"werewolves" poems
He stands beside me,
In awe of the sight before thee.
His hand has mine.
We both look at each other.
Nothing can be told from his eyes.
The eyes of Ashure haze.
"Do not be afraid..
We are home."
The sound of rushing water,
Crashing into its ever blue.
The beauty of the growth around it.
I call it home.
This was the place,
Where the wolves shall be born.
Creation of a pack.
Has just begun.
Werewolves alive.
Waterfalls of Beauty.
A family.
For eternity.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
Down in the bayou where the mangroves grow
There's talk of black voodoo, like Marie Leveau
The Swamp Witch, is legend, she has magic so black
That those who have seen her, have never come back
There;s tales of the noises that come from the dark
Of werewolves and zombies as rough as the bark
The mangroves are sentinels, to where the magic resides
Where even a longboat has no room to glide
Bodies go missing from the graveyards most nights
And there's always a fog shading the fireflies lights
The Swamp Witch is ruler and Queen of this world
Where souls are all taken and spines can be curled
They say that she came here from Canadian lands
She was a metis they say, from the Western Tar Sands
A mystic by nature, a dark witch by blood
She lives deep in the swamp, protected by gators and mud
The gators respect her, they do as she bids
They keep watch on the waters, they're her reptillian kids
She keeps zombies as gendarmes, collecting bodies to turn
Just how black is her magic, no one can discern
The Swamp Witch is legend, she is as old as all time
The air in the bayou is as thick as the slime
The cajuns say voodoo is the core of her heart
They avoid fishing where the mangrove trees start
The Swamp Witch, a legend ? or is she truly the Queen
She's the Louisiana Witch, no one survives once she's seen.....
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s
world; he would do anything to smell her perfume
once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday,
the perfect first date, a moon-
lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train
about to crash and nobody was dancing.
She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing
was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s
face, not his own. Limbo was a train
journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume
and the never ending sun, the never ending moon.
The name of the days changed but Monday
was no different from Tuesday or last Monday.
She wondered if disabled people thought dancing
ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon
was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s
uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume
and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train
wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains
were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday
blues? And some women will never afford perfume
and would never be taken out dancing,
it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s
wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon.
She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon,
of him passing through a dark forest on a train
coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s
gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday
and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing,
she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume.
He was dead, she would never replace the perfume.
She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon
throwing herself around in life, dancing
like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train
but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday
all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier.
The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and
everything was mundane especially the moon.
People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
*We bask in light when morning comes, yet tremble in the night.
Halloween must be the cause to give us such a fright.
Ghosts and goblins haunt the streets where moans and chains abound.
Ghouls and vampires lurk in shadows, scared of holy ground.
Werewolves stalk unwary victims. Frankenstein is loose.
Ogres, trolls and spectral zombies hanging by a noose,
Gorgons with their "stoney" eyes and bats with leathery wings...
Mummies wrapped in yellowed cloth with rotting flesh that clings,
Pirates, gangsters, space invaders, just to name a few,
All in search of "Tricks or Treats"(or just a head...or two).
Beware the time when darkness comes. Be sure the door is locked.
But most of all .... to just be safe ... keep lots of candy stocked.*
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
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
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 8:40 AM UTC
She’s a dark elf supermodel,
kills werewolves for fun
with daggers, arrows, kicks to the throat.
She’s a dark elf supermodel!
She makes monsters run,
Strikes, poised to run down a foe.
She’s slaying it nightly,
She’s badass, she’s art,
My mind is seduced.
She is the only
dark elf of my heart.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 11:32 PM 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
It is fall again,
that time of year
when the veil
between realms thins,
and the dead rise from
the depths of their graves,
to roam our world,
and torment the living.
It's the time of year,
when children fear,
the monster in the closet,
and the boogeyman
under the bed.
It's the time of year,
when werewolves howl
at the full moon,
deep within the dark woods.
Fall is here,
and with it comes the time
for the dearly departed
to resurrect,
and share the world
with the living.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
TW: suicide / cancer / brutal imagery
july isn't a good month for me
it is a collection of all the things
i have had taken away. it is a
bitter winter chill through a
summer i do not get to enjoy.
july is lonely.
it breaks apart all the other months
like a pack of werewolves; it is
their alpha and i have six months
before everyday is a full moon
and my legs are tired of running
from it. i have six months to
enjoy the fresh scent of crisp air,
to feel the iciness of snow without
shivering through my skin. i try
to break out of this body, try to
knit myself a new one out of
preloved sweaters hoping their
stories will become my own so that
i may have a july worth talking about.
suicide happens all year round but
your suicide happened in july and
has happened every month in my
mind since. i have lost count of the
way i try to contact you to say
i'm sorry.
maybe my spiritual journey wasn't
my own; i convince myself the
universe will show me your face again
one day and i hope it is not in july.
people suffer from cancer throughout
everyday of the year but you suffered
in july. i watched the sunset through
hospital windows, smelt more chemicals
than fresh flowers, held back more
tears than my throat knew how to
swallow. has anyone ever drowned
without being submerged in water?
i have.
i imagined cracking my skull off the
glass confining you to this ward, to
this smell of microwave meals and
this buzzing of machines echoing
like an emergency and my heart is
on standby, i imagined it would give
the ward some colour because i am
so sick of seeing white.
and this july
this july,
i hold your hand as your treatment
continues. i do not feel the sun on
my face because you cannot feel it
on yours. i watch the sunset through
windows. carry the bodybag of my
soul around in "i'm fine" and "i'm okay."
i don't think my voice could drip
with any more sadness as i envision the
words cascading down glass panels
hoping if i spell it out for the world
to see, someone will stop and ask me
why i hate july, or at least,
if i'm okay.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
Flat as a painting and unmoving the sky lays over us
sits on the far horizons all points of the compass
we wait for the Moons spectacle in complete stillness
Pagan and Christian, Jew and Muslim, all religions and none.
Poet and scientist, astrologer and astrologist, werewolves and freaks.
The Moon shines without discrimination, while lovers wait with bated breath .
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 9:51 AM UTC
"Werewolves Of London"
I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand
Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain
He was looking for the place called Lee ** Fook's
Going to get a big dish of beef chow mein
Werewolves of London
If you hear him howling around your kitchen door
Better not let him in
Little old lady got mutilated late last night
Werewolves of London again
Werewolves of London
He's the hairy handed gent who ran amuck in Kent
Lately he's been overheard in Mayfair
Better stay away from him
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim
I'd like to meet his tailor
Werewolves of London
Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw Lon Chaney, Jr. walking with the Queen
Doing the werewolves of London
I saw a werewolf drinking a pina colada at Trader Vic's
His hair was perfect
Werewolves of London again
Draw blood
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
When dawn descends into dusk
I am caught in moonlight clutches
claws digging deep into ever
so suggestible flesh —
like the werewolves I see
while sitting on my porch
basking in the days
last puffs of smoke.
I similarly am going up in
plumes of carcinogenic
madness, brain ravaged with
thoughts of aliens
coming to steal me away —
thieves in the night.
Such is this twisted tango danced,
with the familiarity of lovers
interwoven in my brain —
tarnished neurons,
friendly fire dopamine,
spilling over into visions —
but not the kinds of sugar plums.
no, this fruit is rotten;
bearing gnashing teeth,
breathing fire.
But this phoenix will rise from ash
from the remains of deluded thought
of broken tongue words
misplaced and slithering
figures in peripheral vision
with their monochromatic hue
I will be rainbow reborn,
the full spectrum anew, because
every storm will pass —
and I
will not
be beaten.
