"spectres" poems
*Brittle dry earth beaming with longing,
For wet kisses from heavy heavens' door,
In soothing rain, finds the heart’s belonging,
Releasing the sweetest aroma...petrichor.*
***The mist of warm moist wafting playfully,
Kissing and engulfing in a subtle unworldly spin...
A feeling ensnared by the clutches of fond remembrance.
Like the cadence of your breaths upon my parched skin...***
*A taste of your last dance on my fervent lips,
Awoken with each drop, still makes me thirst,
I lift my head, entranced by memory’s grips,
Craving you, again to make my heart burst.*
***Here again...two drenched hearts encased in glass,
Latent spectres melded together as they did before,
Promises wrapped and bound to the gaits of the other,
In eternal dance, laced with everlasting redolent petrichor...***
Dajena M
rhymesmith
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
I usually begin these rants with a question.
But i find myself lacking in just this instance.
For whom can say.
Anything more
When ash refuses to respond.
No message can be relayed.
Just more things that i silently promise.
As i figuratively toast to a memory that will never do you justice.
Is it disrespectful to take words so literal.
To the point.
That looking down gun barrels and beer bottles.
Turned into a ****** routine that pride would boast.
Only there was no smile in my smile.
Inhaling disappointment.
As the years of missed visits and substance abuse.
Led me here.
At your deathbed.
wishing my words could reach beyond.
Without worry of a certain spectres blade in my shadow.
Then somehow.
I made my word.
The only thing worth asking about.
Because allowing the past to weave around the last routine we shared.
Would force everything that i have come to embody.
To null
Et fin.
But no.
Your gift was ever changing.
Trading a jack for skills.
While masking scars that only those with them would know of.
And in the darkest moments did i find a crystal.
Clear.
Resolve.
To struggle onward.
Tears wont spell the revisions we seek.
and i was taught to always look my best, no matter the destination.
Everything that i am.
Came from you.
It didn't come from a book nor a Professor.
I can only hope to pass on your wisdom.
Although cryptic at times.
Will remain in my heart.
So even though I will forever be thinking of a new metaphor.
A penny will sit in my pocket.
Until the day that I can place it in your palm.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC
1545
The Bible is an antique Volume—
Written by faded men
At the suggestion of Holy Spectres—
Subjects—Bethlehem—
Eden—the ancient Homestead—
Satan—the Brigadier—
Judas—the Great Defaulter—
David—the Troubador—
Sin—a distinguished Precipice
Others must resist—
Boys that “believe” are very lonesome—
Other Boys are “lost”—
Had but the Tale a warbling Teller—
All the Boys would come—
Orpheus’ Sermon captivated—
It did not condemn—
5k
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
I have memories
That could be mine,
Selfies of other times.
Gray matter shots
That morph and shift,
Blur and smear
Yet shine.
My phantom snaps
Have smoke and mirrors,
Spectres with borders.
The smell of bacon,
A rising sun,
A carpet hill
To lay upon;
A door that swings
To past future,
A window to see through.
My astral albumn
Haunts my nights,
No light can dim my view.
I think my thoughts
Are photoshopped.
These memories of you.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
"Is there anybody there?" said the caller,
"Six ten eight oh one two four three nine?"
And his ears attuned to the empty hum
Of the long-forgotten line;
And an LED on the handset
Flashed, for a moment, red,
And he dialled the number a second time:
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one replied to the caller,
No sound but the dialling tone
Came drifting into his waiting ear
As he held that haunted phone;
But only a host of phantom listeners,
Of spectres weak and strange
Stood hearkening to that human voice
That echoed around the exchange;
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
And his heart was afraid and nervous,
With his hand on the final digit
Of that number not in service;
For he suddenly tapped the receiver
And spoke on that line of dread:
"Tell them I called, and no one answered,
That I kept my word!" he said;
Ay, they heard him replace the receiver,
And his mumbled cursing later,
With the usual subdued but enthused delight
Of the switchboard operator.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 6:26 AM UTC
1535
The Life that tied too tight escapes
Will ever after run
With a prudential look behind
And spectres of the Rein—
The Horse that scents the living Grass
And sees the Pastures smile
Will be retaken with a shot
If he is caught at all—
2.5k
’Tween hither and thither we wended our way
skipping, dancing through sand dunes, in seascape croquet.
While woven in waves watching dolphins at play
I first tasted her lips in the ocean’s wild spray.
Mystic moonbeams, suffusing clouds’ shimmering sails,
unleashed us and whisked us down sensuous trails,
soon evoking the trills of untamed nightingales
as our passions pervaded green valleys and dales.
Being spectres of splendour in wanton sashay
we mastered our meaning in love’s matinee –
the breezes, in passing, slowed down to survey
blazing bodies embraced in youth’s blooming bouquet.
With the wind as our wings, till the Never we flew,
two gypsies, on junkets through dusk’s residue
gently floating like pollen to everywhere new,
so eluding pearled teardrops that paint the past blue.
Yes, we gamboled and gambled, two waifs led astray,
with our shackles afire and anchors aweigh –
rising higher and higher, the sun lured our sleigh,
teasing time was our temptress, night’n day after day.
Having stars in our eyes and all time as our view,
we’ve drifted, like dreamers where sprites rendezvous
and feasted on laughter and sipped morning dew
while rambling forever as one made of two.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
Writers are quite dangerous.
She came to the bar, to watch,
And listen, to hear stories.
Carefully, I tread. For fear,
That my own diction, would become
Trapped in her world of fiction.
Though, of course we swapped pieces.
And still, only selected to paint,
A vision of my own creation.
Small freedoms, but they matter most.
As I'm a prisoner to demon's I host.
Be wary poets, of power most foul.
Ensnaring half spectres of being,
In a prose, a thought or a feeling.
Reality is as real as you write it.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
Jaded.
The feeling you end up with after pulling life's layers apart,
staring into the abyss
and drink your fill
of a reality you could neither foresee,
plan for or rectify.
Jaded.
Being left in a state of disillusionment, your hopes and dreams nought but dust.
The spectres of others' lives and happiness
gnaw at your soul, etching away at your precious delusions
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
It was curious
that the horror stories
were not false
Believe it
or not
The pairs of glassy eyes
the horrific shadows
the blazing ignes fatui
the strange cold
the ghostly celebration
Termites, spiders, ants
and bats are alive
the rest are dead
The spectres and the skeletons
roam the island
they were **** sapiens
They exist betwixt
the cryptic hallucination
and the paradoxical illusion
**** sapiens is afraid
Jan 16, 2023
Jan 16, 2023 at 2:26 AM UTC
Friends,
Think not of terror in the night
Of wayward wandering careless fright.
Think not of hatred in the morn,
Of owness lost and past left scorn.
Think not of guilts
Dead to the wind,
Think not of ills
You've beaten still.
Think not of the spectres of your mind,
Of days destroyed, of thought decline.
Think not of angels
Escort the dead.
Think not of challenges, haunt ahead.
Think not of blanket
Bleaching sorrow.
Think not of heartache soared tomorrow.
Think not of panic in the dark,
Of where your friends and foes reside,
Of what they say or what they mind,
Or whether they think you cruel or kind.
Think instead,
Of all you are.
Of where you've come from,
Crawled this far.
Think of your talents,
Of your shine,
Think of the world in terms of rhyme.
Think not of fear, of mindless dread, of panic ransacked
Quaking head.
Think all too clear of love itself.
Of simple life in raging health.
Never question what you are,
But freely count the fading scars.
Question malice, idle, stubborn, judging hearts,
Question tired cynics,
Mouthing barbs to better grow into themselves,
Question injustice, and condemn to swell
All those who'd dare
To make you shrink into a lesser, hardened shell.
Never wind your steps back over tread,
Already stepped.
