult simulation of your current level on sentence structure, and comprehensive understanding.

0

Dec 6, 2012

Dec 6, 2012 at 9:29 AM UTC

nicholas-harris

Words Are Difficult

I fumble my tongue to please my brain. To ensue the passion of hilarity for others through the shame I lack. If you write, you write wrong. No, sorry, you write incorrectly... No still not the right writing. The grammar you possess is lacking enthusiasm in construction and production. You fumble words in a loose platonic, exploitive passion of hilted disappointment. Grammar and creation grow as production does. One-to-one the tower grows on an even playing field of iron I-beams and the office on aluminum T shaped cubical walls. I apologize profusely if this has been difficult to process. Let us consider this a difficult simulation of your current level on sentence structure, and comprehensive understanding.

6

Strange, really How there's no warning to the faucet Or which words holding the trigger will suddenly appear and show its face O' words, how violent you are There was a time when I looked forward to the curvy letters of your body stretching across the plain plane Turning a white empty line to colorful inspiration With words like love, happiness, and joy given to me by thou, giddy and gay But now I see, That words were used as weapon Violently beating upon my soul, Drummer or Gunner, the effect the same Ringing ears and burnt eyes from you letters Using this canvas as a carnival of hurt Using words such as Hate, Anger, Sorrow Their dangerous curves bringing with a terrible allure But I can asure That I too can wield these weapons Twin hilted swords of Fruitless and Revenge Double barreled Pain and Failure and the ones that shot me down from the skies The cannons of Hate and Anger. I however, Tired and beat down Love licking my wounds Sleeping joy of memories past Keep me from retaliation. I love your letters, But I hate you Words Without letters you are useless But without words, I'm speechless O' how I hate thee, cruel words Strange, really

0

May 8, 2011

May 8, 2011 at 4:25 PM UTC

OnlyEggy

Words as a Weapon

Strange, really How there's no warning to the faucet Or which words holding the trigger will suddenly appear and show its face O' words, how violent you are There was a time when I looked forward to the curvy letters of your body stretching across the plain plane Turning a white empty line to colorful inspiration With words like love, happiness, and joy given to me by thou, giddy and gay But now I see, That words were used as weapon Violently beating upon my soul, Drummer or Gunner, the effect the same Ringing ears and burnt eyes from you letters Using this canvas as a carnival of hurt Using words such as Hate, Anger, Sorrow Their dangerous curves bringing with a terrible allure But I can asure That I too can wield these weapons Twin hilted swords of Fruitless and Revenge Double barreled Pain and Failure and the ones that shot me down from the skies The cannons of Hate and Anger. I however, Tired and beat down Love licking my wounds Sleeping joy of memories past Keep me from retaliation. I love your letters, But I hate you Words Without letters you are useless But without words, I'm speechless O' how I hate thee, cruel words Strange, really

35

*There is an absence of light screaming around me It is the first of February the night crawling, an obituary Conspicuous and hung with death. A blackout the local electric company has yet to be friendly I didn't mind The air was young and a tease Through the windows it approached Like a growing fire Closing in on my bare ribs Soothing my sore mind Out on the receiving territory Comes the warm excess Like oranges hilted on wax It was sad claiming They wage brighter wars Than my soul But I inhaled their spirit For a quietness lived in their glow Barks scrape against the summer dread Unable to shut their stubborness They connive with the crickets For a night of overture I can smell ambivalence In the starless skies Will it cry? Or will it die along as with everything? I'd embrace the cold with My equally hostile arms It treats me with dignity From outside the cars screech Like a wailing woman Stalling the witch's eye With fragments of yellow and white Onto the oblivion of the roads And the loneliness of a night just Coming to life.*

0

Feb 1, 2016

Feb 1, 2016 at 7:56 AM UTC

lovelychickenbones

160201

*There is an absence of light screaming around me It is the first of February the night crawling, an obituary Conspicuous and hung with death. A blackout the local electric company has yet to be friendly I didn't mind The air was young and a tease Through the windows it approached Like a growing fire Closing in on my bare ribs Soothing my sore mind Out on the receiving territory Comes the warm excess Like oranges hilted on wax It was sad claiming They wage brighter wars Than my soul But I inhaled their spirit For a quietness lived in their glow Barks scrape against the summer dread Unable to shut their stubborness They connive with the crickets For a night of overture I can smell ambivalence In the starless skies Will it cry? Or will it die along as with everything? I'd embrace the cold with My equally hostile arms It treats me with dignity From outside the cars screech Like a wailing woman Stalling the witch's eye With fragments of yellow and white Onto the oblivion of the roads And the loneliness of a night just Coming to life.*

40

to see in color like a dog to work properly like a clock to be transparent like fog to be hungry like prisoners to be stupid like rich foreigners better luck than writing "A" than taking time to pick "B" when all you can be made to see is the consequence of your "B" A pocket full of greed and silver **** you, just pillage and pilfer I feel empty, yet controlled Like ten pant pockets lined with gold Unable to control where and when i go money has made men as drunk as pure liquor making commands like two times ten misters commanding five times one hundred tricksters imagining ten times ten million people meant to **** duct tape all you **** faces you ***** dressed up in red and leather like casual feathers and hilted brown tethers stripped away pageantry and a mockery of everything random to randomay to random three to four to five natural progression of things

0

Jan 24, 2013

Jan 24, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC

rah-fullmetal

Untitled

to see in color like a dog to work properly like a clock to be transparent like fog to be hungry like prisoners to be stupid like rich foreigners better luck than writing "A" than taking time to pick "B" when all you can be made to see is the consequence of your "B" A pocket full of greed and silver **** you, just pillage and pilfer I feel empty, yet controlled Like ten pant pockets lined with gold Unable to control where and when i go money has made men as drunk as pure liquor making commands like two times ten misters commanding five times one hundred tricksters imagining ten times ten million people meant to **** duct tape all you **** faces you ***** dressed up in red and leather like casual feathers and hilted brown tethers stripped away pageantry and a mockery of everything random to randomay to random three to four to five natural progression of things

30

The tower climbs in periodic orange, lung-like patterns above the slate run, casting evening in long frequencies as I run the face of century rows. A hilted moon cuts swaths through clouds of interior peach, piercing a gin-muted sky. Blocks of night advance across the blue golf course & empty highball glasses clink like bells in the porch dark. Broad curves of street rise in the humid trees, then sweep and glitter toward the hospital. Four and a half miles bring me to the train station, under the black water circuitry. You arrive in your night-soaked dress, walking me home. The streetlamps are aching yellow. Rain never comes. As a we drift home I feel so lucky that all my runs carry me home to you. I draw a shower, & a charcoal horizon tilts, tilts, tilts.

0

Aug 1, 2019

Aug 1, 2019 at 10:23 AM UTC

EvanS

August Night Run

The tower climbs in periodic orange, lung-like patterns above the slate run, casting evening in long frequencies as I run the face of century rows. A hilted moon cuts swaths through clouds of interior peach, piercing a gin-muted sky. Blocks of night advance across the blue golf course & empty highball glasses clink like bells in the porch dark. Broad curves of street rise in the humid trees, then sweep and glitter toward the hospital. Four and a half miles bring me to the train station, under the black water circuitry. You arrive in your night-soaked dress, walking me home. The streetlamps are aching yellow. Rain never comes. As a we drift home I feel so lucky that all my runs carry me home to you. I draw a shower, & a charcoal horizon tilts, tilts, tilts.

43

I can taste the iron that lingers in my mouth as my veins beg for the hilt of the knife to press down and release the pain that lays inside my overflowing arms with nightmares and memories that are too far embedded in my soul that they will no longer allow me to live, so I must die. It’s the only way to save what’s left of me.

0

Aug 10, 2014

Aug 10, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC

ashleigh-black

Hilted

I can taste the iron that lingers in my mouth as my veins beg for the hilt of the knife to press down and release the pain that lays inside my overflowing arms with nightmares and memories that are too far embedded in my soul that they will no longer allow me to live, so I must die. It’s the only way to save what’s left of me.

13