Dec 10, 2023
Dec 10, 2023 at 1:51 PM UTC
**This poem can be heard as a
Spoken word (read by me)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=
IoAeA6nYH5A**
There are some who fool around
With human DNA
They say it's a progessive step
For the world today.
The deciphered human genome
Is a plaything in their hands
Just a toy to then employ
And change the state of man.
"Change your child's DNA!
He's strong as a horse!
He can be, and he can see
Like a hawk, of course!"
Just like in the movies
They've conditioned us for that.
Vampires and werewolves
And woman morphed to cat!
We can all be cyborgs!
Robotic legs and things!
We can be like Batman
But with automated wings!
Let's just look at Genesis
Look at chapter 6
Those beast/man Nephilim
Did actually exist!
The Watchers came and mated
With human women fair
The Sons of God were demons,
So we'd best have a care!
God had to drown the demon-spawn
To save the human race
The waters flooded over them
And there was not a trace.
Now God found Noah perfect
For he had a pure bloodline
There was in him no change
From God's original design.
Now, folks, what will happen
When human beings aspire
To be like animals yet again?
This time there'll be FIRE!!!
What about our tender hearts?
Do they matter anymore?
The world's consumed with evil
You'd best know what's in store.
When we're no longer human
But have a cyborg mind
Will mankind ever be the same?
Godly? Loving? KIND?
Humans enslaved for weakness
Do you find that odd?
We will be a "Super Race"
Usurp the Will of God.
Will there be salvation?
Or will it be too late?
When men go and take the role
Of the God they hate?
Be glad that God loves us!
For we were made like Him.
He wants to take us from this place!
He wants us to WIN!!!
Is this all science fiction?
Watch the news! It's PLANNED!
Babies being altered
To unnatural lifespans!
Because of overweening pride
We mess with things divine
Enter human suffering -
EXIT HUMANKIND.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:20 AM UTC
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....
why give a dog's bollock's care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?
i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...
in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...
something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!
Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...
now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!
breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!
i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!
i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...
you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!
i need it, whatever "it", is...
i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!
it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...
i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...
Mary contra Jane...
horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!
you don't do that!
you can't do that!
but you did, do that!
there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...
not here... not now...
as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
of down syndrome'
what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?
p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
the calorie intake!
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
Tonight all the spirits come out and dance
Tonight all the beasts jump around and prance
Tonight we join that ancient Celtic trance
From Japan to America to Johannesburg to France
The spirits and fairies walk the earth tonight
As we watch and tell stories to induce fright
As werewolves and zombies come out into the light
And all of the witches shall do as they might
So happy Hallows eve, wherever you are
Be it in a haunted hedge or a ship in the stars
From the days of the first druids to those of flying cars
Let us all, human or not, come out to laugh, sing, and roar
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Sun and moon, day and night,
Light and dark, good and evil.
They say God created everything
for a reason,
so what of the Devil?
I've heard stories,
of witches and werewolves.
But the Devil,
they say he walks among us,
living in the shadows,
and speaking in whispers.
They say God created everything
for a reason,
that He made man in His image,
so why did He put the Devil in me?
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 10:09 AM UTC
Hey.
You.
Yeah you.
Run.
Run fast.
As fast as you can.
Don't look behind you.
Things are chasing you.
Your darkest shadows,
Your scariest nightmares,
Your red-est fears and gray-est wishes
And those are the worst, aren't they, brother?
Those terrible, preying fears that chew like Violet Beauregard, those so-close fantasies and dreams that you know deep in your toes will never happen, are the worst, am I right, sister?
Can I get an amen?
Wrong answer.
Those aren't the worst.
Oh no.
There's something else after you.
Something so purple it's black-
But not quite- it hovers on the edge of twilight and THAT is the worst of all.
You see, my friends.
I am chasing you.
I've got a soul even demons avoid.
The boogeyman hides in his closet when
I'm in bed.
If I bite a vampire, they don't turn into me,
they just die.