Hold firm and fast
White knuckle raging burning grasp
Your fingers to the rail
And grimace menace
To all that failed
To break you.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
Cold rains, wet and weary... seeping through the sky,
spectres pass ’long side me... bent, with collars high,
my visions are invisible and no one sees me cry.
Minstrels of destruction... rapping at my door,
naked anvils aching... heavy hammers roar,
their monodies of emptiness pulse, bleeding through the floor.
House of cards collapsing... sagging walls of wax,
deuces in dissension... aces slip through cracks,
the Joker’s lost and lumbers by, alone, along the tracks.
Steeple steps dismantled... muted bells below,
ruins quake and tremble... frozen in the snow,
their pains implode within my brain while pale winds cruelly blow.
Prophets tumble temples... residues of tea
highways of no entrance... paths of destiny,
where phantoms haunt my nightmare dreams, tell tales of roaming free.
Foghorns moaning lonely... waves awash in sound
silver schooner sinking... swirling round and round,
at midnight’s stroke, the mainsail broke, and driftwood drifts aground.
Silent seas misshapen... moonbeams painted ***
teaspoons sifting ashes... fingers cold and numb,
an incandescent candlestick’s impaled the sinking sun.
Smothered fires smoking... oceans filled with ice,
lightning lashing windows... blades from paradise,
like tongues of limpid laughter licking wounds of sacrifice.
Flowing fields of flowers... silent harmony,
rolling river reveries... washing to the sea,
my love, she was my daylight bliss, she once belonged to me.
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
No one could see us
Until you smashed the windows
Then you took your lighter
The blue flame flickered
And gave birth to a blaze
The blaze devoured the curtain
Smoke engulfed the both of us
We were too stubborn and proud
Neither of us walked away
Now when others walk past the house
With it's grey walls and black dust
They look into the window
Where two specters remain
There's nothing left of us
We're just two specters that remain
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
Beyond the pale of memory,
In some mysterious dusky grove;
A place of shadows utterly,
Where never coos the turtle-dove,
A world forgotten of the sun:
I dreamed we met when day was done,
And marvelled at our ancient love.
Met there by chance, long kept apart,
We wandered through the darkling glades;
And that old language of the heart
We sought to speak: alas! poor shades!
Over our pallid lips had run
The waters of oblivion,
Which crown all loves of men or maids.
In vain we stammered: from afar
Our old desire shone cold and dead:
That time was distant as a star,
When eyes were bright and lips were red.
And still we went with downcast eye
And no delight in being nigh,
Poor shadows most uncomforted.
Ah, Lalage! while life is ours,
Hoard not thy beauty rose and white,
But pluck the pretty fleeing flowers
That deck our little path of light:
For all too soon we twain shall tread
The bitter pastures of the dead:
Estranged, sad spectres of the night.
1.5k
1
layover in toronto:
******* rain &
emptiness out the window
2
hushed crowds:
the sound of/
rainy footsteps.
3
waiting for the greyhound:
dismal spectres
ask about my change.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 10:43 PM UTC
My mind is a ghost house,
Haunted by souls still trying t
still here
o be found.
Some live
still
Others,
mere vapours
still here
Exhale, then die, and resurrect in technicolour,
Only to expire
again
Like candles in an unexpected breeze.
The windows were left open
In the dark, the spectres
still.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Silver ribbon Assiniboine
a sash for a city--a Ceinture Fléchée
tied into the Red just off Highway 1
You leak into the topsoil
in the place you call home
and come back up a street map
with fingerprint roads
I remember the way you'd trace these out on my back
with fingertip pencils--cartographer's hands--
Bird's Hill and Lag' and Portage and Corydon
laid 'em down in my veins
just under my skin
Where are you tonight, in your smiling Great City?
Crossing the bridge and inhaling the skyline?
Or walking the river in my iced over thoughts?
Maybe walking, mid-tempo, around KP mall?
Those hipsters in Osborne Village
and Wolsely
had nothing on us, did they?
Cooler than Main
on the 1st of the year
I trickled away
and I leaked into topsoil
enjambed between rhymes in apology poems.
An Irish Goodbye; a blip on the radar
stopped flashing to fade off the map of your streets.
Our voices still echo, our spectres still haunt
Dollaramas and sidewalks, Tim Horton's and pubs
Our hands still lace up--at least so in theory
Perimeter Highway's still traced on my back.
Here's hoping our avenues
meet again soon.
Here's hoping that luck can outrun shortcomings
one more time.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
Homeward headed, I was driving my way
Down I-95 past the Old Mill Way in a yawn,
Turning the radio on and looking to play
Something to keep my consciousness on.
Few cars out at 1:00; it had been a long day;
I'd stopped off at Charlie's to sit with a friend
To blow out the kinks and let myself say
What a **** the company minion had been.
Four hours burned off like the late morning haze;
When I'd sobered back steady, was able to drive,
I paid off my tab, left my friends in a daze,
Headed the Jeep to the feed ramp for old 95.
At one in the morning, the traffic was thin;
When I heard Harleys roaring behind,
I scoped the mirror for the lanes they were in,
Double-blinked then to see if I was road-blind.
No bikers behind, no bikers beside, but sound
Like a squadron blared loud, and I felt a cold chill,
Thought better of having the last couple rounds,
Wished I'd stayed an hour before I'd settled my bill.
I glanced to the side, though the sound was all 'round,
Saw a glimmer of green glowing chrome in the dark,
And fire ethereal from pipes blooming sound,
From a Shovelhead, barely visible, flat black and stark.
But the rider's appearance emptied my chest:
Dark goggles, full beard and a gray flowing mane,
Black leather with signs on his tattery vest
And a number embroidered below the man's name:
"Rider 88" glowed red through the gloom,
A ******** burned on the withering arm:
"We rise again!" I heard a voice of doom,
"We're meeting at the old red barn!"
He wasn't alone, though I couldn't see
The posse he rode with, the pack he was in;
I felt a squadron of hellions run through me,
Concussive, incessant, their rattling din.
And then, except pavement beneath the Jeep's tires,
The howling of wind and crackling "Cotton-eyed Joe,"
Nothing but the road after midnight, no sirens or fires,
And me, shaking hands on the wheel, alone.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
Kiriaki Olivia Eleni Mada-lozi
from Piraeus Greece Billy
ugly Marcia, Sherry Shriki, Darni, Judy Gim, Alb- tch, Jeff Albr.. Henry Robert W
Impotent ejaculator precosē. Charles manson's advocates; Henry Robert narcissistic
your sociopath psychopath nurse from hell in LA CA.
You aren't above the law
Poisoners sterile hainas
Susan WRat no.
**** human predators human traficants to hell with you all- ratas inmundas! Emilia Velazquez thief IHSS should put you in jail And immigration take your green card stealing my savings and stimulus money cashed. Shame on you rata inmunda ladrona.
Filthy rats
Creeping animals
**** of life
Shoddy monstrosity.
Subhuman
Spectres of Hell
**** vermins
How much damaged you've done to me and my daughter's
Poisoning them with hallucinogenic metamphetamins psychotropics without them knowing
Then, blackmailing them to give up their parental rights to sterile haenas jealous medeas
Add insult to injury to my family forcing psychiatric pill intake to hide your ancient crimes
Your hate crime is now public susan ra-t-ano hell *****
You bought my grown daughter from the human predators I had escaped from
1982.
Coward filthy **** *****
Vermin word raitano
Poisonous serpent
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
Two-legged rats
I'm talking to you all
because creeping creatures,
even being the most cursed,
compared to your evildoers
vermin human predators,
a creeping snake
stands taller than you all.
**** leeches
**** cockraoches
you who infects with bites,
who hurts and who kills.
Slanders trashing whoever
is holy good and precious
You Vermin
Poisonous serpents
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
I bind to you all my motherly pain I curse you in every life time.
Two-legged filthy rats,
I'm talking to you!
because a creeping creature,
even being the most cursed and ugly, in hell, on Earth
unwelcome in heaven,
compared to you **** brains.
stands much taller.
You're listening to me
useless
Hyena of Hell
How much I hate you and despise you!
**** leech
**** cockraoch
you who infects with bites,
who hurts and who kills.
Vermin
Poisonous serpents
In everyone's paradise.
Waste of life
I hate you and despise you.
Two-legged my filthy rats
I'm talking to you too ***** donors madalozi charms.bos henry welonek.
because a creeping creature,
even being the most cursed compared to you
You stand even smaller.
~~~~~~~
Repost.
By Paquita del Barrio
And Karijinbba.
1976-present
All Rights.
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC
Prompt: Write about a recurring dream.
…………
*They say it’s nice to drown,
peaceful to drown,
swallow your tongue,
shut yourself up like a pearl in a clam,
let it rush into every hole in your face -*
I plough like a cosmonaut losing memories
Surrounded by diaphanous tremblings,
Surfacing every three moons or so
To set my eyes on the prize of a particular liner,
To swipe wetly upwards
At the sky and her yellow jewellery.
I’m not surprised by the cold,
I welcome the white frail blaze of it -
Let me break the surface with a
Frothy lace collar
and then
Rain on me,
Pelt me,
‘Til we all become one another,
And I will feel it like a tremulous applause of tiny fists,
Knocking on the sand ten miles away.
I am shivering between shoals,
Joyfully sailing with silver starlings,
(How have I come to it so late -
This joy of flying?)
The water is at times a tortured mask
That I wear like a shifting grey veil,
I wrap my thighs around it’s efforts,
And we churn our legs like a billion dying insects.
(The green will reach out and mouth you,
But the splinters will not stick.)
Colours:
Bleached,
Frigid grey,
Dark wholesome,
Bible black,
My lips part for the waves blowing back -
And my body has no blood,
No organs,
Hollow but for the colours of the gloom.
I am a drifting column,
An angel of sand
knobbled stars **** at my head -
(So this is it -
This is what it is to be dead.)
I will meet you here
in this fantasy of glass,
We won’t even speak,
And we never needed words anyhow,
We will just elegantly teeter on the very edge of dreams -
Floating together loose and unsinkable
Like two formless sheets of hooked reflections
That drape and move and are never lost.
And I could cry now just thinking of it,
I’m crying now just thinking of it,
I want us to live in a miracle,
Two spectres between the spectrum of the layers -
*I can’t be up there anymore,
I can’t be part of the sculptures….
and neither can you.*
Am I any closer?
How many leagues?
How many times do I have to visit?
How much closer can I get?
And when I wake up saved,
Will I wear this dream upon me...?
Will I stick to my blue sheets?
Will my hair be wet?
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
Five times a day upon his coloured mat
he bends himself. The nurses come and go,
spectres in a slow procession that’s
caught in a loop, where only
the names change (ours too are abandoned for
the new ones we receive upon on arrival:
‘faking it’ or ‘non-cooperative’ or ‘terminal’ or
‘crash survival’).
It’s not their fault they eye him curiously.
They know he’s just a Turk. They’re different. He
gives not a sod
but prostrate on the disinfected floor
he offers, counting beads to keep the score,
his soul to God.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 4:18 PM UTC
Makes demons scatter
They cower in distant lands and await skyfall when only incandescence provide small detours but never refuge.
Sleep ?
Is a demon's bazar
They whirl and cavort gleefull that I have let them in on these rare occasions,much lost time to recapture.
Spectacular spectres. Portents.unbridled daymares with thundering flashing hooves,they gallop with boots reversed in silver stirrups.
A bagpipe dirge is on rotation as goblins and cadavers saunter in with dead carnations pinned where lapels should have been but by now only rotting and putrid skin.
Chain lightenin creases the night.
An eerie glowing light pulastes from atop twin peaks.Castle Frankenstein sits one hundred feet above the witches haunt. An antlike procession crawls to and fro between. Lost souls seeking refuge or small comfort.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC