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CK Baker Feb 2017
it falls through the glow of the silvery trees
building a cover under the breeze
luminous lights sparkle and hatch
snow pack high on the briar patch

pine cones fall from majestic fir
squirrel and robin rustle and stir
sitka spruce at tunnel bluffs
ravens roost on cedar rough

dusted peaks at hurley pass
snowline cuts the avalanche
fox and lynx are on the prowl
hollow eyes from spotted owl

cool winds up the valley trail
whirling snow from diamond vale
chilling flakes in candle hands
moonlight shines across the land

northern lights in krypton green
the sounds of verve are bitter sweet
curtains hang on a cold dark sky
counting stars, a lullaby
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The jungle makes its calls, welling up from hollows beyond.
Monkeys and wild things make their way through the spaces in between,
rapping from unseen places on long barriers
and marking their territory.

Sounds of birdsong fill the air calling out to all too few.
Others prowl the paths looking for prey in caves and behind walls.
Packs of banshees laugh as the chorus grows until the final call.
The last bell rings all are free run for home.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Life, and other drugs;
Feel the love, and stuff.
You've got the right to get
****** up. You think I'm out
of line? Don't worry, I feel fine.
For reals.

Urban tiger on the prowl,
"Welcome to the jungle,"
Where everybody's a night owl.

Nocturnal habits
of the after-party crowd.
"You're in the jungle baby".
T'survive here y'gotta be proud.

I want to touch sublime, surpass divinity,
Exceed apotheosis to new beginnings;
Extra-terrestrial narcotics binge.
Lines Seven and Eleven from Welcome To The Jungle by Guns N' Roses
ryn Dec 2014
Listening ears don't come easy
Most come with mouths harbouring wagging tongues
Pouncing on the chance to retell your story
Exploiting your need to empty acrid lungs

Listening ears, they're indeed very rare
Unidentifiable no matter how well you know
Lurking behind a mask of concern and care
Sweet words employed so your cards you'd show

Listening ears could be just a myth
An idiom to quench the thirst to confide
Listening ears sometimes come with fangs for teeth
Hungering and lusting for your trust and pride

Listening ear, oh why you come with a mouth so foul
Why the cunning trickery and unscrupulous deceit
Kindness as bait, when in fact you prowl
Many none the wiser until they are bit

Listening ear, in you I gave my trust
I bared my innermost and gave my all
Hoped that you'd soothe my ailing crust
Instead you lifted me high only to watch me fall
The covenant of secret-keeping is not for everyone.
Nancy E Tracy Aug 2018
Not a sound
in th forest
Not a leaf
in the wind

On the lake
not a ripple
there's a storm
coming in

Not a deer
in the meadow
Not a hiss
not a howl

Not a breath
Not a whisper
There's a cat
on the prowl

Not a twitter
of a bird
Not a Bat
Not an Owl

Silence in the forest
There's a cat on the prowl

All is well until he brushes against my legs, looks
up at me and meows - lunch time
karin naude Mar 2013
you move restless impulsive, loud but empty
on the prowl, easy naive prey
you are a true merchant of death
surrounded by bought smiles
one day you call in the debt mercilessly
karma will call your debt in to, maybe already
my eyes won't have the pleasure to see
God knows best

your face, once a clean canvas
reveals the truth, death merchant
life was easy
conveniently forgetting there is a god ,watching

each brush stroke reveals more truth
choice in color, an educated eye interprets
cracks revealed- you old cracked painting
discarded - life is cruelest when you are old
a new painting painted over a discarded death merchant

an era forgotten
wiped clean - the end
Nigdaw Jul 2
Said the girl who sleeps ‘till noon
Long past ****’s crow,
Through dawn’s chorus
Rush hour, breakfast news
Until the lengthening of shadows;
“You need to live a little”
On the edge, close to the perimeter
Blade of a knife, cutting life
Do the drugs, drink the alcohol
Put the time in, whenever you can
Then sleep ‘till noon
Long past ****’s crow,
Through dawn’s chorus
Rush hour, breakfast news
Until the lengthening of shadows;
Night is where it’s at
Out with vampires,
Following the werewolf’s howl
Where creatures of darkness prowl,
You don’t need light
Darkening skin and bleaching hair,
Ageing you beyond repair;
Here you can party
‘Till there’s nothing left to party for.
duane hall May 30
The predator was hungry, he was on the prowl
No one would suspect that something was afoul
Could it be he was abused as a young  child
Or maybe as he grew his brain became defiled
He wasn't on the radar, he didn't fit the profile
He could melt a young girl's heart with his boyish smile
But behind his façade and his mask of deception
He expertly concealed  his incurable infection
His brain's on fire,  he's  got snakes in his head
If you fall for his treachery you're gonna wind up dead
It's not just the young women who are his only prey
It's the relatives and friends that deal with the tragedy
How does society deal with such a deranged psychopath
And the carnage created by his insatiable bloodbath
The death sentence was created precisely for such monsters
This is a matter that should be taken up with Congress
I won't apologize not even a little bit
The Ted Bundy's of this world are psychological ****.
This poem is dedicated to Shannon and Diane(s)  Three local girls who died at the hands of a local serial killer.
bulletcookie Aug 2018
Where footling trees do grow
nature, apologies need not know
vistas look back at you with eyes of snow
stones, high meadows, and silver timber knots

purple lupines and fire-**** that blush pink
held firm in gravel hands meet lichened erratics
where mountain's complexion in eon's blink
altered antonym of greens and browns chromatic

Where footling trees do grow
clouds shoot over passes round
to sprinkle, clap showers or to plow flows
marmots don down and burrow to ground

seeds and feathers take to their wing
branches' memories bend to storm's prowl
with constancy of change born on this wind
brutes in caverns and caves utter growls

Where footling trees do grow
a precipice of nascent springs leap
into; pine, spruce, ericaceous woodland below,
to gush as creeks, washout to river's slow keep

dappled light and streaming ray divides
fall forest floor with lulling murmur flutters
there bridge a span in wood knock strides
where clinging moss rolls bread and butter

Empty valley on violent rampage
Challenging mountain to a duel

Outsize ego on prowl
Looking for whom to cut down

A beautiful snake in beauty pageant
Vowing to emerge the forest King

Issue a yellow card to a snail
Who vows to climb a salty hill

Crab beware fish is the owner of aquatic splendour!
Night all along was
A monologue of lights,
On prowling darkness!
Monisha Jul 28
I took a moment of fancy to you,
And pray why did I do so?
Was it the curl of your lip,
Or the drawl in your tone
Or just the way your eyes
Met and held mine across the room.

You moved away and around
And so did I,
Heightened senses,
Aware and on the prowl.

A game that’s played on
Almost forever,
A lilt in my voice
A bounce in my step,
An interesting interlude,
For a moment or two.

You waltzed across the room,
Meeting many,
Caught you from the corner of my eye,
Seeking me.

The moment of reckoning,
When we were just a breath away,
I smiled and lowered my lashes,
A deep breath, and walked away,
Is it you or is it me?

Oops! I smell coffee,
Good morning love,
had an interesting interlude,
Guess what! It was you!
I hunt for happiness
I have a hunger that runs deep
I prowl chase and pounce
still nothing

I feel as if i'm being watched
I turn around
I see nothing

I've come to realize
my head is hunting me
a ghost haunts my body
but doesn't take control
it just puts happy memories in my head
I take away sadness instead
I'm hungry for happiness
I'm going to starve
and end up dead
Maybe i'll turn into ghost too
Tommy Randell Oct 2017
The Night Shift Wife she's asleep upstairs
After twelve hours of nursing sick people's cares
Still tired and stretched like the skin on a drum
Despite her unwinding on the slow drive home

She passed through my arms on the way up to bed
A bit distant and dreamy in the things being said
The unimportant, the ordinary, the conversational pairing
The transitional husband and wife kind of sharing

Leading to now with my day being on hold
Scanning the ceiling for every movement and roll
Willing her to sleep through every noise and intrusion
Hearing every whisper or bump as an actualized explosion

She sleeps. Don't ask me how I don't understand
While I prowl through my day for any moment unplanned
No parcels no phone calls no visitors no life
I want you all please to be quiet – And Switch Off That Light!

Tommy Randell 14th October 2017
Something all Shift-workiers' partners will understand - the guilt of noise while their partner is trying to sleep. My dear wife is a Mental Health nurse here in the Uk and her shifts, with travel, are 14+ hours.
Ciara Jones Jul 2018
Did you ever wonder why
Why the crows always sighed

Shallow sighs that seemed to signify
The broken pieces of happiness that once used to collide

Looking back at it now
I could hear a poetic prowl

A town full of memories
A land full of histories

Think simply, they used to tell me
Because with that, they said
You can take on life slightly more effortlessly
She walks down pavement
She makes the government’s infrastructure look like beauty
Her beauty turns away the rules of the snooty conservative government
The constitution loses its soul
When she bends over to check the hood of a car about to roll
Her boyfriend accompanied by other boyfriends who hit on her
I stand on the sidelines
Problem is I murmur
You probably thought a stutter was worse

She’s such a high class gal
Despite her sultriness and I’m not judging
But I must mention she goes to Church
So you might still mistake her for being an uptown sister
She dances to rock music
Her head doesn’t even sway to the EDM that the plebeians surrounding her play
She’s an anachronism
But she just needs me to introduce her Monet’s impressionism
I bet her cultural values force her to mould Picasso’s Cubism

Even though I’m not a man’s man
She without influence is not enough
Because influencing is love
And I hope it is to this cute rebellious dud
I suppose from her house she ran
When she looked morose in school during period nine
It was English Drama and suddenly she couldn’t seem to remember the line

With her friends flanking her she walks and talks
She’s on the phone while she’s wearing her socks
She’s on the prowl she’s an active girl
That women is close to my heart
And I hope to treat her like a clam treats its pearl
Don't confuse this poignant lad to be a ******.
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
The morning mist dissipated
as the ships keel ploughed a furrow
through the Great Green of the Aegean,
leaving far behind the magick isle.
Vigilantos stood at the prow,
marvelling at the accompanying dolphins,
curious and playful,
schooling with purpose to the ocean.
Ahead, waiting, a grand tour.
Of Sumer, Abyssinia and desert lands,
to glean hidden knowledge,
regain the mysteries of the ancients,
read the Necronomicon and old scripts
from a time when power crackled,
and the storms of the gods
belittled the existence of mankind.

The twilight Moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
And she weaves hap-hazard
through the crushes of the crowd.
A high-born daughter of the desert,
a vision of beauty from the sand.
With silks and satin and perfume
richly obtained from foreign lands.
Through the colourful bazaar she threads
with occasional glances thrown at stalls,
priestess jewels sparkle in the night,
its her Name the sirocco calls.

Cobalt blue water, an illusion of light
where the sun slides through the meniscus,
and the harbour of Tyre was alive.
The bustling of boats around ships at anchor,
snatching glimpses of a turquoise sky
and the quay throbbing with the pulse of music.
It would be another 3 thousand years
before Rome was even a trading post on the Tiber,
let alone an empire conquering the east,
or building hippodromes and columned avenues.
Vigilantos drank in the atmosphere,
his magicians instincts bristling, noting all.
Meandering through the narrow streets,
loosely following direction, getting lost.
Seeking his retinue and camels, ready to start,
across the desert to Ninevah on the Tigris.
To speak to tribes, pray with the priests of Ur.
To find the secrets of mysteries, and treasure,
reaping the knowledge of the Old Gods awe,
amongst the shifting dunes of history.

Vivid colours of silks and dyes
adorn the tents of cloth and stick.
The summer sun beats down lazy,
heat as oppressive as mist is thick.
Her charms and delights are hidden,
with misery and pain, the last week spent.
The dark, the quiet, the inane chatter,
deep within the women's red tent.
Free from the curse, her moon-cycle complete,
she wanders with mood sombre and slow.
A powerful man from a western place
will arrive at the camp as the sun sinks low.
He had seen her in the main bazaar
and decided to stake his claim.
Whilst confined away, behind her back,
her father had bartered for riches and fame.

His travels around those beautiful lands
had yielded books of law and scripts.
He had heard the oral traditions of elders
and gazed in wonder at the Moon's eclipse.
Then he had seen the greatest treasure
wending her way through crowded markets.
With tact and guile he discovered her Name,
and vowed to grace her father's carpets.

The desert folk live a simple life
but far from simple are they.
Sharp of tongue and quick of wit,
erudite in a most unusual way.
The father was the elected leader,
King of the tribe that he now led.
Vigilantos had bargained hard
to purchase the girl for his marital bed.

The sun sinks, falling from the sky in the eve.
Spectacular reds and orange colliding with the dunes.
The azure twilight sky lit and sprinkled with stars,
and the tribal camp fills with laughter and tunes.

He walked with purpose toward the campfire,
his features silhouetted by flickering light.
The sudden hush of the assembled camp
echoed strange, deep into the desert night.
His eyes beheld her most beautiful form,
half in the shadow, half in the light.
For her families benefit he had traded,
agreed bargains, and come to claim his right.

“Princess of the desert, Daughter of the sand,
step forward gently and take me by the hand.
For my island home calls out loud to me,
so come, let us away across the sea”.

Head bowed in fake submission
she boldly makes her cold admission.

“I am a Woman of the free,
these sands are my home to me.
With all good grace; I could not face
life on an island in the sea”.

Black and red, darkness and rage
descend upon his fevered mind.
Humiliated, spurned by a maiden fair,
and pride will not be left behind.

“A curse. A curse. 'pon thy beautiful head,
prowl and creep as do the undead.
Evil deeds are now thy course,
henceforth our contract is now divorced”.

But something made Vigilantos start,
a pang of something from his dead heart.
With such feelings he could not contend,
so a caveat, for the curse to amend.

“Thy deeds and crimes maybe invested
'pon mortals only who invest the same such evil
'pon their fellow mortals”.

Leaving far behind the desert
he turns his face to the sky.
The ships keel ploughs a furrow
as the evening mist draws nigh.

And now she prowls the dark night,
her Name lost in the sands of time.
Seeking out the mortal sinners and
punishing their evil with her crimes.

... and thus it begins ...

© Pagan Paul (08/08/17)
Prequel to The Judderwitch poem (posted in April).
I fear this may create more questions than it answers.

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
The X Rhymes Apr 15
the restaurant bins were backstage wings
and ‘Bella’s dressing room
no overtures of spectral strings
no orchestra to tune

the brooding silence ‘Bella planned
would creep across the set
and make her theatre of the ******
the best performance yet

so when she dimmed the lights to low
the atmosphere grew tense
it signified her vampire show
was ready to commence

the curtain rose on concrete sprawl
of city streets at night
past backdrop walls of spray paint scrawls
she entered from stage right

as grey mist danced a pirouette
she floated through the air
as dry ice clouds, in etiquette
might unveil something rare

with forked electrostatic
the supernatural sort
my flair for the dramatic
remains intact, she thought

and passing over street debris
of bottles, bags and cans
left and right she looked to see
‘Bella’s leading man

who this dusk she’d meet to mark
their former glory days
before she’d betrothed unto dark
while wed to light he’d stay

their differences unreconciled
the rules, they’d found, could bend
and from each other’s worlds exiled
they’d stayed the best of friends

those paramours would rendezvous
away from sunlight’s glare
front and centre, bang on cue
and yet he was not there

arriving fashionably late?
he’d never be so rude
nobody made Bella wait
her mood became subdued

their human/undead peace accord
was due beneath this moon
no anniversary ignored
he’d be there surely, soon?

so, landing by a lamppost
she drew back slow her hood
her skin the white preferred by ghosts
her mouth the red of blood

and dragging fangs across her lip
she rolled her emerald eyes
her shadow hands his throat would grip
should he materialise

once face to face and cheek to cheek
she’d breathe into his ear
like Transylvanian, vampire-speak
“long time, no see, my dear.”

this night they’d both vowed not to miss
and always kept their word
a warm embrace, a gentle kiss
no consequence incurred

for human touch and living skin
once every year, this night
came Bella’s lust for carnal sin
with one she would not bite

since love conducted on the sly
will keep its sense of fun
and that’s the second reason why
they kept it from the sun

vampires don’t turn into bats
as stated in folklore
but may in darkened habitats
use sonar to explore

it’s like the fabled siren’s song
unheard by human ears
that makes it known and whets the tongue
when haemoglobin nears

she sent it down the roads and walls
a plaintiff, high-pitched cry
a kind of vampire mating call
that garnered no reply

just sweepers sweeping gutters
from late night litter louts
the clang of closing shutters
as neon signs winked out

and engines growling down the street
from taxis on the prowl
an urban fox caught indiscreet
by CCTV owls

that’s how the night proceeded
until the sky turned blue
and the street lights all conceded
since they’d much less to do

the problem is, if you don’t age
it’s hard to work out when
the last time was, it’s hard to gauge
what’s one year and what’s ten

since time moves in fast motion
in dark affairs of heart
with high costs for devotion
when dead right from the start

so Bella came to realise
though she’d not aged at all
in one blink of vampire eyes
the mortal man could fall

her audience of one was gone
her leading man had died
no roses thrown in great aplomb
his rave review, denied

the roles they’d made had now been played
with no awards to haul
and no cascade of accolades
just one more empty stall

her vampire life had been so sweet
but now the debt was due
the price - a heart that just won’t beat
but can still break in two

this gaping hole she’d never fill
no matter the blood drawn
and so she waited patient, still
and saw first light of dawn

and as the glow of morning fire
stained the clouds like rust
this Nosferatu, vampire
became no more than dust

those paramours perhaps would meet
in heaven or in hell
but with the vampire show complete
the final curtain fell.
See also
‘Bella Lugosi.
Monisha Jul 28
I wrote this on the plane,
With Julie London crooning in my ears,
The light of the lamp above on my face,
My feet propped against the panel front.

I wrote this on the plane,
Thinking of the clouds passing by,
In the depth of the night,
Like batman on the prowl.

I wrote this on the plane,
The front seats were free,
And so was I,
In the still  of the night.

I wrote this on the plane,
Way past everyone’s bedtime,
The ecstasy of the lilting tones,
The thrill of the shadows around and within me.

I wrote this on the plane,
Just feeling alls right with the world,
Just in that moment,
I could dream and feel closer to you.

Yes I could, Yes I am,
Stars fill the sky,  
And thoughts of us fill my moments too,
I feel joy,
So I wrote this on the plane.
Mugerwa Muzamil Feb 2018
In this dark night
I still feel I possess my shadow
I feel it linger fiercely
Palpating my ego
Walking tall on walls
Like shadows of wavy flames
Of a heated bonfire
The night superimposes its darkness over my shadow
Waiting to prowl in the dawn
Beneath the blossoming sunrise
Sharp beams of light spread
In this heat wave I can still feel
The coldness of my tender breath
Pry the  demons who want to undo
my philosophy
Smother my dreams to fading mist
Demons latent in a soulless shadow
I can still unleash my fettered self
Because no light no shadow.
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