I eat werewolves for breakfast,
dragons for lunch,
and the devil for dinner.
So run.
Run fast.
As fast as you can.
Because I will eat you alive.
I am strong.
I am mighty.
I am cunning.
I am fearless.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
shh
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
I know I am not really lying on the beach
Eyes facing up towards the sky
Where I really am is in Vienna
In a small classroom filled with fourth graders
Sitting in a circle in a room
That was decorated in glow in the dark stars
And a fake camp fire next to a cardboard cutout of a wolf
I remember learning about the Oregon Trail
And how cowboys would campout underneath stars
Guns close by so other dangerous creators wouldn’t be
And looking at the fake stars in that room
I was in another world, a realer world
Where the cosmos didn’t make stars
Bullets did
Silver bullets meant to hit werewolves
Who were so compelled to howl at the moon
They forwent the odds of being gunned down
And so easily they could be when the moon
Lit perfectly their silhouette
Naked in plain view
All the stars were silver bullets
One that never met their target and flew
Past the wolfs and up into the black sky
Where they pierced the world’s barrio
The bullet holes became not stars
But un-mendable scars
From men who wanting to mutilate
The sky’s beauty with weapons
There to remind me
When the lights turned on in that classroom
The glowing little stars melted into the white popcorn ceiling
And as we, the fourth graders, disconnected our circle on the floor
The reality of the origin of stars I had just come to know
Never left me and the stars I see at night now
Are not as real as the ones I saw that day.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
You are the monster under my bed
The boogeyman I cannot forget
The black hand red fingernails creeping lightly on my skin like daddy long legs mama told me couldn't bite
Your lips are splinters digging into the holsters you carved into my bones
October 15th I can remember your blackened eyes hollow nostrils like full moons
You were the werewolf mama told me only came out at night to catch bad little boys
I tried so hard to be good for you to be on your nice list mama said you checked it twice
I bit my tongue till it bled while your boogeyman claws paper shredding my thighs blood coming up like well water on your wrists
I didn’t look when the sun came up and you turned back into a man again
I didn’t look under my bed that night because I knew nightmares weren’t what I was afraid of anymore and
night terrors weren’t what was keeping me so late
I didn’t ask mama if I was a bad little boy and if the werewolf was going to be coming back for me again
didn’t ask her to tuck me in
didn’t ask her to read me another bedtime story
Because you are the monster under my bed
And when I don’t cover my feet under blankets like mama said would keep me safe at night you grip me harder than mama could
I can’t forgive myself and I can’t tell myself
mama was wrong that werewolves and boogeymen don’t come for just the bad little boys at night but you let me know
I was the cautionary fairy tale mama let me know I was the boy who cried wolf
you whispered it in your growling hissing nails-on-a-blackboard boogeyman voice
mama never told me what to do if I was that bad little boy
mama never told me how to fight off the boogeyman
never told me how to **** a werewolf
If I should run a stake through your heart or
use holy water
mama I'm sorry I didn't know
mama you told me you could forgive me
That October night I prayed while I was falling asleep
Mama said it would help
“Dear god please forgive me
I let the devil inside
And he won’t get out from under my bed.”
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Her name was petunia
She had hair the color of twilight settling after a hurricane and irises darker than the moon
Her smile was the crescent that the stars sung for
her fingers as dainty as China ware on the finest plates
Shy as werewolves howling for comfort
and brave as the wind dusting the horizon
She never did understand why her mother named her after something as petite as a flower
She couldn't understand her own beauty
Daisy; nose as freckled as the beach is sandy
Wrists as worn as the pages of a librarians favorite book
Sundays sunny as the sunflowers she wore on her church dress
inconspicuous was the boy she held hands with under the pews
Hated her parents for her wretched name
she murmured between kisses with the preachers son
the devil himself wasn't a flower, but a ****
Took her life the day he was baptized
A flowers life is not the life for me, said daisy
Rose
The beautiful of the most
with red lies that'd set your heart to flames
She'd burn down every field
and ***** every finger of those who kissed her lips
Ivory skin of leaves so green
envious of those who weren't picked, and pitied, and deprived of their innocence and privacy
Just because fate handed her the life of lust and friends of petunias and Daisy's who never made the cut
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
"Once upon a midnight"*, ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
Black fanged werewolves gorged, engrossedly.
