"sepulcher" poems
The napalan man in a violet cape
descended the stair with a lopsided gait
a wretched procession, subscribers in cue
rattling off as they stream from the pew
sounds and smells from a shadowy place
a catholic priest to gin up base
lanterns strung from bolted doors
cobbled streets and wooden floors
stepping stones and iron bell
fortified by the citadel
hallowed halls and sepulcher
dragon cane for the horse drawn tour
castle turret, archer holes
centaur scribed in chamber bowls
garden columns in courtyard view
the blood ballet and hullabaloo
ancient tombs on warrior grounds
gods and saints who made their rounds
goliath still with battered scythe
knelt in prayer and mummified
battle fires and crowds that roar
gallows, caves, abysmal war
gargoyles flock the terraced slope
pearly gates to bring on hope
serpents, snakes and burning ash
lava bombs and trident clash
mariners drift in absentee
as neptune rises from the Tyrrhenian Sea
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
In the last months of March 2014,
Soldier Othello the Moroccan moor
Was in Stratford-upon-Avon at the graveside
Of William Shakespeare the English bard,
He was observing the anniversary
Of Shakespeare and his European brother Cervantes,
He had in his pocket another charm and amulet
Given to him by his paternal grandfather,
This time round not a charm for love portion,
But a mystique totem to raise the dead from dusts,
As Othello himself has hitherto over-matured
Above the painful torture of *** with aristocrats,
He has left it for the Jewish aristotrash; Frantz Kafka,
Whose torturous appetite for *** with German women,
Was the sorriest eyesore of his thespic efforts.
Like Jesus at the grave of Lazarus
Othello groaned by shouting; William the son of John!
No response, he shouted again; Shakespeare the bard!
Then the mystique powers of Othello’s amulet
Electrified Shakespeare back to life,
What is your problem you black moor,
The ***** of Morocco, the soldier
Who beguiled Desdemona into betrothal,
Not because of glory of your work,
But due to charms of your love portion
Bequeathed to you by your witch mother,
What brings you to my sepulchre,
For only to perturbed my purgatorial peace,
What brings you!?
Questioned Shakespeare the bard.
Am no longer the moor, blackness is class
But not the race, as race is bankrupt,
I come here to salute you with good news,
That your European brother, Alfred Nobel,
Currently rewards thespic bards like you,
Whether black or white, blue or green,
The ***** bards from the natural forest,
He also rewards, so wake up and pick the prize!
Retorted Othello in virtue of truth,
And also tell me the native bricks
Of your beautiful architecture;
Where and how did you mold thy bricks?
Your brown English bricks that walled your culture;
***** clown, leapfrog, mercurial, oxymoron,
Falsitafity, Shyllocking, colleaguery and window,
Cauldron, graymalkin, woo, betroth, infatuation and so on.
From underneath his sepulcher Shakespeare broke
A violent gaggle of laughter as if he was ten English skeletons,
You Othello you are still a beautiful moor
Whose foolishness time has not condemned to oblivion,
You are as a fool as I created you ; I will only teach you
One brick, the window , that you go and put on
Your wind disturbed African huts,
Put the wind door on your hut,
And be flexible in your tongue
To give it English elegance
Combine and shorten wind and door
To get your cultural brick of; window !
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Dear diabolic debutante / Spawn of the unfathomable abyss of blackness / Daughter of dreadful dead desire / Black-shrouded sinister sister of celestial gloom before whose imperious gaze the heavens fall silent / Whip-lash girl-child of the graves whose pallid visage kindles the myriad infernal fires / Autocratic vampiress of lunar doom whose winding-cloth enfolds the thousand horrors of blood-drenched nightmare / Thou that wanderest the cypress-crested hills of funereal necropolises / Whose icy glance cracks the ungraven tombstones of utter desolation / Empress of night and madness / Who stalks the locked and shadowed hallways of unhallowed thought / Whose burial-boat glides the still waters over Lethe’s silent depths to the unglimpsed isle of eternal mourning / Whose parapets tower above the fiefdoms of quotidian banality / Whose flying buttresses overlook the Stygian waters of the forgotten drowned denizens of damnation / Whose unshackled dungeons open to worlds of regal splendor / Whose spires pierce dark skies where oblivion buries the ruined cities of revelry under the drifting clouds of leaden time / Oh maiden of melancholic alchemy whose petrified passions transmute base metal into pure gold…
May the gibbous moon of equinox shine its baleful eye upon you; may you tread in sacramental calm the winding starlit paths of somnolent cemeteries; may my unmixed metaphors unveil in delirium their parabolic mysteries before the smoldering altar of your uninterpretable allegory; may the favor of your scorn forever lay me out, embalmed, undead, on the cold stone of merciless reality. Behold: in cryptic script of spectral apparition, in tracery of coded illumination, amidst the dawning rays of torment I write thine unknown name on the threshold of daylight. And from within the mortared wall of self I speak forth from my sepulcher the Sibylline utterance,
unsought, unheard, undreamt:
JUST WANTED TO SAY ‘HI’ !
☻
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
Waiting for him,
Was like a,
Mindless abyss.
I thought,
This time I should give it a shot.
Add plus venture,
Into a realm full with pleasures of flesh.
Rather waiting to lie in sepulcher.
Thence came the wooers,
On horses, chariots, planes and cars,
Courted me to the foreign lands of brand new emotions.
Greasy, exotic, curious and even obscure ,
To satiate my hunger,
They poured,
And I sinfully devoured.
Ooooh!
A whip here.
Ouuch!
A tickle there.
Aahhhhh!!
The sheer unfolding of their classy work.
Every night lusciously they came,
Wrapped me in an awe of satire, skepticism and imagination,
Not to say of the bruises they gave,
Tears I shed of Anger,Pain ,Love and Hate.
Still I followed them blindly and agape,
Because a new world in me was taking shape.
Of Shakespeare, Freud, Tolstoy, Eliot, Byron, Wordsworth and my then fav,
the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
A medley of fantasy, fact-fiction, comedy, realism and romance.
Oh!
What not I chanced upon.
All emphasizing emotion, imagination, scientific and natural thought.
There was no stopping of these gnawing hunger pangs,
None lasted more than a one night stand.
The foolish me, unaware, cascaded in the fatal encounters,
Not knowing the pangs are of soul to reach the supreme ******
Thence came a Seer
The Prophet,
The Wanderer,
The Forerunner,
It was as if he can rip me with his thoughts,
And see my soul through that tear…..
I distinctly remember that divine night,
The moment I held him in my desirous hands,
I was no more in dual fight.
Things started falling into place,
Was no more in that abysmal space.
Still I would say,
It’s a current phase.
This soon would also evade.
New Lover ,
For every new night…
To cut a long story short,
Just so,
Because of your low attention span,
The lover, the poet , the wooer
Was the great
Khalil Gibran.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 1:05 PM UTC
The night howled at me in pitch black
So save my soul, you creature of the night
Reality is a staircase leading nowhere
Lambent in the sepulcher the buried moonlight
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 2:43 PM UTC
What needs my Shakespear for his honour’d Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow’d reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need’st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th’sharne of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the Leaves of thy unvalu’d Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher’d in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
1.8k
deep sepulcher and shallow pavement.
a sharp exchange of glances,
and then like snow-bed,
gone at first feverish light — all!
in me, the world is still,
(you are my
world)
growing roots, a throb of petals.
you bequeath me, a necklace of hands.
railway of stars, like the white
of your silence and mine,
inaudible stone of our
ever growing distance.
scraps of metal archipelagic
in Manila and the immaterial
language of billboards:
my mind, the crepuscular garden,
your memory,
the overgrowth,
never plucked — stilled, unfazed,
your slenderness a sign of
eternity: lignified.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
the Exquisite Executioner.
What kind of organic golem
of engrammic man am I,
so cold as to make you quiver.
You ask what hides under
my thin veneer of vernacular?
A bullshitter.
Caressing a mind swollen with Superego
I'd rather be traveling Home if only
I could just let
Me
go.
For
I am the **** leftover from
your irate iron decisions.
I am the sepulcher, wreathed by
your iconoclastic tongue.
I am the maw
trite in humanity
partite in hunger.
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 9:59 AM UTC
What makes you think
You’re human enough
Visions of light incinerated
And sepulcher demolished
Would never make you
As near as one
Seeing the outlines of
Wax statues
Or the inside of treasure box worn by year
Are just paths to a shallow valley
Of condescending condolence
And folie à deux
Where your madness
Never shares with mine
So my love, never bother trying
Even if you managed to take a flower
From the tree of life
The rest are just poison that force
You to succumb
Limbless
Mindless
Heartless
Shallow
With your guts arranged
In order
Like a marvelous slaughtertastic
Flower arrangement
That I used to adore
Before I perished
Knowing that I never wanted
To lit your soaked thread
With adorned pain
When you called me with names
Improper
When you accused me of
Disdain and betrayal
When you wrote me away
Like words too sad to be told
And when you insulted me
Like the horror you never accepted
Until you ask yourself
What makes me think
That I’m human yet
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
The pillow’s creased, and coffee cold.
Drops on the window, you seek console.
I’m not there to comfort, or elucidate.
We share a glance, although you may not know.
All the time you were beside me.
Continues to tomorrow and today.
Dissolution and irreverence cloud you.
But I beckon for a light to shine.
Just know I miss you.
You’re never absent in my mind.
Dig yourself a hole, pitiful and abysmal.
I can’t see you when you hide behind my sepulchral existence.
I pine to see you alive once again.
Life seems equivocal and anachronistic.
Anger swoons.
Please don’t tumble into rash being.
I cannot stand to see you apathetic, not tending to your wounds.
Someday you’ll find me.
My eyes in another.
Please let me hold you.
I’ve come so far to be here to solace.
Don’t question my new frame or figure.
Just accept the love I trudged with vigor.
Dec 5, 2021
Dec 5, 2021 at 11:07 PM UTC
Never wear the same skin too long
Lest you get caught in your own death
The eyes were scalped from the skull
Teeth torn out and thrown to the deep-sea
Along with severed fingers for prosperity
Always leave forensics questioning
And wanting more
My hope is to one-day settle down
Make the world disappear
By looking away for a minute longer
Suffering anxiety and questions of why
The scorpion is bottled alive
Jazz on the quivering ocean
In the enclave of a cave
A watered sepulcher
Sometimes mortality is hard to ****
Like a tragedy
We’re meant to be together
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 24, 2011 at 9:52 AM UTC
These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.
These dreams make waking up a gift and a chore.
Morning injects me into reality
Like a vaccine: a deadened virus that will keep you safe.
I cannot stomach this infertility,
Not yet.
I am not what I am
The eyes of those who pretend to see:
As benevolent as a mouth full of razors.
The mouths that I always want to kiss.
The lips that I always seem to pursue.
The cuts that I always pretend to cherish.
The ancient lust shakes my blood.
And I am forced to embrace nostalgia
as She and She and He and Then penetrate my mind: a time long past.
What is memory but a slideshow of regrets?
Every word becomes a mistake.
All triumphs a fleeting matter worthy of none.
Eviscerate my joy and live in its corpse.
It is April and we are frozen:
Stuck in a world we never knew
In a love we thought we felt
A life we never lived.
Entering this house is the last twist of the knife.
You're breaking my soul upon your eyes:
No birds sing.
Life isn't very long.
Even roses wilt.
It's rude to stare.
High on sidewalks and streetlights,
The sun has set: will it rise again?
What is to become of this,
My darkness?
There is no clock tower here, and
My full moon is setting too fast.
Day will come, day will come.
Feeling too much or nothing at all.
My heart races and I've no clue why.
And I will come home, to a sepulcher
Void of all light and screeching like the Storm.
I lift the knife to my side,
I look at you, and I sigh....
These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 7:55 PM UTC
Here lies my body
my life-long shell.
Worked through the grind
and finally fell.
Lying postmortem
on this cold table.
The reaper calls,
"Come, you are able."
An undertaker prepares
to hammer the stones
Of my final resting place
sepulcher for my bones.
Resting in pieces
all through the years.
Time washes away
lost memories' tears.
© 2011 Judy Ponceby
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
I sought to pierce the astral screen
discover things which lay unseen
existence layers to strip and peel
all cosmic secrets to reveal
with book and spell I tore the veil
beheld all things beyond the pale
creatures that rule the land of Leng
ghoul’s midnight feast, the yellow king
fungi that steal and eat men’s minds
horrors made gods that sit enshrined
the gates of mortal souls open wide
to blasphemous things that crawl inside
I descry the future’s dark corridor
where the stars are an endless sepulcher
and now I know my folly’s curse
my reason slips, my thoughts perverse
I must escape and look away
lest in this charnel house I stay
but I cannot stop through act of will
my vision seeks, strains further still
the last recourse causes gorge to rise
I must be free from these hell born eyes
the knife clutched in my shaking hand
I gouge and stab my sight be ******
and for a moment I am free
but then I am brought to my knees
o’ gods of pain and fear abhorred
my sight but clearer than before
all vision now within my mind
I would bless who could make me blind
with eyes which cannot close or hide
forever gazing and open wide
nor even death will seal them shut
on these horrors my soul must glut
my body fades I cannot die
and eternally through madness fly
Oct 26, 2024
Oct 26, 2024 at 10:15 PM UTC
To still the aching
from my ***** breaking
In each grisly leaf it wither, --
by the cage the heron tether --
I mistook the form of a mien of lady
in an oracle dream to fade he,
To fade -- to merely fade --
onto the winged-sylphs they grayed --
So, to deepen the burning spirit
lent it soar with a soul inherit
From the clasping
Cherubim heart in grasping --
Grasping despite
that heaven I respite, --
Respite the beaming of the orb
the angels may absorb
And decorum, of a single token
hung afar in the sky that's broken
So to be still in the evil,
binds only onto that mortal devil
In a sepulcher enraptured
as all my hopes within me captured
Within some dim Acheronian shore
in the depth sea the Acheronian store --
Store a most beautiful belle
I've ever kept in me ***** swell,
To palpitate my heart faster
into some unfortunate disaster
In keeping, the shadow of fire,
irradiating an ominous choir, --
A nightly lurking swan
whom the waking angels wan
Their fiery plumes parching
above the misted nimbus arching
The dim ray lighting down
from the heaven whom now frown, --
Yet, to still the aching
from my ***** breaking
For the most beautiful belle
I've ever felt me ***** swell
To be still in the evil
binds onto that mortal devil.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;--
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee--
With a love that the wingèd seraphs in Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wing blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud, by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we--
Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling,--my darling,--my life and my bride,
In the sepulcher there by the sea--
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Dec 28, 2009
Dec 28, 2009 at 8:10 AM UTC
I'm tired of screaming
And not being heard
I'm tired on blabbing
On and on
It's absurd!
Just wake me up
From my forever sleep
And restrain from my master's keep
The dark forbidden tomb
That is my cascading mind,
Is trapped forever,
Frozen in perpetual time.
Striving for perfection
You get nothing but "perplextion"
Confusion
"Bemusion"
Mystification
It's my only relation.
As I wander in dead darkness
I feel the heat creep up behind me.
I feel the flame lick my neck
I feel the cold linger
No longer a speck
A speck of hope
A speck of fear
A speck of soul I cling to dear!
My love is my torch
My love is my lamp
Even when God's tears drip and fall
Trying to make my spirits damp.
But I tread on
Through that doomed sepulcher.
I tread on...
No one can help her.
They say God has a plan
One everyone must follow
Right up to the very man...
A plan called fate
A plan I hate
A plan that dooms us all in state,
The state of fear
We wallow in,
The state we hear of indifference...
Every night I hear the screams
In my commemorative dreams
The screams of my peers
That echo in my ears
They match my own
My silent screams
They mask my dream
Their silent screams
From neglect above,
He neglects to save me
For I fear to speak aloud
For I fear to be misunderstood
From what i suffer...
The count down to the ever-stated doom
Is pounding in my head
A heartbeat that is hushed
Am I really so dead?
Wish me luck as I travel to space
The clock goes tick
I have one wish
I wish for freedom
I wish for tears
I wish for more people with ears
Ears that will listen to the cries
Of everyone
Everyone that dies
But everyone must die
So now it's my turn
Wish me luck
Send me to space
Please! get me away from this place
I want to be free
So please
Let me be
Count down
say five
Don't drown
say four
Not from my tears
say three
Not for many years
say two
Just please Lord forgive me,
say one...
For I have sinned.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
Engage
Ignite
the blood needs stirring
the legs have fallen dumb
stupor of monotony
has nestled into hips
wake these automatons
shake the dust from their harps
break beds and shred pillows
it’s possible that the very sight of feathers
might spark a memory of flight
these lifeless were not stillborn
these were once vivid
there is an epic in each of their wrinkles
each one of their tongues
once rang like bell towers
from hilltop carnal cathedrals
there are mountains they have stood on
that you have yet to reach
be careful not to judge a valley
without first considering
why it’s not called a plateau
these are atoms waiting to be split
waiting to rupture
to quake
to rip through the popular tapestry
waiting for their chance to be contagious
be contagious
these are already on death row
unaware of their slumber
ritual has rocked them gentle and slow
and habit is a cozy cradle
Engage
Ignite
spark passion in dried up timbers
gathered like kindling in foxholes
these have been lovers
for a forgotten number of years
these once meant ‘I do’
there is a sedative nostalgia
glazing their smiles
these are not now, but then
break hourglasses
and storm the new beach
raise flags in the motherland
bearing family crests
speak warpaint
sing fire
compose your battle cry
from their fragmented vitality
arouse in these
a memory of their first love
awaken the giants
that have fallen asleep
pull the plug
let them die or breathe
but let us see
who is and who isn’t
a sepulcher
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
The living to themselves gossip attract,
but at death eulogies mitigate lies.
Love and care from he who breathes is withdrawn,
but his slumber does attract parties.
Fake mourners with feigned tears in burials act.
They rip off and use the grieving as pawns;
Their loss is their gain, their tears their laughter.
To fill their stomachs, they sob and flatter,
as they to misery dance, from dusk till dawn.
Whilst alive, at my deeds everyone frowns.
But at death, I am a departed 'saint'
whose sepulcher you spray with costly paint.
If you must celebrate me, do so now.
Do not in reverence to my casket bow.
Visit me now in my ramshackle house,
sharply rebuke me if you have a grouse.
Do as much you can to show you love me,
do not when I sleep go on bended knee.
Never belatedly show your respect
by attending my funeral in retrospect.
Jun 23, 2023
Jun 23, 2023 at 7:22 PM UTC
The dark wood resists the light of progress
Lives there for thousands years an introvert race
Here they are born here lie their sepulcher
A few withdrawn people with a fossil culture!
Needs they have little, a little bit of food
All that they want they get in the wood
What lies beyond they don’t need to find
These folks of a tribe with plain thinking mind!
Those civilized outside thought it otherwise
The poor tribe suffers is what they surmise
‘Rare as they are they are really prized
Let’s groom them to become civilized’!
So long happily away from a farce called mainstream
This intrusion broke them, shattered their dream
Why turn them out and not be left alone?
The question is unresolved the battle goes on!
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
#
Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,
but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.
A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.
And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.
Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:
*You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.*
Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.
Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.
Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.
She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed
She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.
She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.
Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.
Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.
Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.
Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.
She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.
And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel
the quiet echo
of someone still with her.
#
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 10:37 PM UTC
Every ounce of me wants to write for you
But I can't
Something will not let me.
So I sit awe struck
Dumb struck
Love struck
And search and search and search and search and search and searchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearchandsearch
My brain in a desperate, wild hunt for words worthy of writing in your honor
Yet I fear the well is empty.
I fear that the grand fount of creativity has run dry.
That this is what comes of an attempt to write of you is proof enough to me.
Where have you gone, oh Muse?
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:58 AM UTC