"monkshood" poems - Hello Poetry

. returning to my childhood home in thought returning to mallard quacks tolling and the hour toiled by ever thirsty church bells cold damp rock house with ammonites and belemnites coiling in the walls and a cooling ichthyosaur futilely trying to swim in the silty soil struggling to catch prey beneath the foundation its darkness is rummage . a flush lawn planted nilly and obscene monkshood mint cotton grass and ling warm mentions an evening fire and the family room i'm mooding through the memory and it grooms apart organic birthing not river not smoke rat sized earwigs take to the air heat over the boiling tar garage roof and i return home back through time child swinging on thick vines suspended by the yew over the stream the willows dapple and paddle the fir trees return fierce sproutings of involving shade ridding the house of the intruder new extension riding time back and the caravan my parents would later park on concrete is swallowed the storms of a bad year return the old wall at the property edge and the cottage reforms an ancient pace with its surroundings . it's no longer my families claimed place re-seemed with ghoulish history the workhouse returns and files with hard poverty the wall punches through in what will be the kitchen and the cottage runs through long with the neighbours space dormitory takes the whole upstairs length and the legend of the garment thief drops ghost and rumour to live again and then all this too flees out of history . rushing back through time and this all sinks into the levels swamp life takes over and the ammonites moisten with anticipation prehistory is sprout to begin .

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Sep 23, 2025

Sep 23, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC

neth-jones

. . . . s t o n e . c o t t a g e

. returning to my childhood home in thought returning to mallard quacks tolling and the hour toiled by ever thirsty church bells cold damp rock house with ammonites and belemnites coiling in the walls and a cooling ichthyosaur futilely trying to swim in the silty soil struggling to catch prey beneath the foundation its darkness is rummage . a flush lawn planted nilly and obscene monkshood mint cotton grass and ling warm mentions an evening fire and the family room i'm mooding through the memory and it grooms apart organic birthing not river not smoke rat sized earwigs take to the air heat over the boiling tar garage roof and i return home back through time child swinging on thick vines suspended by the yew over the stream the willows dapple and paddle the fir trees return fierce sproutings of involving shade ridding the house of the intruder new extension riding time back and the caravan my parents would later park on concrete is swallowed the storms of a bad year return the old wall at the property edge and the cottage reforms an ancient pace with its surroundings . it's no longer my families claimed place re-seemed with ghoulish history the workhouse returns and files with hard poverty the wall punches through in what will be the kitchen and the cottage runs through long with the neighbours space dormitory takes the whole upstairs length and the legend of the garment thief drops ghost and rumour to live again and then all this too flees out of history . rushing back through time and this all sinks into the levels swamp life takes over and the ammonites moisten with anticipation prehistory is sprout to begin .

59

And the farm endured seven fields to forty acres the days of my father saw grass and crops rotate his toiling obsession now spent gave way to a bigger scale the old house storeyed by one and a half the bedroom where I slept in the shadow of an older brother the roof of grey slate the peak of my world reached my childhood sky the overgrown garden the consequence of labours elsewhere the sycamore tree my view of a world outside the patch of monkshood remained where I trapped bees in a jar the fuchsia bush with flowers to pick and **** nectar from within the old dirt track road the start of a jouney far beyond the realm of a farm and the dreams of a boy

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Aug 28, 2014

Aug 28, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC

george-carle

SEVEN FIELDS TO FORTY ACRES

And the farm endured seven fields to forty acres the days of my father saw grass and crops rotate his toiling obsession now spent gave way to a bigger scale the old house storeyed by one and a half the bedroom where I slept in the shadow of an older brother the roof of grey slate the peak of my world reached my childhood sky the overgrown garden the consequence of labours elsewhere the sycamore tree my view of a world outside the patch of monkshood remained where I trapped bees in a jar the fuchsia bush with flowers to pick and **** nectar from within the old dirt track road the start of a jouney far beyond the realm of a farm and the dreams of a boy

25

Cold, violet skin. Red rose petals fall from my wrist. The scent is pleasant. It makes my head spin. I spew eucalyptus leaves into the overflowing river. Oleanders flow down my throat. I puke out the petals, now stained red. The river flows red as the lilypads sink. Monkshood flowers cast shadows over my porcelain skin. I pluck and I pluck and I pluck. Until my fingertips are stained purple. I lick them clean. I weep tears that take the shape of an angel's trumpet. They sing me a soft lullaby as they seep into my skin. Pretty foxgloves draw me in closer. I touch their shell and inhale their scent. My stomach turns inside out. Skyflower petals seep from my mouth. I hadn't noticed until now. That my entire body was a wilted rose.

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Jan 29, 2018

Jan 29, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC

wuxian

eat me.

Cold, violet skin. Red rose petals fall from my wrist. The scent is pleasant. It makes my head spin. I spew eucalyptus leaves into the overflowing river. Oleanders flow down my throat. I puke out the petals, now stained red. The river flows red as the lilypads sink. Monkshood flowers cast shadows over my porcelain skin. I pluck and I pluck and I pluck. Until my fingertips are stained purple. I lick them clean. I weep tears that take the shape of an angel's trumpet. They sing me a soft lullaby as they seep into my skin. Pretty foxgloves draw me in closer. I touch their shell and inhale their scent. My stomach turns inside out. Skyflower petals seep from my mouth. I hadn't noticed until now. That my entire body was a wilted rose.

20

There is a futility towards the external, that which does not allow result. The purple flower flutters as peace in pieces for the eyes to consume. All its power lies within living canal and tunnel, within the glories we do not see. All its mysteries are within the slowing down of worldly rhythm under thumb and neck and wrist. Its seeds and its seeds’ seedlings wait on paused condition. Under such rule, these pulses murmur and whisper over timed time, dividing as they roam such a mass. These beats halved and halved again, like footsteps slowed to the walk of dirges’ decrescendos. Suddenly there is the lifting, the heightening unknown, unwanted, the plastic bag over the brain, the sharp and climbing breath that scales too lofty uncontrolled unwarranted and rebellious, soon arrested under hand and heart, unable to meet such stimulation, it, without a hope. The flower consumed is the fighter on cue. There is no keeping it, the speed of paralysis outrunning, overcoming the only home such a heart ever knew, now shelled.

0

Mar 13, 2011

Mar 13, 2011 at 8:24 PM UTC

devan-proctor

By Monkshood

There is a futility towards the external, that which does not allow result. The purple flower flutters as peace in pieces for the eyes to consume. All its power lies within living canal and tunnel, within the glories we do not see. All its mysteries are within the slowing down of worldly rhythm under thumb and neck and wrist. Its seeds and its seeds’ seedlings wait on paused condition. Under such rule, these pulses murmur and whisper over timed time, dividing as they roam such a mass. These beats halved and halved again, like footsteps slowed to the walk of dirges’ decrescendos. Suddenly there is the lifting, the heightening unknown, unwanted, the plastic bag over the brain, the sharp and climbing breath that scales too lofty uncontrolled unwarranted and rebellious, soon arrested under hand and heart, unable to meet such stimulation, it, without a hope. The flower consumed is the fighter on cue. There is no keeping it, the speed of paralysis outrunning, overcoming the only home such a heart ever knew, now shelled.

1

Sometimes, When I am lost or scared or sad, I imagine my lifeless corpse, Resting comfortably on a forest floor. I find peace there. I envision my hair entwined with the roots of the tree I lie beneath, Moss and mushrooms and monkshood growing from my bare body, Scars across my limbs dark against my skin, So cold and pale, Spiders crawling across the valleys between my ribs, Hiding in the hollows of my collarbones, Snakes slithering up my legs, Around my neck, Through my dreams. I am all alone in the woods, Bathed in moonlight and mist, Decomposing in silence. No one to see, No proof of who I used to be. I imagine melting back into the Earth, Rain washing away what was once my soul, Reduced to runoff, Carried away by a violent river, Pummeled once more by jagged rocks, But that’s nothing new, Sticks and stones I suppose. There’s something so calming in the stillness of death, Something so strangely attractive about its inevitability, So thrilling in its inescapable grasp, So alluring. It’s the only thing to count on, The only promise to be kept for all time, The only absolute. I think I am more afraid of life than death, More afraid of myself than anything that could ever happen to me. When I die I hope to find my peace lying on a forest floor. I want to fall into eternal sleep staring at Orion and the Man in the Moon, Their images distorted by a canopy of trees. I want to listen to the lullaby sung by the owls and wind through the leaves. I want to exist as whispers in the breeze and the lilies, Haunting those who could never love me, Immortalized by agony.

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Jan 30, 2024

Jan 30, 2024 at 2:48 AM UTC

srosep

My Corpse at Peace

Sometimes, When I am lost or scared or sad, I imagine my lifeless corpse, Resting comfortably on a forest floor. I find peace there. I envision my hair entwined with the roots of the tree I lie beneath, Moss and mushrooms and monkshood growing from my bare body, Scars across my limbs dark against my skin, So cold and pale, Spiders crawling across the valleys between my ribs, Hiding in the hollows of my collarbones, Snakes slithering up my legs, Around my neck, Through my dreams. I am all alone in the woods, Bathed in moonlight and mist, Decomposing in silence. No one to see, No proof of who I used to be. I imagine melting back into the Earth, Rain washing away what was once my soul, Reduced to runoff, Carried away by a violent river, Pummeled once more by jagged rocks, But that’s nothing new, Sticks and stones I suppose. There’s something so calming in the stillness of death, Something so strangely attractive about its inevitability, So thrilling in its inescapable grasp, So alluring. It’s the only thing to count on, The only promise to be kept for all time, The only absolute. I think I am more afraid of life than death, More afraid of myself than anything that could ever happen to me. When I die I hope to find my peace lying on a forest floor. I want to fall into eternal sleep staring at Orion and the Man in the Moon, Their images distorted by a canopy of trees. I want to listen to the lullaby sung by the owls and wind through the leaves. I want to exist as whispers in the breeze and the lilies, Haunting those who could never love me, Immortalized by agony.

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