In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly),
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.
Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced, so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.
Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely,
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.
As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.
If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...
;-)
* Apologies to EAP
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:17 AM UTC
Lovely elves and charming witches
Wizards with great power
Sorcerers and dragons
I've read of these for hours.
Woodland imps and fairies
Their faces may seem pure
But these creatures are spirits
And they are meant to lure
Spirit guides and shamans
Fetishes and feathers
Burning sage and totums
Beating drums together
Werewolves and vampires
Voodoo dolls with porcelain faces
These creatures are monsters!
They have ***no redeeming graces!
HALLOWEEN IS WICKED!***
Yet it is for SALE!
Kids dressed up as GOULIES
*And DEVILS WITH A TAIL!
**SATAN ISN'T BEAUTIFUL!
The devil isn't CUTE!
HE'S HERE TO DESTROY US!
Yet we dress KIDS in his SUIT!***
Yes, they are romanticized
The source of tons of ink
I've even written of them
A fact from which I shrink!
I repent of doing this
And as popular as they are
I will now delete them
I will no longer share.
I will not praise this "beauty"
Or perpetrate a lie
I've had some trouble reading
Now I know the reason why
These deceptions grieve The Spirit
My holy heart. My SOURCE.
These ideas are of evil
I will not endorse.
I could have done so quietly
Never made a show
But you need to read this
*You really need to know!*
I may seem a fool for writing this
You won't like this share
But if I'm now unpopular
I DON'T REALLY CARE.
And, Christians, be ye HOLY!
Think on something nice!
Think on God the Father
And The Lord Jesus Christ!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/27/2016
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Dead End
sharp claws
dark skin
red eyes
razor teeth
blood dripping
flesh eating
demon spawned
loud roars
heads scalped
people dying
wanting more
can't control
virus infected
zombies attacking
vampires *******
werewolves eating
thunder rolling
lightning crashing
rain pouring
earth flooding
wind howling
hell's frozen
pigs flying
we're dead
the end
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
I'm on sangria
Elastic hearts screaming into my me
Slowly I ebb into the altered state
The blinding lights of bright imagery
Makes me want to close my eyes
No! alas it'll be tomorrow.
Trickery you vile wine
Let me soak in this funk with your sweetness
Werewolves howling to the moon on which my iris and pupil rest.
I'm drunk
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
On my way up the stairs
carrying a cardboard box
of old books, bad poems
and overdue bills heavy
in my hands, not thinking
between steps, moving,
on my way up the stairs
remembering slowly, not thinking
that on my way up the stairs
i carry coat hangers, cockroaches,
an ex-wife, a hot plate, werewolves,
toys and old landladies.
three years now
on my way up the stairs
eight or nine rooms in
three years
one month in a closet
three weeks
in a '49 Plymouth and
god, nothing in here is so
immediate as what pain is.
there's much less to move
than remember.
on my way up the stairs
is the same as now
is 19 ways to forget
this is climbing and could
have come two rooms back in time.
on my way up the stairs
carrying a few letters, two pair of shoes,
an armful of clothes and what happens
is swift, irrevocable, between
steps, not thinking, in suddenly
like a snapshot falling
from the pages of a book,
a memory, i see it
on my way up the stairs,
the brilliance of finding
on my way up the stairs
a thing lost, a memory flashing
and fading and fading
is a picture of a picture of
my daughter forgotten in a closet ago
on my way up the stairs
i keep falling from these pages
captured and posing, in this
yellow faded place
on my way up, etc.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC