"windigo" poems - Hello Poetry

buried behind a wall of complacency my contentment boils -- steams like pots of cleansing tea-- in the constant cold pass the peace pipe over the bones of my enemies. my rebellion is rooted deep within my veins {burried under tact and sweet smiles} but ready to return the blood of warrior women waiting to return runs within me- my abilities are their evolution from the color of my eyes to my tolerance for pain-- rooted into my skullspinesoul in a field of dinosaur bones- only the strong survive the cold this ever present frost follows me like the windigo; its return deep in the decemberjanuaryfebuary ache of my bones a disease malignant in the deep r u n n i n g tap-roots of elms- etched into time like skeletons in the ice tested {thawing} with every return of this ******* season, evolving from the lifeless bones of trees to the wings of birds brittle, but strong; bundled with love(hate) protecting me from the cold letting go, but wanting them to fall back like cigarette ashes in the wind this is no place or time in my life for slow acceptance but I find safety in the muscle bound bones aware, lying (insomniac), waiting for someone to breathe life into the marrow. my love- deep, engrained, rooted the pulse of human heat keeping me from the cold will I ever change? bundled against the cold, the cracking of my bones is like the creaking of the dead trees i stare up at with their songs of change and the end of fears never to thaw out again

0

Nov 14, 2012

Nov 14, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC

ashley-wade-parker

pass the peace pipe

buried behind a wall of complacency my contentment boils -- steams like pots of cleansing tea-- in the constant cold pass the peace pipe over the bones of my enemies. my rebellion is rooted deep within my veins {burried under tact and sweet smiles} but ready to return the blood of warrior women waiting to return runs within me- my abilities are their evolution from the color of my eyes to my tolerance for pain-- rooted into my skullspinesoul in a field of dinosaur bones- only the strong survive the cold this ever present frost follows me like the windigo; its return deep in the decemberjanuaryfebuary ache of my bones a disease malignant in the deep r u n n i n g tap-roots of elms- etched into time like skeletons in the ice tested {thawing} with every return of this ******* season, evolving from the lifeless bones of trees to the wings of birds brittle, but strong; bundled with love(hate) protecting me from the cold letting go, but wanting them to fall back like cigarette ashes in the wind this is no place or time in my life for slow acceptance but I find safety in the muscle bound bones aware, lying (insomniac), waiting for someone to breathe life into the marrow. my love- deep, engrained, rooted the pulse of human heat keeping me from the cold will I ever change? bundled against the cold, the cracking of my bones is like the creaking of the dead trees i stare up at with their songs of change and the end of fears never to thaw out again

47

Of all the old tales and folklore alike vampires , werewolves and ghouls delight the one which I fear even to this day the witch of the north Windigo is it's name The natives hold true the stories they tell of the forlorn ghoul floating through the trees howling out its warning to those who will heed to those who don't their flesh it will eat This was the tale told to me by my good friend Yves tramping around the northern woods in the fall of'70 Yves was not a man to scare easily he laughed and scoffed at tales of thing he could not see My blood it did freeze on that last October eve when the wind began to howl on all hallows eve the sound seemed to come alive whipping up the leaves the only one who showed no fear was my good friend Yves We had come up north to survey the scene checking into stories of people missing the guides we brought we thought were stout turned out not to be all but one,cried aloud and ran into the trees Young Gaston and Yves surveyed the scene howling wind and screaming then the wind died and silence took hold Oh how they talked so bold they cursed at the trees and taunted the leaves Breaking the silence was a keening wail the fury of which I still can hardly tell the sound shook my bones clear to my knees it looked like it scared even Gaston and Yves I thought I saw a fleeting mist flowing through the trees seeping, creeping with a growl and a yell the furies of hell were unleashed around me swirling about a vortex of pain I never seen Gaston and Yves again I searched for a sign early next day for what had become of my friends you would say all that I found were bits of cloth and some teeth all that remained of Gaston and Yves Try as I might the sight will not leave my hair is now white as you can plainly see if you go to the north woods you better beware of the dangers and creatures that do lurk there

0

Feb 28, 2013

Feb 28, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC

scot-powers

The Wind and the Trees

Of all the old tales and folklore alike vampires , werewolves and ghouls delight the one which I fear even to this day the witch of the north Windigo is it's name The natives hold true the stories they tell of the forlorn ghoul floating through the trees howling out its warning to those who will heed to those who don't their flesh it will eat This was the tale told to me by my good friend Yves tramping around the northern woods in the fall of'70 Yves was not a man to scare easily he laughed and scoffed at tales of thing he could not see My blood it did freeze on that last October eve when the wind began to howl on all hallows eve the sound seemed to come alive whipping up the leaves the only one who showed no fear was my good friend Yves We had come up north to survey the scene checking into stories of people missing the guides we brought we thought were stout turned out not to be all but one,cried aloud and ran into the trees Young Gaston and Yves surveyed the scene howling wind and screaming then the wind died and silence took hold Oh how they talked so bold they cursed at the trees and taunted the leaves Breaking the silence was a keening wail the fury of which I still can hardly tell the sound shook my bones clear to my knees it looked like it scared even Gaston and Yves I thought I saw a fleeting mist flowing through the trees seeping, creeping with a growl and a yell the furies of hell were unleashed around me swirling about a vortex of pain I never seen Gaston and Yves again I searched for a sign early next day for what had become of my friends you would say all that I found were bits of cloth and some teeth all that remained of Gaston and Yves Try as I might the sight will not leave my hair is now white as you can plainly see if you go to the north woods you better beware of the dangers and creatures that do lurk there

85

I looked into your eyes and knew how easy it would be to **** you. I plotted its path and then decided how I would end myself afterwords. I felt nothing. Sometimes I feel everything. I cry and scream and curse, gasping for air. Blubbering in fits. Grabbing at my chest trying to feel for a heart. Most days now I am normal. My brain is functioning and my numbness is almost all but gone. On those days I cry. I looked into your eyes and thought it would be easy to **** you. Surely then I would see the face of god. He would come down, flesh out my pale limbs and introduce me to the sun I haven't seen in so long. Take one look at me in that light, see my claws and teeth, maybe glance into my eyes. See my fear, not for him, but for what I've become. What I've transformed myself into. Take note of the hours it took to shape my brain into this lackluster heap. Maybe that crimson pool collected near you would drown me, I would be consumed and swept away, only to emerge, my skin dyed by the parting sea. Reborn like a Phoenix, not from its own death but from that of anothers. Maybe my thoughts never did get better. Maybe my skull is still screaming at the thought of housing my brain. Something inside it doesn't sit right, scratching at the edges of my recesses it demands attention. It knocks and growls. Clacking its teeth until in one instant, it is released. I looked into your bare soul, naked and clean next to mine. Its polished exterior in contrast to the soot of my own. How can you bear to be next to me? Your clean gaze further sullied mine's black. ***** and bent, grime in its crevices. The kind of grit I have been picking out by hand my entire life. Now my fingernails are split, cracked past the quick and caked by filth. What would you think if you read this? Would you cry? Would you back away? You would probably kiss me, take the knife out of my grasp, bleach my hands white, sew my frayed dress back together, wash the dirt off my bare feet, drop me down into the caverns of fitful sleep so that I may not glare at my reflection in silver. It doesn't matter if it's rusted, it doesn't matter if its broken, it doesn't matter if its clean. All that matters is your reaction to me, not fear, not disgust. The simplicity of not wiping away a smudge on a mirror.

0

Mar 19, 2012

Mar 19, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC

abigail-2

Windigo I

I looked into your eyes and knew how easy it would be to **** you. I plotted its path and then decided how I would end myself afterwords. I felt nothing. Sometimes I feel everything. I cry and scream and curse, gasping for air. Blubbering in fits. Grabbing at my chest trying to feel for a heart. Most days now I am normal. My brain is functioning and my numbness is almost all but gone. On those days I cry. I looked into your eyes and thought it would be easy to **** you. Surely then I would see the face of god. He would come down, flesh out my pale limbs and introduce me to the sun I haven't seen in so long. Take one look at me in that light, see my claws and teeth, maybe glance into my eyes. See my fear, not for him, but for what I've become. What I've transformed myself into. Take note of the hours it took to shape my brain into this lackluster heap. Maybe that crimson pool collected near you would drown me, I would be consumed and swept away, only to emerge, my skin dyed by the parting sea. Reborn like a Phoenix, not from its own death but from that of anothers. Maybe my thoughts never did get better. Maybe my skull is still screaming at the thought of housing my brain. Something inside it doesn't sit right, scratching at the edges of my recesses it demands attention. It knocks and growls. Clacking its teeth until in one instant, it is released. I looked into your bare soul, naked and clean next to mine. Its polished exterior in contrast to the soot of my own. How can you bear to be next to me? Your clean gaze further sullied mine's black. ***** and bent, grime in its crevices. The kind of grit I have been picking out by hand my entire life. Now my fingernails are split, cracked past the quick and caked by filth. What would you think if you read this? Would you cry? Would you back away? You would probably kiss me, take the knife out of my grasp, bleach my hands white, sew my frayed dress back together, wash the dirt off my bare feet, drop me down into the caverns of fitful sleep so that I may not glare at my reflection in silver. It doesn't matter if it's rusted, it doesn't matter if its broken, it doesn't matter if its clean. All that matters is your reaction to me, not fear, not disgust. The simplicity of not wiping away a smudge on a mirror.

42

It's that **** awake at midnight Looking to your left and then right until your eyes adjust, drawn to one corner there it stands. Tall, grey skin over bone pulled tight as a drum Still panting through its corn husk lips as if it is trying to keep blood pumping Its heart removed. The monster is back to feed. You're walking home at night, stomach growling again Turning a bend you run into a wall of a smell Decomposition, palpable and thick the Windigo stands under a street lamp bathed in light Ashen skin nearly translucent, eyes meeting yours, it stares. Dry lips parting Its teeth are revealed. Rows of razors with human flesh still clinging to their yellow tinge The same teeth that bit you years ago Now its blood runs through you. Your feet are bare, thick with mud as you run through the woods Ice spikes the air and your lungs, your legs carry you, thin skin, grey like the day You're searching. Looking, pining for the next human you see because maybe when this one meets your mouth and is greeted by your teeth you will feel full. You will feel complete That smell of death and hunger will cease to linger around you But you never find it. This is the punishment you are handed. Bones stinking out sorer than a thumb, barely human but still a cannibal, feasting on the flesh of the innocent Scouring for that one last bite that will satisfy The one piece of flesh that will make you breath easy and smooth Hoping and holding out for the person that will fill your belly, curb your appetite Wanting, Waiting for the pink to come back to your cheeks and the drear to stop its lingering It stays. That musky oder still permeates Your stomach crys out Your lips remain dry and cracked, all you can taste is the blood running onto your tongue You are alone at night Fear doesn't reach you because you are that thing that makes people cringe at in the dark Teeth gnashing, eyes rolling, hands grabbing, skin peeling Trying to clutch for the last shred of humanity Choke it down. Swallow only to throw it back up You will never be full A spring gone dry A wheat field molded Your own eyes sewn shut by your inability to see And what does it even matter anymore? The malevolence already surges through your bloodstream The disease is already infected into your system So lift your eyes to the peaking sun Open those desert lips one last time Not for medicine, for one last cry And run back to the tribe.

0

Apr 2, 2012

Apr 2, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC

abigail-2

Windigo II

It's that **** awake at midnight Looking to your left and then right until your eyes adjust, drawn to one corner there it stands. Tall, grey skin over bone pulled tight as a drum Still panting through its corn husk lips as if it is trying to keep blood pumping Its heart removed. The monster is back to feed. You're walking home at night, stomach growling again Turning a bend you run into a wall of a smell Decomposition, palpable and thick the Windigo stands under a street lamp bathed in light Ashen skin nearly translucent, eyes meeting yours, it stares. Dry lips parting Its teeth are revealed. Rows of razors with human flesh still clinging to their yellow tinge The same teeth that bit you years ago Now its blood runs through you. Your feet are bare, thick with mud as you run through the woods Ice spikes the air and your lungs, your legs carry you, thin skin, grey like the day You're searching. Looking, pining for the next human you see because maybe when this one meets your mouth and is greeted by your teeth you will feel full. You will feel complete That smell of death and hunger will cease to linger around you But you never find it. This is the punishment you are handed. Bones stinking out sorer than a thumb, barely human but still a cannibal, feasting on the flesh of the innocent Scouring for that one last bite that will satisfy The one piece of flesh that will make you breath easy and smooth Hoping and holding out for the person that will fill your belly, curb your appetite Wanting, Waiting for the pink to come back to your cheeks and the drear to stop its lingering It stays. That musky oder still permeates Your stomach crys out Your lips remain dry and cracked, all you can taste is the blood running onto your tongue You are alone at night Fear doesn't reach you because you are that thing that makes people cringe at in the dark Teeth gnashing, eyes rolling, hands grabbing, skin peeling Trying to clutch for the last shred of humanity Choke it down. Swallow only to throw it back up You will never be full A spring gone dry A wheat field molded Your own eyes sewn shut by your inability to see And what does it even matter anymore? The malevolence already surges through your bloodstream The disease is already infected into your system So lift your eyes to the peaking sun Open those desert lips one last time Not for medicine, for one last cry And run back to the tribe.

51

The despair of winter drove them away. On the bush, the moose dissipated— not even a hookimaw could trace their tracks. Inside the askihkan, under the fleece, the Crees covered their ears. The howling of the windigo awoke the ahcahk of an awawatuk.

0

May 11, 2019

May 11, 2019 at 9:08 AM UTC

adelethewriter

windigo

The despair of winter drove them away. On the bush, the moose dissipated— not even a hookimaw could trace their tracks. Inside the askihkan, under the fleece, the Crees covered their ears. The howling of the windigo awoke the ahcahk of an awawatuk.

11