"imps" poems
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
139
Soul, Wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost indeed—
But tens have won an all—
Angel’s breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee—
Imps in eager Caucus
Raffle for my Soul!
3.5k
She flew in her chariot by the light of the moon
Knowing the day would come all too soon
Gathering herbs from underground
The forest of darkness where twas no sound
To the river of blood to fetch her wine
Imps hovered about
Ran fast the time
From the wing of white owl
Snatched three feathers
Out of midnight sky
Stars of heather
The mountains north vials of whispering winds
Tails of magical deer
Running forbidden glens
In charm covered cape
To sacred circle flew
Leaving behind a trail of sparkling hue
Incantations spoken
Revenge beget
The man who spurned her
He demons would get
She drew up the potion
Called forth the demon
Hells brimstone smoke
Dead souls singing
Orders from the woman
Sent the Devils spawn into flight
With orders to return the following night
The night time fell
As did the following day
Black flickering lights in pentagram array
Each dark candle did kindle desire
The demon appeared amid red fire
Spells muttered under breath
Cast the ancient way
Over the conjured one silver bond did lay
To despised castle
I commandthee
Destroy the man
The one she had loved
Pledged to another's hand
Fly now winged one
Not one more moment spent
Evil black smoke
In a swirl the demon went
To the bedchamber of the king
Dispatched him with single blow
Wretched creature peered into his thoughts
As life ebbed in drops from body slow
His love for the strange enchantress
Hearts secret she did not know
Ghastly smile on the demons face
For the price of desire was her soul
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
I awoke from a dream and wrote this piece where it came from I dont know
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
Lovely elves and charming witches
Wizards with great power
Sorcerers and dragons
I've read of these for hours.
Woodland imps and fairies
Their faces may seem pure
But these creatures are spirits
And they are meant to lure
Spirit guides and shamans
Fetishes and feathers
Burning sage and totums
Beating drums together
Werewolves and vampires
Voodoo dolls with porcelain faces
These creatures are monsters!
They have ***no redeeming graces!
HALLOWEEN IS WICKED!***
Yet it is for SALE!
Kids dressed up as GOULIES
*And DEVILS WITH A TAIL!
**SATAN ISN'T BEAUTIFUL!
The devil isn't CUTE!
HE'S HERE TO DESTROY US!
Yet we dress KIDS in his SUIT!***
Yes, they are romanticized
The source of tons of ink
I've even written of them
A fact from which I shrink!
I repent of doing this
And as popular as they are
I will now delete them
I will no longer share.
I will not praise this "beauty"
Or perpetrate a lie
I've had some trouble reading
Now I know the reason why
These deceptions grieve The Spirit
My holy heart. My SOURCE.
These ideas are of evil
I will not endorse.
I could have done so quietly
Never made a show
But you need to read this
*You really need to know!*
I may seem a fool for writing this
You won't like this share
But if I'm now unpopular
I DON'T REALLY CARE.
And, Christians, be ye HOLY!
Think on something nice!
Think on God the Father
And The Lord Jesus Christ!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/27/2016
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can conjure up some evil.
No lesser imps
or minor demons though.
Only a meeting with
the capital “D” Devil
because Glenn and I would command such an audience.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can giggle like schoolgirls
when Chuck Biscuits sits on that whoopie cushion we left out for him or
finds a fake, plastic eyeball floating in his coffee mug.
I want to be friends with Glenn Danzig.
We can go on the “Punch America’s Face Again” tour.
We wouldn't be singing in our slimy baritones on this road trip.
Just passing out black eyes
like Halloween candy.
Leaving a trail of busted noses and
broken hearts
in our wake.
There would be sleepovers.
Glenn and me
with Iggy Pop, Johnny Rotten and
the ghost of Peter Steele in attendance.
Ouija Boards and light-as-a-feather.
Peter Steele would always win.
He is a ******* ghost after all.
We could give each other nicknames:
Goodboy Glenn and The Big Dill.
maybe a secret handshake…
Nothing too elaborate.
Just cool, y’know?
We would text one another
after the season finale of The Walking Dead:
Darryl needs to die he’s not even in the comic but it’ll probably be Michonne there’s no justice on T.V. for cool black girls this show has just been a study in emotionally manipulating its audience since the beginning anyway why are we the only ones who see that
Why are we the only ones who see that?
Are you listening Glenn?
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
The Fairy of the Silver Shop
Now all little fairies run out of things
Little clover soaps and even replacement wings.
Little vine laces for their little fairy feet
Little fairy apple pips as a midday treat.
So they all go to the silver shop for spares
And there is a fairy appointed that really cares
She has drawers filled with this and that
From silver bells to a rose petal hat
There is no such thing as money in fairyland
Every sale done with a shake of the hand.
The fairy of the silver shop everyone’s delight
Open every morning and closes at midnight.
The imps and elves enjoy the pleasure
Of rooting through such precious treasure.
Cherry stones and acorns make great pipes
And little lacy cobwebs make superior wipes
She stocks all these and very much more
It won’t be long before she opens a superstore.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
in ancient times
in hidden places
there lived a tribe
of small green faces
seldom seen by the human eye
these beings in fact were not always kind
a midsummers evening
when the moon was full
though hidden by clouds
the night was rather dull
a traveller walking home
tired and weak
saw a spot by a tree
and took a seat
he closed his eyes
and off he fell
into a world of dreams and secrets
so he could recover well
he dreamt of his daughter
pure and new
how he wished he was with her
and her mother too
but the dream took a twist
with an image too dark
for me to repeat
he awoke with a spark
panic in his blood
and a knot in his chest
he stood to continue
after his interrupted rest
but confusion then filled him
as he looked around
and did not recognise his surroundings
was this where he settled down?
"oh no" he whimpered
but little did he know
this was just the start
of the next few hours of woe
as very close by
not seen by his eye
were the mischievous imps
and faeries side by side
to play was all they wanted
their humour different to ours
ensuring the traveller was lost
would help them in the next few hours
as the traveller was stuck
and couldn't find his was home
which left his wife and child
unprotected; alone
around he paced
but no place he knew was found
though he wouldn't give up
and kept peering around
though at this time
the little green smirks
we're distracted by
the next part of their work
on their way to pick up the baby
a fake left in its place
would anyone notice? maybe
but the traveller grew weaker
and couldn't survive
the faeries fun almost ended
once he had died
i had to say almost
as the mother was left
not to know
that her husband was dead
and that it was not her child
that she watched grow
and we never found out
if she was ever in the know
and the impish beings
were still amused by this
and watched for a while
proud and guiltless
they giggled and laughed
at the mess they'd been making
then flew off to find
a new baby to swap for a changeling
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
When the pale Luna, goddess of the night,
Her silver blanket did upon the pond cast,
While gliding along the inky sky,
Near to the milky stretch-mark of stars
(Sign that the Universe is our mother)...
The air was thick with the violin symphony of crickets.
Beneath the knotted hair of a willow tree
A campfire, asked to dance by the breeze,
With sheer joy crackled and sparkled
At the sight of the petal-faced imps.
In a foolish manner, one prodded the other:
"Go you and kiss a frog on the nodding!"
Wanting to impress his comrade,
He sprung up like a grasshopper off the ground,
And like a fox pup disguised himself in the reeds.
There, his torch revealed two sinister gleams,
A low CROAK and RIBBIT RIBBIT came with them.
The boy jumped and caught the wet ball of slime,
It protested in his cherub hands and wriggled in vain.
He moved his puckers closer to the little being,
Nature is the one who likes a good teasing,
He kissed it on head,
Then froze with dread,
The frog was a toad and the taste was displeasing.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Fleeting memories half glimpsed
Pop in, pop out, like little imps.
LIGHT!
Bright heavenly light chases away
The heavy night. Small forms
Step and creep,
Filling the chamber where I sleep.
I am borne upward and out,
In their arms I begin to shout, then...nothing.
EYES!
Large black staring eyes
Pierce my soul and spy. A brooding
Presence sits,
Deep in my soul it festers and spits.
My greatest fears and desires
Spill out for them to acquire, then...nothing.
VOICES!
They tell me I'll be unaware,
Their visit is merely a nightmare.
I have become their marionette-and that,
That I will never forget.
I am filled with longing, yet dread
For the day they return to my bed, then...nothing.
I come awake with a start.
I hear the pounding of my heart.
Wrapped in blankets like a cocoon,
I look around my familiar room.
I remember dreaming of a light, and riding with
The Gods of the night.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 10:21 AM UTC
Around the backs of houses:
Overgrowth cloaked a
Horde of little rascals with
Pockets full of pennies.
Some were almost as tall as the
Highest stalks and jumped
Once a minute to gauge the number
Of silly long strides left to spring from.
Eyes fixed forwards, soldiering
On to the treeline and then just
Beyond - Through the ditch and
Brambles, emerging onto stones:
Ten feet towered with a
Steep ascent as a clear warning
Raptly ignored by the imps --
The chasers of thrills and stories
And melted misshapen metal -
Wherein lies the innocence of their
Treacherous endeavors. Those
Pennies would return mangled and bent
Enough to weave a tale of valiance
And near-death peril so captivating
It couldn't possibly be spun;
For in your hand you held a token.
"The world vibrated and ear drums
Exploded, running to cover from
The screaming, steaming demon:
Dublin to Belfast express!"
They would say.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
I awoke with a shudder
Was that the sound of thunder?
I listened, and heard a faint smash
Then it was followed by a loud crash
I knew, through the down stairs window it came
Was this a burgalar coming, all the same?
I got out of bed with a frown
And adorned my blue dressing gown
From under my bed, just near the mat
I reached, and found my cricket bat
I would have to go and brave this rogue instead
And then I would bash him on the head
Out of my bedroom I went, at a quiet pace
Then I tip toed slowly down my stair case
Praying I was not going to my doom
I reached for the door of my living room
Flung it open, and switched on the light
There was no way to prepare me for this sight
On my carpet there appeared to be a small little imp
He was swearing because he had a limp
The little thing had hurt himself, when he had fell
He hopped on one leg, and threatened me with Hell
Told me he was going to curse me with magic
But this injured little imp looked so tragic
He followed, hobbling, after me into the kitchen
Cursing that his leg was now itching
He shouted at me, ranting and raving
I asked if he wanted a cup of tea, so he started waving
He showed me his jaggered teeth in a funny smile
I handed him his cup of tea, he blew on it for a while
This poor little thing looked so very sad
As an evil imp, he really was bad
He had wanted to steal my teeth and then run away
Because that was one of those games that imps play
So I made him a splint, for his injured leg
I had made it out of a wooden peg
I picked him up and he started to glow
And all of a sudden, he fixed my broken window
I then made him some buttered toast
Because he said he liked eating that the most
He was not such a bad little imp in the end
He promised to visit again, I was his best friend
Jun 2, 2010
Jun 2, 2010 at 6:59 PM UTC
from mouth to messiah, the words felt compressed
lungs gasping frantic and fever dream blush
the croaking of hymns crescendo in the absence
of pomp left extinct in the burrowing hush
charisma unfiltered, he's charged with a burden
of casting the rhythm away from the strut
horned-god-be-damned, the spittle and curse
that left mark on the imps and ghasts in his gut
by mother and kin, the night would seep in
and by father-in-tomb he'd oppose it,
for if paradise quakes and the bricks wilt and bend,
death would not emerge lest he chose it
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
toasted snippets of crispy information
lie on white plates rapidly cooling
while lips dry into deserts
of steel-toe apathy
stale bread waits, uneaten
growing fuzzy colonies of mold
that scream in delight at your
dipper-dapper disinterest
breadcrumbs blaze new trails through
forests of great-grandfather clocks,
looming ominously as they sing
tick-tock with woodpeckers where
a manic imp bakes loaves for
several forevers in an attempt
to escape its inevitable
decomposition
grasping at salvation and
fumbling for words that slip
from buttered fingertips
better luck next time
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
Lofty mountain paints the scene,
Trees and bushes fill the green.
Crispy voice of birds chirping,
Humming sound of bees churning.
Alluring oasis thirst quenching,
Reflecting rays of sunlight so soothing.
Choice of flowers wide-ranging,
View of blooming flowers bewildering.
Streams of river meandering,
Forming deltas so encompassing.
Smell of sweetness so filling,
Sense of freedom enlightening.
**** sirens and charming nymphs,
Carefree gypsies and quixotic imps,
Alas, but none can be compared to
Mother Nature, the Beauty Queen!
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
Listen to the bell's toll
It brings solace to the soul
The imps of my fitful slumber
Hope to drag me in the deep of sleep
Awakening to the noon of day
I leave my house with no delay
Hoping to find the one I love, dream of
Upon the stone from where she lays
As I rush into the sea of granite
The tombstones' voices drown my thoughts
A hundred murders, a thousand deaths
Accusations, reveries, pleadings
They cloud my mind
And I embrace darkness.
I feel the chilling touch of winter's baby soft breath
As I rise to my feet
To find myself in front
Of my long lost lover's
Final retreat
A heathen's breath descends upon
My heaving breast
As I claw the cursed ground, oh, the cursed ground,
Away from this place of solemnity
‑
As the final clod of dirt is removed, in an air of infallibility
I hope to obtain a glimpse of my dearest
Only to find those accursed pits of black like a pool of tainted water
With hair like limpid worms in the night
And that ghastly nightmare grin,
Mocking my very existence to see whom I seek
In a terrible rage, I shred, I tear, I smash, and render the Beast
Indistinguishable in any form
I fling myself into the streets
Tearing thru the crowds
Vaulting over and thru the market stalls
To find my wild flight halted by a pair of
Panicked citizens hoping to alleviate my obvious distress
Only now in a flash of mental shock
That throws me close to an unconscious state
Does the realization of my actions ascend to my heavens
And as the citizens holding me let go
I myself let go
Of everything and everyone that matters
Or should matter to me
Stumbling, hoping to hold my balance along the precipice
From which my mind has already cast itself
‑
I once again see a dripping, searing red rage cloud my vision as the madness
That had taken me among the tombstones returns
Swatting aside those near me
I approach the river that runs thru the city
And staring into the depths
I see the creature that I had become
A haggard defeated man that had succumbed to the
Eternal darkness that engulfs everyone in time
And I see my love, the one who I had sought for so long
Alongside this poor creature that is within me
Her presence is all that I can now perceive
And I let my grasp on this world
Decay, and as I sink into the depths
My love approaches and embraces me
In the final act of Love
In the final act of Life
In the only act of Death.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 4:38 PM UTC
Halloween.
Where the Queen of the imps, pimps her minions and daemons fly
where the good man asks why
and the bad ones don't care,
Halloween
is in the air.
Lock your window,bolt the door,keep the cat in,
dogs are for barking when goblins are larking about,
hear a shout and cover your ears,
let your fingers hide the fears,
hold your heart in,
don't take part in
Halloween.
The Pope pipes out hope in St Peters Square
but Halloween is in the air,
where will you be
under the bed hiding with me?
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
Autumns chill breathe blows over the land;
Dry leaves dance and whirl in glee
Escaped from their tree bound prison.
Like evil imps they whisk and frolic
Oe’r dry grass and dusty streets they go
Leaving tiny dust devils in their wake.
Halloween haunts peep out of their front door steps.
Heavy bags hang loose now, but soon
Will bulge with sweet delights.
Bundled warmly against the winds chill
Little ghosts and goblins rule the night,
As they whisk and frolic o’re dry and dusty streets
Blown to and fro much like the escaping leaves
From house to house they go.
Trick or Treat is here
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 10:57 AM UTC
Anger
Is a powerful
Destructive
Wild
And irrepressible
Beast
Threatening to destroy
Temper
Is a blood-thirsty hound
Leaping
And snapping
Lunging at everything
That reminds it
Of Anger
Threatening to get away
Thoughts
Are little imps
Sly
And cheeky
Manipulative
That populate the little village
In your mind
They create illusions
And images
That pester you
Incessantly
Selfishness
And
Kindness
Are the lion and the unicorn
Fighting over the
Crown
To rule
Your actions
Or Thoughts
Jealousy
Is that sour
Whiny
Voice
Niggling you
At the back of your head
It spreads its propaganda
Through your Thoughts
And they start
To turn
Against each other
Starting a
War
With all these
Monsters
Running through
Your mind
It’s a wonder
At how you can still manage to keep
Your sanity
At times
Or at least
Look like
It
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
Should be dead by now,
These thoughts
Shamed by the harsh light of the day.
But even the night is no haven,
For as I hide
There in the necropolis
of my broken dreams,
Your specter beckons
And impregnates me-
verse of gloom given birth,
ghostly beat resurrected.
This bed should be the grave.
But even sleep you own-
Your name engraved
On the epitaph.
Reverie you claim-
Your story is the dismal chanting
on every corner.
And rising in the morning
Is like of a starved vampire.
No satiety is found,
For everyone walks now
Under the daylight
With cold hearts,
Including you.
Naughty imps on their eyes,
Cruel devils on their heads,
Cunning wizards on their lips.
Their violence I feel,
Harboring on silence.
World is a big necropolis,
In the guise of a glinting metropolis.
I wish to mourn,
Shed more tears,
But redemption never comes
To this warm heart
Molded it self to be filled by you.
For the way to the fire
It sought but never had,
Is bound down, down and down.
Devouring it like a quicksand
But never grants death nor life.
If time comes
That it turn to snowy pulse
Like those of the dead of the day,
Will your tears and the roses
Finally be offered mine?
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 1:57 AM UTC
to finito my infinito;
a pile of unwrit
scripts, titles, single para,
all mine un~completed children
awaiting to be ejected
and rejected by you dears,
with spit+blood+sea salted tears,
they not understanding why it has
taken so long to exit the
twisty. serpentine birth canal thru
which they were conceived,
then, deceived! by a promise sworn
to be given initiating exposure to our atmosphere
once upon a time
there only forty six
imps and seedlings, now ***
the poem~notions come so fast
that there are more than
76 loonie~loosies,
poetic
scraps and scrapes & scrips,
waiting for
a match, a ******* in of the air
that requires stating:
**Blessed is the Lird,
who inserted crazy potions
within in my eyes to save my
downtrodden soul.
And projectile re-iease them
To your dangerous selves,**
Aman.
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 1:53 PM UTC
They never should have let me out of the box,
these harnesses are coddled in rust and will never do,
I nearly have an arm free now.
Tis the bloodlust,
the ever recurring,
I cauterize so sickly raptured and recoiled,
vile animal reveling beneath fang and flesh.
Tis the beast wrought beneath this parchment bearing,
what is left of mortal means
as the morals feast upon the limbs and lungs of one another.
Ever screaming,
my memories wrench and tear,
torn in ribbons splayed from lung to tissue.
My demon slaughters the remnants packed and hid way
in corner and shadow,
ideals and sockets of life scratch and rip
across the flesh of the air as their lungs flood so violently,
doused in creamy blood liquid.
I die so sullenly,
so intrepidly,
dripped in god’s sunlight beams,
bathed in crackling spine and broken butterfly wings.
I writhe not in brain fractured grenade shrapnel,
not felted amongst iron clad bomb shards,
I lie so serenely,
stomach basking in sun beam,
I bite and suckle upon such succulent fruits of flesh,
human meat and such soft hips of lustful imps,
so untouched and littered in my most precise of bite marks.
I stake claim to the everest of fiendish hues,
chains so kin to my sins,
mind so ravaged in demonish,
all thought is mother to acts so sickly in hellish cravings,
I seek no retribution for ideals so crimped and carved through my bones.
All is relative to one’s fiendish benevolences.
I take care to ratify my most ancient of antiquities,
the very blood line that so racks this mortal sense of the human reality.
This evil is ever bearing and eternal lasting,
nor it’s will softened.
Shackles crease and crinkle
so fondly with every sickly furnished breath.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 4:56 AM UTC
Comes.
Mystical runes cast
The old forgotten songs sung.
I summon all my power from white fire.
It approaches stealthily;
The darkest hour.
The blackened *** will be stirred.
Words unspoken for a thousand years,
From blood less lips said.
Owls talons, lizards and toadstools,
With this potion my small vial fill.
Dragons, demons, imps and sprites,
Salute in homage and bow down.
Ghosts appear if I so desire.
With a wave of my hands.
The contents of the glowing cauldron,
Bubbling fiercely,
Turning the future red.
And so with out announcement
Striking of twelve on the hour
What was foretold has begun
It comes;
The darkest hour.
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Sept. 21, 2014.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
It gets real hard to
keep track of the little imps
that run around inside my head
a healthy dose of ****
television and video games
keep them occupied for a while
but then their right back at it
a devilish whirling dervish
that keeps me up far longer than the sun
and when they get hungry
I crave a cigarette strangely enough
and I give them words
to keep them big and strong
but not too strong
I can't have them breaking out
and leaving me all alone
so i keep them hostage
praying for Stockholm syndrome
It wouldn't be real love
but it would be enough
because I would be so happy
if anybody read my work
but never satisfied
being an unknown poet
The imps in my head
are prideful creatures
that want to be known
in the legend books
as the biggest strongest imps around
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC