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The blinding moon pellucid says,
                       shining loud yet never heard;

"I follow you where you may go."

In a child's wondrous nights,
                    cast away shadow's monster delights,

"I follow you where you may go."

Mene mind of Thoth complete,
                     for child's attention doth compete;

"I follow you where you may go."
"Mene," in ancient Greek means, "Moon." Thoth was identified as Hermes whom were both identified as, "thought," itself being some ancient memory of the origin of language creation as the constellations were used to form consonants and the phases of the moon represented vowels. Thoth was identified by the ancient Egyptians as the moon.

When I was a child I believed the moon followed me on purpose/for a purpose that coincided with my nightmares.
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breath and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a lone shed, and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, thankful to receive the momentary peace.

A possible misstep turns the wary peace on end with the jagged cut of broken leaves. The once relieved brow now concedes surprise as wild eyes are cast towards an opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash a weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, that formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads any hole it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera slowly backs out of the splintered hole, and pans over a silhouetted forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.

Our only closure, a somber black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. *****.
Amy Leigh Sep 2014
Little cracks like weeping windows
we grow opaque
and under the pale blue moon
(tainted)
you seep into my soul


© A. Leigh
jane taylor May 2016
translucence is rare
withdraw your opaque armor
swim in fearless love

©2016janetaylor
a senryu poem
Em Sep 2015
Fire and ice are opposites
Dark and light are too

Opaque and clear are opposites
And one we can see through

Day and night are opposites
And that we do not judge

And when we find another opposite it might not make us budge
King Panda Feb 2018
the shock
of bodies—
a sound
rippled in
cheetah lightening
to wings of blasted
flowers taught
red
yellow
lavender sky—

butterfly wound
festering pollened
breeze to
where your
mouth
is opened
breath
tongue
and twisted cord—

opaque bee
twirling with
opaque stamen
lit
in a wall of
rushing
waterfall—a
perfect contrast
of forgiveness
King Panda Jul 2016
rest, girl
rest, mother
rest, red disco queen

rest, white willow singing
rest, wind chimes
rest, redbone dog

rest, black sky
rest, yellow moon
rest, opaque stars

rest, *** on stovetop
rest, toes cracking
rest, boy typing

rest, sister
rest, child
rest, soul

rest

the sun machine
is coming down

rest

the children are
watching fire

rest

the thunder is born
with the night

rest

you too will know me,
sister
you will catch my wind
it smells of

tea tree oil
Opaque
a darkness, dampness
refreshing air

silence...
...pinhole on horizon;
in brilliant blue.

Bright, brighter,
brighter still
and day.
PoserPersona Jun 2018
Genius is forged by passion
It is this which never dies:
Transcendental elation.

So long as one creation
is moved to dance mesmerized,
genius is forged by passion.

Though stone hearts lack expression,
postmoderns aching to try
transcendental elation

Keeping "plebes" from their "mansions."
Speak this opaque truth as lies:
Genius is forged by passion.

The hive mind *******,
at shared expense they deny
transcendental elation.

Our yearning adoration
causes heaven's voice to cry,
Genius is forged by passion!
Transcendental elation.
Tom Spencer Jul 2018
a serpentine plume
of saharan dust

unveiled by radar
an ocean spanning

exhalation
of opaque

talcum haze
seeping into and onto

cracks metal glass
amid caustic

simmering
and listless

longing
for cicada drill

and aircondtioned din
to mute


Tom Spencer © 2018
At present Austin (my home) is choking on dust from the Sahara. World wide grime.
"I Think I Love You"

So swiftly these words, these human words
(so dense in Nature),
Ensconced--in a language,
Made an escape,
through those scrumptious lips of yours.
Not realising,
that these beautiful-eloquent words,
You doled out so uninhibitedly(in a single breath),
Had rolled themselves up,
And breached,
My opaque atmosphere
in the form of a meteorite;
Colliding with this surface,
and Cratering
this isolated heart;
Which
shall be forever visible
within the Cosmos--
of my eyes,
Which shall hence be named after your vivacious soul,
Which shall indelibly be located within the latitudes and longitudes
of Earth's time;
And,
Always be scouted--
by telescopes of ephemeral Love.
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!

But the heavens cry  manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.

Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.

A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.

Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.

Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...

Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!

Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
nojak Oct 2014
it seeps like sap down the spine
this tar, or fear, or hate of mine
beads opaque and thick and full of sin
i pick and peel
but they get in

i still dream
but blue, it blurs to black
deep seascape of a tormented hand,
i bind, am bound, to the things i pretend i understand
circle of a girl
eyeing squares of man

light is the letting go
hoping you pull, forgetting you won't
each time i forget, i melt and i drip,
a bad trip.

but when i think of teeth
discerning meat from bone
alone,
i float back with loose palms,
a calm.
Diana E Sep 2015
It's my lifeboat
that floats
center stage in the
opaque green, mucky lake.

It glistens and gleams

As its diamond eyes
stare into mine
and ****** me;
further manipulating my senses.

The lake speaks in sonnets,
admitting truths of love and desire.

It cannot live without me,
for I have always managed to make its life more "hectic in the best way possible"

-a forbidden love.

"One day we will find a way to be together", it says.

"One day you and I may become one."

I need the lake, for it has always managed to find me peace.

     Sincerely yours,
                              
                                 Curtis
1/3
Kristina Weeks Dec 2018
Staring at this opaque desk
I try to draw the visage of happiness
But instead I carve into the wood
Meaningless scribbles
And empty faces
jane taylor May 2016
hitherto i naively challenged
my decision to enter an ominous existence
a vicious maze veiled in obscurity
inconceivable to navigate without the accumulation
of bruises, heartache, and psychic mutilation

the torment’s ache so unfathomable
i begged to evaporate beseeching death’s arrival
and with the dexterity of a masterful wizard
i magically spun threads of my shredded soul
into a mangled ball of mental lacerations

then stealthily in the opaque of the night
i rushed the frigid black ocean’s high tide
and deluging myself in the ebony water
i buried the battered ball
now deeply eclipsed in the onyx abyss

it sapped all my strength to hold it under
drowning in the wave’s of sea motion
stinging salt alive on my pours
gasping for air i surrendered my grip
releasing my marred orb of élan vital

capitulating to the sand on the beach
i ceded the fight and watched the sphere roll
unraveling it glistened against the white sand
an opalescent tapestry lit by twilight
mirroring the stars against the coal sky

in the lustrous lunar midnight
reflected back by silver moonlight
littered with specks of fluorescent insight
astonished i drew in my breath as i read
words interlaced in the untangled web

the wounds are there
creating a looking glass
peer in
and you will heal
your own consciousness

©2016janetaylor
WA West Oct 2018
Fibre optic cables,
clipped conversations,

partial strangers,
networked communications,

keyboard ambiance,
anxious remonstrations,

system failures,
nicotine meditations

smudging frames,
hierarchical mediation,

computerised bleeps,
opaque mechanisations,

brightening windows,
verbose inflections,

silks ties,
limited reverberations,

exaggerated flirtation,
bowel eliminations,

pointless days,
power imitations,

numeric values.
insurmountable situations,

digital bleeds
eventual discontinuation
I'm emotionally detached,
in twenty nine days ninety panic attacks,
I see through your eyes,
straight to your past,
the times that you meant it when you really laughed.
Your crescents hate light,
and descend through the day,
I'm deciding my mind between painful and sane,
dividing a line between not okay and opaque.
A plaque I was given;
replying quotes to a mirror image of what I thought could cope.
I know my life's doubtful,
more mournful than most.
Lost in translation as feeling the least,
a leash on my brain and one sense of release.
I wanna meet sharpness to puncture my breath,
rather than losses I can't reconnect-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated

This poem is about how unattached I am from myself. I hope it makes sense
Francie Lynch Dec 2018
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.

They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first

They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.

They  wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.

They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.

They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.

They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.

They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.

Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.

They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.

They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.

They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.

They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.

They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
In fashion with non-gender pronouns.
The long bleak halls that bear surprise,
of mirrored shadows' invisible eyes;
Cast visions that will soon repent,
from illusive dreams' opaque fragments.

The drafty corridors in frigid cold,
where icy shards loom large and bold;
A mansion where no one knows his place,
exuding its echoes from time and space.

Perhaps the wayward hours will appear,
holding to account these walls of fear;
While they search for evil's antidote,
the complexity of answers remain remote.

Yet hopeful images still seem at play,
as smiles overshadow those paths of gray;
Conquered souls are willed to start anew,
when destiny's light shines into view.

As witness to evolving notions here,
once the winding road becomes so clear;
Are glorified by heaven's pearly gate,
from captivated souls consumed with faith.
Bettlejuice Jan 18
Calling out my name,
Get that word out of your brain.

Turn crystalline,
opaque with time.

Litter me with your lies,
I’m so done with you this time.

Litter me with your thoughts of me,
Tear me down with your hypocrisy.

All you think of is your lies,
That you tell yourself to get by.

Not on my name one more time,

Hate me when I leave you alone.

Call me selfish,
Even though we both know you are.

You couldn’t even be nice to me,
All you did was beguile me.

Judge me with your hateful eyes.

Misunderstand me one more time.

I won’t be there the next rhyme.

I don’t know what you tell yourself this time.

When I leave the door locked,

While your on the outside.

Not even a chance to say goodbye
Release from past pain.
In Waterstones
Sighing at the bestsellers
opaque at the corner of my right
eye two ladies late in life
are centre stage amid the table
paperbacks.

“Are you following me?” the taller bellows
brimmed headscarf towering over her NHS bespectacled
sister of afternoons and shopping mornings
continuing a conversation that has obviously
followed them their entire friendship
seeming the matriarch of the pair, she is circumspect
in her contrariness.

Whatever entitles her to this
Guardianship of self-importance
Her being a lighthouse rising above the mists
condensing off beaten shards of rock
is subdued by her companions’ pithy response
“no-you know I have no interest in Autobiographies.”
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