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Krison Apr 1
The land of death and panic,
is ruled by rage and havoc.
Worthy courage brought to heel,
by thoughts of seething anger.

This land is populated,
by all who went in violence.
Upon there way to head stone farm,
with strange a crop to harvest.

With a yield that parallels,
the seeds they buried so.
Into spring and out snow
the ****** seasons go.

So out into the moonlight,
and far from divine light
Forever into darkness a reflection in the night.

Is manner ours, with cost of sin.
Of what we daily do.

To gate so sealed,
with sin now weighed,
Of things we can't undo.
Inspired by Dante's inferno.
hsyclara Jan 25
Movie credits descend and sink
to the bottom of the tv screen;
Admire the time travel of a blink,
repositioned on the bed, not keen

Expired pills; motivating my pulse
Hands shifting; trying to keep up
and end this life which by day gets worse
Free this defunct soul and succumb

And in that moment,
the silent tear that doesn't cease formation;
i have surrendered, time is in halt
The sadness salt, in a state of reconstitution,

But death wasn't part of the victory
She was another night of bedridden dreary
Pre-measured mentality
part anxiety
part agony;
retaining me as an emissary
to unearth my mystery

where do my nightmares trail?
who fogs my thoughts at night?
who tallies off my breaths?

So yes, those pills;
those expired ******* pills
did not give me the answer
Instead, i woke up to another whisper
12.01.2014
Aashutosh Shahi Oct 2018
Hi! Its me the Stairs,
About which no one cares;
It was me who would get you up,
and had never differentiated
was it you or Mr Trump;


Each and everybody placed a foot on my face,
Remember it was Humayun (Mughal Ruler)
who died falling from the staircase;
I may sound a little odd,
Please don't walk over me in a trod;


Sometimes straight, Sometimes round,
Some climb gently while other with a bound;
I may not be the perfect place to sleep,
Well, I'm the perfect place to think deep;


I have this friend of mine,
Whom I can not talk because I'm confined;
He only goes up and down,
And He works like a clown;


Everybody hates me when they start,
But they don't realise what benefits they got.
*Humayun:-https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humayun
CK Baker Jul 2018
through the streets and column cracks
culture weaves and summer smacks
sacred figures, holy shrine
monastery in grand design

cathedrals, convents, heaven’s stars
god of neptune, god of mars
doge’s palace, alley ways
gondolier on full display

winged lions on pastel breeze
cicada singing from the trees
pillar walk of saint mark's square
basilica in all its flare

crosses shade the carousel
a bridge of sigh that leads to hell
golden stairs on placid ridge
arches of rialto bridge

torcello! murano! grigio!
the countess rides the river poe!
sins of seven, fiery hides
poplars bank the levee side

black plague, attila the ***
eden formed before the sun
paradise above the marsh
high alter, gothic arch

middle age, religious wars
celestial fountains, marble floors
sculpted peacock, catholic faith
all is true the great god saith
CK Baker Jan 2018
who lit the candles
placed eloquently
behind purple rock?
the sculpted radiance,
chapel grace
wound in a chosen
defined way
down the spiral
stone stairs

street cars dawdle
alongside
the packer slew
biding merchants
and frontmen
shuffle their wares
as the madman
and pock face
sing their
holy blues

cut jazz echoes
over the accompanying
gabble and drone
incense and haze
pour from
a lower trap door
sack fish, truffles
and splendid crafts shine
inside the stained glass fronts

a wide mouth snapper
with a bloated tongue
greets the
morning tide
(not camera shy
in the least!)
the fish traps
and beaneries
bring life
to the flourishing causeway

hula hoops
and ballers
join the
cobaine stage
favoured rogues
and mac jacks
speak easy
of the big daddy

beth’s triple by pass
taking firm hold on
tricky ****
and the nutcracker
maze ways,
taggers and
lost tunnels
of cu chi
strike a
nerving blow

a poised finger man
belts out his tune
(with a sniff sock
and iterating glare)
his nosey neighbors
cut artisan bread
(with a white wine
and jelly spread)
midwives push forward
for an afternoon
toddle and stroll
Äŧül Nov 2012
In That Moonlit Night Standing In The Abaft,
Watching The Towed Flaccid Wooden Raft,
I Thought That I Saw An Angel Resting,
Lying Exhausted There In That Craft.

I Call The Girl Out Unbeknownst Of Her Kind Name,
"Hey Young Lady!!" To Which She Didn't Much Respond,
She Looks Up Towards Me Once In Anguish & Collapsed,
I Spot Desperation In Amber Eyes & Resolve To Help Her.

The Crewmen Had Now Been Doing The Paddles After Resting,
I Summon My Captain & Ask, "Do You See That Girl In The Raft?"
The Captain Now Smiles To Say, "Commodore, Better Get Married,"
I Look So Clueless To Which He Simply Replied, "There Is No Girl."

True He Was As She Had Simply Disappeared,
I Started Thinking Of My Sleep Needs That Day,
I Looked Around Again In A Hope To Find The Girl,
I Had Compromised My Routine As The Commodore.

Then I Immediately Realized It Was My Wild Phantasm,
Now This Was Just A Plain Illusion Of A Tired Sailor's Mind,
No Mermaids Could Have Ever Existed In Reality & Were Fake,
I Turned Towards The Deck To Go Back To My Bunk For Sleeping.

As I Climbed Down The Stairs To Enter My Room Amazed & Dazed,
I Saw Her Standing And Waiting For Me By The Side Of My Bunk,
I Accepted That Delusion Of My Mind & Started To Lie Down,
She Said, "I'm As Real As Your Thoughts, Don't Fear Me."

She & I-Me & Her, Had The Best Time That Night,
In The Morning She Was Gone & Was Just Gone,
Disappeared Into Thin Air While I Was Asleep,
Each Day I So Dearly Long For Her To Return.
7 Stanzas of a Beautiful Open-Eyed Dream

Read the entire Angel Saga by me, Atul Kaushal.
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/13567/the-angel-series/

My HP Poem #19
©Atul Kaushal

I thank you all so much for the overwhelming response that this poem has received.

If you get interested in reading my novel's eBook after having read this poem then do visit http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA for buying my story titled "7 Seconds" and supporting my medical expenses.
CK Baker Mar 2017
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves

stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)

croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl

the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe

rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the  sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)

donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***)
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells

tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
and that **** rabid fox
are drowning
deep in castles well
Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and a beast crashed in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.




"FERMIN!"







































­












He leaps down steps
and explodes
as it rams her
to and fro,
bashing her head
against the wall
where horns sin
and horns gore
cement and brick.

He grips the tail
heaving its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine,

he slips and slides
in fractured glass
and finds a horn
and yanks the head;

is yanked instead,
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to shout and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer
fast and frantic
flying flustered
by the frenzy
finding the
pattering
of
pavement



petering



into





the











street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





His hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
Men and women
fuss and frown,
always making sure.

"Podria haber sido peor"

Another story for the herd.
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Randy Oct 2018
Hiking here and there.
Strange things I've seen.
None more mysterious as
Stairs in the wood.
Have you seen yonder stair?
Such a sight, dare not climb.
Drawn to its strangeness.
Mystery abounds.
Here in the woods.
It should not be.
Straight from a house.
Or so it seems.
Some have seen the other side.
And lived to tell but a few.
Many never return.
Most have trouble.
With horrors unknown.
Broken, sick, and weakened.
Many stay away, some know why.
Tell the new ones this way go.
Time on top is not the same.
Farther it goes, we know not where.
Some are white, some are brown.
No matter the color, touches only the ground.
Makes no sense, these sights of sights.
Stairs in the wood.
Misplaced and strange.
Will ever be an understanding?
Of these flights, just one or two.
Most stay away, stories they lived.
Lost kids too they take.
No mercy these stairs give.
Hardest to see, perils not fake.
Don't assend, strange things do come.
Again, return unscathed only some.
Out of all the weird here in the wood.
None such as these, stairs in the wood.
Based on true stories.
King Panda Jul 2017
I fear.
I fission.
I flow.
like a sponge,
I become aqueous
when wiping blood or saliva.
like a finger, I lose myself in rings of prints.

I am the ography
of space loosely tied to the
end of a carrot. detach me from
ice and I float to the other side of the island.
I wave at ships passing night or day, captains
drunk or sober, buoys clean or covered in mucky ****.

save me.
I am losing my
mind on these stairs
crawling the ceiling, these
riches made of paper, these children
using liters of glue to stick themselves to
each other.

everyone is stuck.
everyone is covered in barnacles.
everyone is design on my pine tree’s needled hooves.

*a horse gallops four at a time. they name it “power” for the dreams it has of stormy women.
Hg Dec 2018
rapunkzel, rapunkzel
shaved off her hair
goldie locks chopped off
long with her cares

rapunkzel, rapunkzel
takes every dare
hits on the devil
as if he’s a snare

rapunkzel, rapunkzel
says hold my beer
shows to the cars
her new ****** pierce

rapunkzel, rapunkzel
how’d you get here
once upon a crime
she grew up it fear

locked up, captive
kept up the stairs
no parents
put in foster care

never had a youth
and no one to care
dragged down the hall
by her curly hair

rapunkzel, rapunkzel
got out of there
had to skip town
but soon reappeared

rapunkzel, rapunkzel
let’s them all stare
cuts what she want
cuz it’s not their hair

it’s yours, your time
your life in the mirror
it’s yours, your eyes
deciding your fair

your fair, they’re fair
who’s fairest? who cares!
you’re allowed to love
who and what ever

you ******* want
whether you’re a prince
or a queen, we don’t
give a ****

and that’s the real tale
we need to tell our kids
either be yourself
or you’ll never live
©Hg
ryn Feb 2015
.
•they'd               
come at night•               
these footsteps are               
never light• always                    
heavy and running ar-                      
ound•...they are annoy-                        
ingly creepy..., these aw-                       
ful sounds•every night,                          
after eleven without                        
fail•into rooms,                        

us they would                        
tail• making a                        
din overhead                        
•when all                        
                         should
                        be quiet inste-
                         ad•like barefooted
                          children i would ***-
                          ume...•wandering and
                          exploring into every ro-
                           om•...could they come
                            wilfully•from the cou-
                                ple who live above
                            me•i very much

                             doubt so•bec-
                             ause this much
                             i know...•that
                             the neigh-

bour up-                    
stairs, they're                        
old•frail and meek;                            
never bold•they'd re-                            
tire early•after late, ne-                            
ver a party•now... there                            
the feet go again•drivi-                            
ng me almost insane•                            
on my ceiling now,                            
they're pacing•                        

they know i kn-                        
ow and they are                        
playing•these                        
invisible                        
                        feet•ne-
                        ver would we
                            meet•one thing for
                           sure•this is not a friv-
                            olous tour•determined
                            to tell•that they exist
                              as well•nothing i'm
                               certain but it is clear
                               •i think they really
                              like it here...•

                              •i don't think
                               they're leavi-
                              ng•they're
                 ­              bent on


staying...
.
I live in an apartment on the 2nd storey. My family and I would hear these footsteps every night.

Initially we would dismiss it to be the neighbour living upstairs but that became very improbable simply because the couple who lives above us are far too old to be jumping and skipping in the wee hours...

We have tried ignoring the sounds but they would intensify. We'd hear intentional heavy footsteps, running, jumping between rooms but most of the time they would follow us to whichever room we're in.

Lately these sounds had progressed to rapping on the concrete walls in my bedroom. I could hear them as I lay in bed knocking and tapping on the wall by me.

The thing is... I live in a corner apartment and beyond that wall is the exterior of the building... There is no way anyone could be on the opposite side of that wall...

Creepy much?
.
King Panda Sep 2017
a little boy sits on
the top of a staircase

his laden, waterlogged
eyelashes droop

his vision fogs
with salt

his heart pulses hot/cool
snowmelt

throughout the body

there are missing
people

no mother
no father

no brother
only boy

locked in house
too scared to sleep

while snowflakes
fall in unfettered

air
there is joy in storm

if one can see it
through the tears

there is comfort
to be had once

the emotion cools
and tree branches are

unburdened from the
weight of ice


movement happens
up the stairs

dear sister
who the boy forgot

was there
places her hand

upon the boy’s
quivering back

"We call it snow
when the parts of God,

too small to bear, contest our bodies"


and angels tell us
to taste the tears

before they freeze
on our red-rubbed

noses
here, taste your tears

says sister.
*they’re salty, aren’t they?
not all these words are mine.
the stanzas in quoted italics are taken from Max Ritvo's poem, Snow Angels.
All of you should read his only collection of poetry titled, Four Reincarnations. It is amazing.
Sara Kellie Aug 2018
Amazing how their memory fades.
Leaving victims, in their hands
the bloodied blades.
Amazing how they forget their ills.
In the hands of the dead,
a bottle of pills.
Sitting red faced yet silent at the wake.
Lies a blue faced victim
of the life you did take.

In violence
you used your hands for years.
In desperation
they used their hands one time.

Is this how you imagined
you'd pay for your crime.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Did the perpetrator and the victim switch roles? Probably not. It reads as it reads.
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2018
The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.

It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.

Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.

I am so lucky having a ringside
seat, watching yet another
family generation ascend.
Football and basket ball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,  
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.

Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.

Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.

All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,  
my reasons for being?
L B Jun 2018
I continued the gentle climb
passed building, birdbath, “bathtub Mary”
and was stopped by the sound--
Endless mission of the river
as she made her way over the rocks of early summer.
I knew I'd found our home
At the top of the stairs
a wooden deck off second floor
Up the fourteen stairs to our new door

I could see her now fully
gleaming
beyond the red oaks and wild cherry
framed unspeakable
by greens
and fragrance of the multiflora rose
just coming into bloom
I could go on-- but there are so few words that fit
the sound of a river so content

She whispered to me between her gurgling song
“Hush....”
ethan gaskill Aug 2018
i walked down the stairs
and saw you at the kitchen table
at first glance i noticed you writing
but i couldn't see a piece of paper
i walked up behind you
and put my hand on your shoulder
you looked up at me
with a smile that could light chicago
and pointed to all the pencil marks
on the map you were holding
and said "these are the places i want to go"
until then i'd never seen
poetry that i couldn't read
but something about the lines
and all the plans they represented
brought a tear to my eye
"let's go then" i said
as we ran upstairs to pack a bag
reminiscing about memories
we didn't yet have
and dreaming with both eyes open
Kathleen Nov 2013
my friends,
write big letters on big pages,
filled in magazines.
we make the summers
look like golden lit kerosene
and trail in conduct laden rows
off to our cozy little homes
where we make life a little rougher
for the souls that came before

such a silly little episode
she left her coat,
and we all grabbed it
and held it fairly close
until she finally stumbled up
all the stairs that we drew up
all those cozy little homes.

say that you remember,
late november,
late autumn or early winter,
when the changes weren't much

Say that you recall that fading fall
when we thought that we are all
the happiest we'd ever be.
laura Jun 2018
a ghost white fluffy fluff **** ball of fur
kneading on my thigh
want to smack it and knock it off
but it’s purring and it’s warm

my friends have the cute
meow meow meows
and feeds it a lot so I pet the kitty
when I’d rather fall asleep or pet you

Soon, it jumps off the bed
presumably to race up and down
the stairs at night, watch the ghost
floof away— its fur hiding its legs
and looking like a hovering white cloth
So I’ll post about my best friend’s cat instead
In all our haunted houses
Are ghosts just wrapped in sheets
And the vampires and werewolves
Havent been seen in weeks
We diagnosed the children
Who heard voices in their rooms
Now all they do is paint the walls
In crayola crayon hues
And the monsters under our stairs and beds
Seek refuge in our closets
As we boiled imagination down
To vibrations in quartz deposits
Bless me Uncle! God's given Naked Head
For finding a Mentor these Comms restore
And import a Friend brought Laughter instead
With a Learning Interest revived once more
For all our doubts, grateful Confidence brew
This shrill Vernacular you opt to Reach
Whilst you divulge Traded Secrets a-new
Shrieked the Blue Eagle; Sately-Done you Teach
That Part we will Miss! Surely Independ
When we of Soft Skills this Task inherit
What Pictures remain of Trust comprehend
We give back in Kind to Service, debit.
Difficult it is to Forget you by
As you climb the Stairs, we sing: "MABUHAY!"
ryn Aug 2014
Street lamps play
As they have before
Dim walkway
Leading to a door

Careful steps
Strewn leaves
Breathe between gaps
Skulking like thieves

Rustling trees
Otherwise nothing
Mind at ease
Heart rapidly beating

Usually stops here
Usually I'd stir
But still in slumber
I drew closer

Eyes on door
Familiar scene
Stood here before
This dream I've been

Up the patio
Door was ajar
Accompanied by my shadow
Stretched far

Tunnel vision
Dripping eave
Door handle beckons
Hand raised to receive

Usually stops here
Usually I'd rouse
Allowed to enter
This time... This house

Handle I seize
Door seemed light
It did not freeze
Hinges did not fight

Revealed the insides
Scanned surroundings
Unlit lights
Stairs climbing

Footsteps I heard
Coming my way
Sounds absurd
But yet I stay

Usually stops here
Usually dream is done
But still was clear
It only had begun

Darkened figure
Descending on bare feet
Beauty light as feather
Ever did I meet

She did not see me
Planted at the doorway
Impossible it may be
Nothing did she say

Walked right by
My eyes followed
Seconds fly
In eternity they burrowed

Usually stops here
Usually I'd wake
Yet still I'm here
Chance I'd take

Stood at the fridge
Back towards me
Under siege
My mind set a flurry

Fridge was opened
Light casted her silhouette
Her back darkened
Curiosity grew fat

Illuminating beams
Accentuated her hair
Like golden streams
Flowing with flair

Usually stops here
Usually I'd startle
Connection did not sever
Continue I was able

Spellbound I gawked
Rooted like a tree
Wide-eyed I stalked
This siren before me

She drank
Not knowing I was there
Stiff as a plank
I was locked in a stare

Finally broke free
Shifted my weight
She turned to me
And then said...

Then it ceased
Then I awaken
Surprisingly pleased
Slice of heaven

Who was she?
Silhouetted face
Perpetually...
Mysterious grace

Foreign albeit familiar
Strange but true
Now rings clear...


It is you...
Based on a dream I had.
s Oct 2016
We used to swing under the big willow tree
We lived 3 doors down from each other
We were princesses who fought dragons
We could save the kingdom and find our prince by lunch time
Our moms laughed and talked about how cute we were
Four years old was a cute age

Fast forward a bit
We went into elementary school innocent and young
Boys had cooties
Girls had cooties
Kickball always ended with someone getting hit in the face
We would always sit out feild and pick grass and shape it into a little birds nest
Life was good
Until your parents started fighting and I mean really fighting.
It scared me and I would have to go home
I would make you come with me
three doors down
Our moms didn’t laugh anymore
By Christmas break your parents were broken up and divorced
Eight years old was a confusing age

Junior high was mean.
Girls would rip you to shreds and then hang pieces of you on everyone’s lockers
Boys just wanted to make out
A whirlwind of uncontrolled hormones
We were the quiet ones
Always flew under the radar
Just trying to make it out alive
We found a little spot to each lunch under the stairs where no one would go
We giggled and talked about boys who didn’t even know that we existed
I remember crying in the bathroom with you because people were brutal and we weren’t good enough
Our moms worried about us and how distant we were becoming
Thirteen years old was a sad age

Highschool is another story
You were put in the hospital for a month
I was left at school alone
I had to find more friends
I found most of them were fake
So I ate my lunch in a bathroom stall
Reading all the swear words that were carved in the wall
You were really sick and we grew apart
We were always close
We will always love each other
You tried to save me from myself
But I didn’t let you
Seventeen was an important age

Now we are at different colleges
I tried to **** myself while you were getting an A on your anatomy test
It’s sad
We don’t swing under the big willow tree or fight dragons anymore
Our moms hardly talk
You are a success
and I am a failure
We don’t really mesh
I miss you every day
I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you
We were princesses who lived three doors down, we saved the kingdom.
I love you
I’m sorry this has faded
Just like everything else
Nineteen years old is a dying age.
Really just a story
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