"prowls" poems
I am in love with the big bad wolf that prowls my neck and howls between my legs.
He has big eyes made to see my reaction as those teeth bite into the tender flesh of my throat and my, if you knew what he did with those claws of his…
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:29 PM UTC
The dark is present
All around me
I'm not afraid of the dark
Not the kind in your bedroom at night
Not the kind that lurks in shadows
But I am afraid
Of the dark that consumes one's heart
Of the dark that prowls in my very mind
January slipped it's finger
Down my spine
As I slip
Further down
Further down underwater
As I float downwards
I think of this darkness
The one present
Right now
My eyelids slowly close
And I am left with the dark
And the sounds of underwater
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
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Snake prowls
Preying owls
Welcome to the jungle
Night things emerge
Carnivores get the urge
Welcome to the jungle
Rainforest mammal
Dry desert camel
All know the law of the land
Swinging monkey on a tree
Or the flower-loving bumble bee
Know a jungle when they see one
Creatures with hungry jaws
Tear flesh with razor claws
For that's how a jungle should be
Man so set apart
Just because he has a human heart?
The joke's on me
So bask in the fantasy
That life comes so easily
Then welcome to the jungle
Nov 25, 2009
Nov 25, 2009 at 7:31 AM UTC
Said the Prince unto his raven-haired Lady as he rode and galloped away,
He leaned back and this is what he had to say:
“Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.”
Jack O’Lantern prowls and haunts the frosted hills hunting to ****** for fresh meat.
This monster, this dark beast creeps down from upon the heath!
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Where be the Lord of this warm and happy house?” says Jack O’Lantern with claws tapping.
“Gone to London town,” says the Nurse the coins from Jack receiving.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Where be the lovely Lady of this house?” smiles Jack O’Lantern mouth full of jagged teeth.
“She’s in her red chamber,” says the Nurse asking for a treat.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Where be the delightful baby of the house?” says Jack O’Lantern purring like a cat.
“Asleep in the cradle,” says the Nurse accepting Jack’s gold sack.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“We will pinch him, we will ***** him, we will stab him with a long pin!
Nurse, you will hold the basin for the blood all to run in.”
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
So they pinched him and they pricked him, then they stabbed him with a very sharp pin.
The false Nurse did hold the basin for the blood all to run in.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“Lady, come down the stairs, come drink this tasty gin,” says Jack O’Lantern dripping sin.
“How can I see thee in the dark?” says the Lady unto him.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
“I have silver bracelets and rings fashioned out of gold,” says Jack O’Lantern bowing.
“Lady, pray sail down the stairs and come see them glowing.”
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
Down the stairs the radiant Lady gently glided without alarm, thinking there to be no harm.
Black-eyed Jack stood ready to snap her in his arms.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
There is blood in the kitchen and blood on the chamber floor, there is blood also in the hall.
There is blood upon the open door and blood upon the wall.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
There is slippery blood in the parlour and bedroom too where the Lady did slip and fall.
Now Jack will be caught and hanged and punished in hell’s hall.
Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
Be concerned! Lock and bolt the door until I return.
And the false Nurse will be broken and burnt in the fire raging scarlet and black.
Said the Prince unto his Lady dead as he rode back:
“Beware the moor, beware the fog, beware the nightly shadow of Jack O’Lantern!
O why did you unlock the door? My heart will now forever twist and turn!”
Mar 10, 2010
Mar 10, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
A desolate shore,
The sinister seduction of the Moon,
The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Flaunting, ****** and grim,
From cloud to cloud along her beat,
Leering her battered and inveterate leer,
She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,
Her horrible old man,
Mumbling old oaths and warming
His villainous old bones with villainous talk--
The secrets of their grisly housekeeping
Since they went out upon the pad
In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:
Growling, hideous and hoarse,
Tales of unnumbered Ships,
Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,
In some vile alley of the night
Waylaid and bludgeoned--
Dead.
Deep cellared in primeval ooze,
Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,
They lie where the lean water-worm
Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides
Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,
Thus fouled and desecrate,
The summons of the Trumpet, and the while
These Twain, their murderers,
Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,
Hang at the heels of their children--She aloft
As in the shining streets,
He as in ambush at some accomplice door.
The stalwart Ships,
The beautiful and bold adventurers!
Stationed out yonder in the isle,
The tall Policeman,
Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers
About him in the ancient vacancy,
Tells them this way is safety--this way home.
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Count Dracula lives in my attic and he has a casket for a bed.
He has bitten all of my family members and they're undead.
I've told many people but they don't believe my texts.
All of my family members are vampires and I'm next.
Dracula prowls during the night and returns before sunrise.
My family prowls with him but people think I'm telling lies.
I've kept the vampires away so far by locking my door and wearing garlic.
They haven't bitten me yet because they fear that I will make them sick.
I fear that sooner or later, I will be turned into a vampire.
I've looked online but I can't find a monster killer to hire.
I'm sick of hiding like a coward, I've had all that I can take.
I found a knife and I just got done carving a wooden stake.
Dracula is pounding very hard, he's trying to break down my door.
He has succeeded but I stabbed him through the heart and he just hit the floor.
Because Dracula was the original vampire, my family has died as well.
I feel so calm and relaxed because my life will no longer be a living hell.
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
Yes, yet again
this is the night:
one of those nights
when the moon howls
but no vampire prowls
and werewolves are asleep
dreaming of sheepdogs
chasing sheep.
Half-live half-dead
I dance the sleepless dance
embracing my demons
in a drug-addled trance
of a crazy puppet
Sometimes
there's something
seductive
about the sky
that so attracts me
makes me want to fly
through the open window
the demon of freedom
invites me
to die.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Dans le fond des forêts votre image me suit.
RACINE
There is a panther stalks me down:
One day I'll have my death of him;
His greed has set the woods aflame,
He prowls more lordly than the sun.
Most soft, most suavely glides that step,
Advancing always at my back;
From gaunt hemlock, rooks croak havoc:
The hunt is on, and sprung the trap.
Flayed by thorns I trek the rocks,
Haggard through the hot white noon.
Along red network of his veins
What fires run, what craving wakes?
Insatiate, he ransacks the land
Condemned by our ancestral fault,
Crying: blood, let blood be spilt;
Meat must glut his mouth's raw wound.
Keen the rending teeth and sweet
The singeing fury of his fur;
His kisses parch, each paw's a briar,
Doom consummates that appetite.
In the wake of this fierce cat,
Kindled like torches for his joy,
Charred and ravened women lie,
Become his starving body's bait.
Now hills hatch menace, spawning shade;
Midnight cloaks the sultry grove;
The black marauder, hauled by love
On fluent haunches, keeps my speed.
Behind snarled thickets of my eyes
Lurks the lithe one; in dreams' ambush
Bright those claws that mar the flesh
And hungry, hungry, those taut thighs.
His ardor snares me, lights the trees,
And I run flaring in my skin;
What lull, what cool can lap me in
When burns and brands that yellow gaze?
I hurl my heart to halt his pace,
To quench his thirst I squander blook;
He eats, and still his need seeks food,
Compels a total sacrifice.
His voice waylays me, spells a trance,
The gutted forest falls to ash;
Appalled by secret want, I rush
From such assault of radiance.
Entering the tower of my fears,
I shut my doors on that dark guilt,
I bolt the door, each door I bolt.
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears:
The panther's tread is on the stairs,
Coming up and up the stairs.
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I wrote several years ago, a scrap of paper with wondering thoughts--lost.
Delinquent, ovulating, ***** lovers, ***
devil, **** lies, logic, science
dalliance, omission, legality lost, sultry
does oppression look like sex--yes:
It was forced, it ran it's course
but it still runs, runs runs
silently, but in actuality, loud
quietly, but it prowls, hunting for calamity
a sad reality-- a tragedy
with wicked twists which linger
on my wrists, hips and thighs
charred with scars and lies,
I lied: with my thighs
when i let you in, it wasn't a sin
but a lesson I learned, as a girl
and education I didn't earn
--but I sure paid for
no cause for concern
but I find it discerning, sick
and disturbing--you seek dolls
so fine, glossed pretty pink lips
that shine, lips like mine
but there is no crime,
put a price on a doll
and say she's worth a dime.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
Just beneath the road insensate,
in the little creek that crawls through town,
the rains brought him.
Iron-blue, patient, slender, high sits his head –
a lance, now raised – now half-tilt as he sights his prey – raised again
as a drifting leaf disrupts his aim.
Upstream he prowls, that his prey sees
him not.
He stalks with long, slow strides, his legs thin and
graceful not to disturb the quiet current of the water and
give himself away to senseless quarry. Few call him spindly,
I imagine. Not I.
By the shore, fish-bones, whole
but for the flesh,
sink into the mud.
A thoughtless dart, a flash, a writhing
beast falls still on his speartip.
What am I, then, that
he flies when I draw close?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
When the moon shines full and bright,
the villagers tremble in fear at night.
For out of the darkness comes evil growls,
as the werewolf emerges and slowly prowls.
His howls are heard echoing in the streets,
but emptiness his raging hunger only meets.
The villagers are hiding inside their homes,
so into the dark forest he enters and roams.
The frightened animals scurry away to hide,
except for one trapped in the open outside.
Before the sun appears in the morning sky,
the tiny creature is doomed to surely die.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
In shadows deep where moonlight wanes,
Where whispers dance in eerie strains,
There prowls a creature of the night,
With eyes aglow, a chilling sight.
Amongst the hibiscus, crimson blooms,
Their petals soaked in midnight gloom,
A vampire lurks, his thirst unbound,
In silence, stalking without a sound.
He yearns for blood, a crimson stream,
A haunting echo, a silent scream,
And in the garden, where hibiscus weep,
His hunger stirs from slumber's keep.
Yet amidst the darkness, a delicate grace,
The hibiscus blooms, a fragile embrace,
Their beauty rivals the moon's soft glow,
A stark contrast to the vampire's woe.
For in their petals, life's essence lies,
A crimson hue beneath starlit skies,
But to the vampire, they hold no cure,
Just reminders of what he must endure.
So in the night, where shadows creep,
The vampire hunts, his hunger deep,
And though the hibiscus may wilt and fade,
Their beauty lingers in the darkness, unswayed.
© fey (24/04/24)
Apr 25, 2024
Apr 25, 2024 at 5:43 AM UTC
Revel in space, yet not darkled, still
the **** and span of things that breeds
airlessness; The trees are evenly cut,
and their overgrowth seems like a forethought.
Where I am from, we eat fish with
our bare hands and our furniture, from bodies
of sandalwood, crushed with the scent of
peregrines. The morning makes you conscious
of space, and altogether the height of trees
syncopates to a nauseating stillness. In the awning
hours, leaves punctuate the ground – the cicada
with its machinistic song prowls, spills like
water from a broken vase toppled by me
years younger, raw, agile, deftly windless,
wounded in love, lovingly wounded,
perhaps if there is a word for it, then let me
have my way, easily fraught with its meaning:
a casualty. Sometimes the timeworn folks
would light cigarettes underneath the canopy
of a mango tree to banish ants and send them back
to their queens – roosters in their wrinkled stations
croon in stasis, a song for the somnolent. I become
what the seasons evict. Constancy. Rearing weight
and gravity from nocturne. Tears are communal.
They make us aware of the weight of the Earth.
Somewhere, a funebre stilts through the silence,
and the jangle of little pieces spells out fortuity,
men in huddles mending pain by the sleight of hand,
a toss of a card, spinning in its imaginary axis: fate,
feigned and fine-tuned to belief that it is controllable,
a variable, or a tabulation marred by frailty. From where
I am from, people stride through the streets naked,
soldering baskets filled with fruits gossamer from the
harvest, children suckling their mothers, the music of sweeping
metastasizes throughout the afternoon, and the same clouds
contort themselves to afford wry proposition: it is a day tender
with wonder, its allure overwrought, its sheen unremarkable.
The funebre leaves with a necessary abundance of absence.
All the leaves depart from their mothering boughs,
collapsing on the dreary back of the loam like penitence.
Like how once when you were young, you tinkered with
the fresh scab of your wound and felt the pain confine
itself there, a part of you, that has now healed, but is still
available for the world to break once again.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
Stuck in a mist
Lost in a haze
A end of life
No more days
A path not shown
A darkness creeps
A creature prowls
crouching it leaps
Slashing, tearing
You heart it yearns
A beat you miss
A pain that burns
Nothing ahead
your life you lack
No way to retrieve
Its not coming back
The end is here
The lid nailed on
Six feet under
Too late your gone
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:20 PM UTC
Turn your keys into ignition
Just as a star explodes
Crying babies enter the world
Blades of grass learn to grow
Infinite darkness
Mixed with ominous beauty
The need for reflection
The burden of a curse
Mixed with foreboding air
That you’re not allowed to breathe
Erase all superstitions
Just as a black cat prowls
Lying children enter adulthood
The devil’s stomach growls
Infinite darkness
Mixed with ominous beauty
The need for reflection
The burden of a curse
Mixed with foreboding air
That you’re not allowed to breathe
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
Evil intentions of the night
gets deflected by moon's vigilance,
she raises her lamp above the clouds,
night taken aback, prowls behind the shadows.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:56 PM UTC
outside,
the world is doused in
gold light.
the woman across the street
prunes her roses.
three hipsters
giggle
on the porch next door.
a mangy black cat prowls
the street, mistaking
the twinkle of wind chimes
for a nest of chirping birds.
inside,
bruiser and i are
still. (what does
a tornado look like?
what does it
feel like?
it feels like
waiting.)
Jul 26, 2011
Jul 26, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
the sun prowls around
its rocky master
and you
a shadow in its breath
your eyes closed
your hair blowing
like a brushfire
bleeding oolong
the brazen claps of
sunlight thunder
down upon your shoulders
a freckle appears
then another
then another
your sea of blank skin
now crushed
tiny islands
cooling you in
sun-drenched picture
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
Cosmic serpent
Flies in circles
Orbits earths
Visits vessels
Stings and wrestles
Prowls the plain
The desert arrangements
Faces fire no fear
Takes one look at the spider
Sees through the fire
Undresses the only envy
The necessity plenty
Of spiraling ascent
To meaning manifest
A plunge into the nest of the fortune cookie prophecies
Fate pulled from a hat
In the terraforming visions of the seven breasted harpy speech devours itself
The visioneer’s ouroboros precludes ovals of assimilation clinging tight to the exoteric
The vessel rejects the half digested
An ammonia laden upheaval
Dispelling folderol with blinding reverence
Inviting tragedy with nostalgic foresight
Wet nightmares
Logic abandons the visioneer ****** into the opposite of static
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:59 PM UTC
The apple trees are hung with gold,
And birds are loud in Arcady,
The sheep lie bleating in the fold,
The wild goat runs across the wold,
But yesterday his love he told,
I know he will come back to me.
O rising moon! O Lady moon!
Be you my lover’s sentinel,
You cannot choose but know him well,
For he is shod with purple shoon,
You cannot choose but know my love,
For he a shepherd’s crook doth bear,
And he is soft as any dove,
And brown and curly is his hair.
The turtle now has ceased to call
Upon her crimson-footed groom,
The grey wolf prowls about the stall,
The lily’s singing seneschal
Sleeps in the lily-bell, and all
The violet hills are lost in gloom.
O risen moon! O holy moon!
Stand on the top of Helice,
And if my own true love you see,
Ah! if you see the purple shoon,
The hazel crook, the lad’s brown hair,
The goat-skin wrapped about his arm,
Tell him that I am waiting where
The rushlight glimmers in the Farm.
The falling dew is cold and chill,
And no bird sings in Arcady,
The little fauns have left the hill,
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still
My lover comes not back to me.
False moon! False moon! O waning moon!
Where is my own true lover gone,
Where are the lips vermilion,
The shepherd’s crook, the purple shoon?
Why spread that silver pavilion,
Why wear that veil of drifting mist?
Ah! thou hast young Endymion,
Thou hast the lips that should be kissed!
1.7k
She eats the souls of those who offend,
She fails never in the scene of combat,
Her fangs glisten with the light of the moon, the stars and night belonging to her,
Her sword of the second moon raised for battle,
She will slay them all like cattle,
Manners evade her so she will strike fast,
She'll steal there souls, and read there past,
Don't ever challenge the queen of moons,
She holds a fierce and forceful will,
She bathes in the winds gentle caresses,
So silent she may roam,
She is the moon and she is death,
A lethal warrior,
Slay you she will,
Her steps like a velvet kiss of a feather, dastardly she is not, her blow could **** hundreds she has no mercy for those who unleash her wraith,
She is the tigress of her jungle, she prowls late at night, strike with venomous hunger, tonight's your last night
Sep 1, 2012
Sep 1, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
Birds don't rain down from heart attacks,
Or aneurysms: we should be waist high
In hundreds of millions of feathered bodies.
Where are they?
Not like us, who fall in the strangest places:
Stop signs, ball games, synagogues, schools.
And we cover them, step around them,
Chalk mark floors and sidewalks,
And eventually pick up the pieces.
But we can't perch on live wires,
Or fly between wind vanes.
Where are the bodies.
Domestic or feral.
Look to the sociocat,
Though innocent,
It prowls by nature.
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
It is a murky unsympathetic night; the air is dense but so brittle. The city’s lights are glaring while the buildings are pellucid. The clubs are radiating with pandemonium most can’t seem to ignore. It’s a Friday night, a chaotic age restricted night. Both predators and prey invade the avenue. Walking through is Jane Doe. Tall slim and slightly inebriated. Attached to her skin are stitched together materials snug, satisfying but fleeting. As she prowls, the materials bind and elevate revealing her dermis. Beyond the noise, she hears phrases towards her, rotating her abdomen as she becomes livid but intimidated. Jane accelerates but the stilettos restrict. As she walks faster so does the brute, until finally their paths collide. Jane meets his cold malicious iris. Before altering directions, his callous filled hands swiftly but suddenly snatched her confidence and depth. Her figure jolts as he infiltrates her physique. Others observed nonchalantly and attentively whispering “she has received the appropriate consequences” based on the apparel draped over her figure.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 7:46 PM UTC
“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.
The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.
The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC