"wendigo" poems
Coagulated blood dried out from the sun, footprints pressed into the mud from a night on the run, chased and ravaged, pressed against a tree with emotions gutted.
Mutilated and dying, I'm laying under falling stars, saturated skies and underlying scars, every conversation with you feels like being run over by a highway full of cars.
Blood screaming from a cautourised wound travels farther than your ability to listen to reason, wide eyed, your pasteurized white eyes seem cold but searing like the flesh of a steaming heathen.
Necrosis sets in on the heaping pile of me drudged upon the roots of my personification, watch the black blood slipping through the dirt like molasses as it climbs over your teeth and grips the lips before it passes, blood loss is creating a hallucination.
Watch as I become hollow from your cannibalistic lifestyle. Your desperation, human flesh you defiled, mindless separation, our family's bodies stuffed in a corner and piled, you became a Wendigo, a wicked transmorgification.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 9:01 PM UTC
Your beastly desires were always hidden beneath
A calm and cool exterior, hiding truth
You waited and hunted me, tracked me
And watched me as your intentions stayed aloof,
Preparing to at last spring your vicious trap
Cleverly laid in the deep woods of passion
You are a beast, who stalks this once lush forest
And I am your prey, lying dead in trees now ashen
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 8:34 PM UTC
Kissed by the wendigo
Driven insane
Stalking death
For release from the pain
Waiting in darkness
For killers of the night
Yet even the moon
Hides from my sight
Scratching at tombstones
Of those long gone
Begging passage
To where I belong
Skin gone grey
Heart, lacking a beat
The wendigo's kiss
Left me in defeat
How I still love it
That wendigo, its pain
Kissed by the wendigo
Driven insane
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC
Have I not received my fill of this?
Emotions, which I wish to bid farewell
Turning me into quite the mirror
Retrospective and always looking back
Is there something I can do to break out?
Randomly landing on different memories
Places and people
Faces I no longer see
Emotion at the momentum of sound
Stars keep going out
A violin warbles as the memory echoes out
Like a mountain path winding away
All that is the matter
But a chemical in my head
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
Lament our random tuesday
– I can't see today the sunny day
of our last spring leaves again
in a treeless pathless meadow
that spring day of silver tounges tarnished.
Dessicated earth is seeping in the blue glass,
the dry cracked plain rising above the sun,
the suns clarity as it is in reality,
and where we have been – I will always remember.
There are no oasis' on my equator.
The Wendigo subdued with pale skill.....
Whose corpse can fail to compare with my soul,
if despair and courage aren't in my heart! -
And if your scent, a mundane beast,
tears at my knees everyday,
and the suns dull golden light,
chilled by a slow approaching wave
for all of our words?
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
The Stag trots across a bleached horizon
Howling into the wind with echoes that curdle blood
Its form is liquid nightmare, drenching snow in ebony flood
Wispy vapor flares around antlers of pure, lucid black
Moonbeams shimmer off plumage fraught with drear
Violet feathers assure that bizarreness the Ravenstag does not lack
Dark fangs ravage human flesh, infecting tissue with fear
The Wendigo glides past fallen pine and split oak
Its viscous hooves leave tracks of unearthly essence
Through white deserts flecked with red and bodies left to soak
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:43 AM UTC
Frigid wind howls through tall standing pines
A sudden break in pressure and silence
The lone keening of a wolf echos through the trees
Full moon blazing silver ghost light down
Glittered forests full of snow reflect
I can hear the whispered siren song among the gusts
Wendigo
Insatiable and wild bidding me to run
Unable to resist I charge into the wilderness
Frozen acres pass beneath numb feet
Faster. Run. Faster.
Suddenly lifted by great hulking shadow
Faster. Faster. Too fast.
O my feet. My burning feet of fire!
Then footprints vanished
Moaning can be heard way up above the tree line
No one would find my bones or flesh
Consumed.
Nothing left but ash
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
This summer, I’ve thought a lot,
About how I’m in a liminal standstill.
The crossroads of life,
Childhood to the left, and adulthood to the right.
Which way do I go?
I don’t have a choice.
The only way to go,
Is forward toward the void.
I must go on,
Listening to the songs that spark my envisioning,
Imagination bleeds into reality.
I must accept,
That there’s never enough time,
But that’s okay.
I’ll water her flowers and try not to complain,
Because she means the world to me.
The singer and the lyricist,
Moved on from their precipice,
Perhaps I can do the same.
I’ll rise, like a daisy,
Even when the world is feeling hazy.
I’ll remember what the Wendigo told me,
And what I learned from Dracula’s kidnapping.
It’s humbling to find,
That I’m at the world’s whim as much as it’s at mine.
Just a change in my paradigm.
I’ll make sure I won’t be like Vain,
Or like Russel, used for his brain.
I’ll overcome my fear and drive,
And leave my other fears behind.
Acne won’t entrap me forever,
There’s always another summer,
Though the heatwaves might be a ******
I’m all in,
Avoiding artificial interactions.
I’ll try to see what they see,
And overcome this anxiety.
Oh, what thoughts can be stirred from a monochromatic shade of grey,
But I’ll fight through the haze.
I’ve seen,
That the last summer of reprieve,
Is as much of an ending,
As it is a beginning.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:23 PM UTC
Deep inside a forest
Hushed whispers can be heard
A creature of humanity bereft
Has got the nightlife quite disturbed
Eyes as black as blood
Reflect in the moonlight
Bare feet buried in mud
A sharp smile widened in delight
Skin pitch black
Leather to the touch
Antlers on its head
A stag in its clutch
Sharp claws caressing its snout
An unusual couple
There never was a doubt
That the stag would either
Bustle, shuffle, struggle or buckle
Instead it muzzled, nuzzles, cuddles and snuggles
All the while the creature subtle chuckles
Blending into darkness
Ready to strike and attack
You can feel each others fondness
Of him and the black feathered stag
Feb 14, 2020
Feb 14, 2020 at 6:00 PM UTC
[WENDIGO]
SHE WILL KISS THE MONSTER YOU HAVE BECOME— SLIDE HER TONGUE INTO THE THICKETS OF YOUR MOUTH, HEEDLESS TO THE INEVITABILITY OF CUTTING HER STRAWBERRY LIPS ON THE SERRATED BLADES OF YOU TEETH. SHE IS SUMMER AND YOU ARE THE SNOWCONE SHE ***** DRY.
BOY OF DRY LEAVES AND DEAD GIRLS: YOU STILL TASTE GOOD WITH HER BLOOD ON YOUR CHIN.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
it was june or july or august
everything i could never say carved itself my esophagus, the words that would never escape – you made sure of that. one hand wound around my throat and the other cradling her blushing cheeks.
she slips away but your grip only tightens.
fingers scraping – my flesh beneath your nails as i learn a new kind of silence. just a little longer, i’m almost gone. trapped like a bug encased in amber but when those wilted wildflower eyes meet mine, you know i’ll always forgive you.
my lips flicker like a flame as i wonder if i’ll slip away too.
of course not & you like that. push on the middle of my windpipe, crack it like a glowstick and watch my lucid acid purge from my throat in neon technicolor – you do it in a way where i’m both alive but running through the afterlife in white gowns & red stained feet
you recite those wendigo apologies while they look in your wildflower eyes, you purge those auto repeat explanations and how it will never happen again – but we both know it will. your testaments are all folklore, but i always keep reading it.
you lick the blood filled sorrows into my skin and i forgive you.
and i always will because daddy always showed that when a man loves a woman, he hits her.
Jul 7, 2021
Jul 7, 2021 at 1:27 PM UTC
run revel, run **** and run riot
after the work week
thirsty work
hashed together venges
and business pleasures exceed
to mature into vigorous crime
with the rights
this fit night have given
the office population clamber up their fears
and violently
cram their senses
fist feast your mouther
raw-torn with surplus
a Wendigo playground
go beast upon this crown
this fawn
this chalking morgue
- a bellyful
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 12:18 AM UTC
Tap, tap, tap, upon the windows frame,
scratch, scratch, scratch, upon the door it came,
I hear the scraping on the cabin floor outside my door,
I hear the hooves as they loudly fall and,
the heavy breathing not that far at all,
but when the little girls voice does come from behind my door,
she does say please kind sir,
be a friend and let me in, so i can get my doll.
The smell of fowl milk and trash does waft across the midnight breeze, and then I hear the scream,
as I realize I forgot to lock the bedroom door,
and that was the last night I was evermore.
Sep 7, 2023
Sep 7, 2023 at 11:01 PM UTC
I'm a meat eater,
And I chew the bones,
I touch your skin,
Feel the sun in your blood,
The good in your heart,
Wears like a whip.
Acquired a taste for beautiful things,
I lick my lips,
And sink my teeth in.
My hunger has no end.
I'm a meat eater.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 10:24 PM UTC
Like a monster
wearing my own skin,
I question yet again
whether the cries I upend
are signs of intelligence or
the incoherent utterances
of an imposter begging
to be let in.
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 1:09 AM UTC
Description seems inadequate
To capture Nature’s essence
When life is solely permanent
In momentary prescience
Yet still her eminence unveils
A grim facade exterior
When setting suns, besetting sails
Reveal the realm’s ulterior
Unmotivated inspiration
Morphing into beauty’s beast
A hideous abomination
Come to wage its war of peace
And watch the world dehumanize
Itself in feasts of banquet flesh
Before starvation’s slow demise
Can feast its eyes on Bangladesh
And sink into the Indian
Where karma is the salt in wounds
Samsara born to die again
In Shiva’s doom-impending tombs
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
If you will tell me why the fen appears impassable,
I then will tell you why I think that I can cross it if I try..”
-Marianne Moore
When this world teeters on the abyss of emotion
and those I shepherd cannot find a way through the fog,
I try and hang a lamp from the front of this old rowboat
and paddle out slowly into the fen. That mind/shadow space
that surrounds and swallows their light.
I ask them what they need, and offer a steady hand
as they step onto the old planks. The children always begin
in silence but something about the way the water
Whispers to the wood, how the boat glides almost
unheard that always drives them to eventually speak
Of what carried them out beyond the threshold
of what one might bear stoically in public.
The oars provide some solace, something physical to pull
On that moves when these hands claim strength.
So much of what anchors us cannot be unshackled from skin.
They are loads we must drag along the deep until our hearts
forgive us for their weight. This is why I travel slowly, accepting
Silence as a cleverest answer, I ask my travellers where they are headed.
To acceptance they often say, or vengeance if they are not ready
To escape the shape of their shadows. I to dress in gloom, but
only when I put down the oars, while rowing there is no room
for night to claim my kingdom.
Often there is nothing to do but listen to their stories
Let the sound of the lake lapping lapse into whatever tale is waiting
To be told, and sometimes just speaking its name is enough to banish
The wendigo that hunts behind teenage confidence, and sometimes their
Is nothing I can do but row. Rarely, they jump overboard but I
Weep but only when even their echoes have faded. Carve
their name into the planks in salt tear and let it mix with the bilge
And yet, there are those days that if I row just long enough, and can
Keep the silence within my cheeks, that suddenly a soft glow
Will rise from out of the darkness, bubble up like a lighting fish
and settle upon the bow. Those are the days the calluses are worth
Their calling. Those are the days the docks rise up from the mist long
Before fatigue creeps into these old bones and we spend the end
of the trip almost in each other’s arms, holding tightly to each other’s
Essence as my hands pull against the sea of time, as both of us heal,
And I call out goodbye as they step ashore, but they are already dressed
in gossamer glow, shining in the early morn, already wandering back into the light
Jun 17, 2022
Jun 17, 2022 at 5:54 AM UTC
One day, I met the Wendigo,
It told me things that I’d rather not have known.
My family asked me, “Where did it go?”
Who was I to tell?
It visited me later that night,
It gave me quite a fright,
It said, “Scream and I guarantee you won’t survive!”
So I closed my mouth and didn’t dare rebel.
It told me,
“People hunt what they don’t understand,
They can’t even decide who they want to be.
They act like they have this massive plan,
But in reality, they’re afraid of becoming a nobody like me!”
I asked meekly,
“What do you mean?”
It snarled its teeth,
And said to me,
“Some people believe that identity,
Is solely based on how they feel.
But it also has to do with society,
And the people they are around,
And how they are seen,
Not just what they believe.
They think that they can hide,
From the person they try to bury,
Under estranged beliefs,
So they consume whoever they see,
Who doesn’t believe their facade,
And they become like me.”
The Wendigo left,
Quiet as a mouse.
I set up on my bed,
And contemplated the truth I found.
I am me,
But when I talk down to myself,
Try to believe I’m worth less than everyone else,
That isn’t my identity,
That’s an askew belief.
Identity isn’t solely based on me…
Jun 11, 2025
Jun 11, 2025 at 4:05 PM UTC
to consume is to live
the simple rule of nature
you must **** to survive
whether it be plant or animal
the intricacies of such
matter not
for it boils down
to eat or be eaten
and such the humans reign
in their self-glorified manger
of sparkling cities
and flashing lights
but carnage appears
creates gorey rumors
and speculations
tend to run amok
ambitious chunks of flesh
torn from fragile bodies
the teeth of a human
but the spirit of a monster
death rattles through the streets
on the bones of the fallen
self-preservation
tugs its followers behind
putrid stench
rotting antlers
skin and bones
and blood
the wendigo has arrived.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC