The frost dragon
While the dark night chills the earth
it creeps sneaking in
with breath caressing the ground
covering with the kiss of death.
Like a ghoul gliding phantom like
with blue white icy eyes hovering
and nowhere it leaves tracks,
the icy dragon shakes its head,
blowing vapour ice,
freezing where it lands
like summer dew
but for its icy heart
that injures and sometimes kills.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Kiss Me Everything! ! !
Kiss me heart and said i'love you.
Kiss me from warm your eyes rays and said all better.
Kiss me from your sweet lips i'was everything.
Kiss me from your desire was embrace by you.i'was passing yearning fogs.
Kiss me with your soft face the angel gave peace on my heart.
Kiss me the rainbow gave the colour to illustrate my dreams.
Kiss me my blue clouds will lie down all tired i'to you.
Kiss me the green leaves penetrating freshness bellows of the heart and mind.
Kiss me the wind-the blowing wind continued the long breath in the life.
Kiss me the wave of the birds wings in the branch, stamped the love and the spirit.
Kiss me the flower and was kissed by me again went through the sun and the rain.
Kiss me the river gave my warm regards to the ocean.
Kiss me the nature said to my heart sweetheart.
I kissed him through all
the life breath in the world.
Death of Dusk
The sun resigns,
bleeds out the vestiges –
remnants of the day.
Exsanguination edges into twilight:
red-brown hangs;
upwards darkens:
blue-brown,
blue-black,
death-black,
disquiet – furtive,
like ghoul-ridden fog.
A sombre moon assumes its role,
gushing silver-white lymph upon the muted scape –
a prequel of supernatural undertones
to chill the scene,
ice the spine,
kill the brain –
we have unnerved the very firmament.
But now a shadow closing down the globe:
dinosaurian cloud shrouds the moon glaze,
claims the late hour –
declared in a dying crow caw.
I, the hidden owl
– nemesis of claustrophobic minds –
awake! for mammal flesh –
fresh, jerking out its warmth in dance of death.
Rock-still I perch in sculptured oneness
with my crooked night-tree,
emanating nocturnal allure.
Together we scowl
together we play the dark
upon the land and sky
and mind
while you lie as dead in your box.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night dark dark
dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night dark dark
dark dark dark dark night
dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Metho Drinker
Under the death of winter's leaves he lies
who cried to Nothing and the terrible night
to be his home and bread. 'O take from me
the weight and waterfall ceaseless Time
that batters down my weakness; the knives of light
whose thrust I cannot turn; the cruelty
of human eyes that dare not touch nor pity.'
Under the worn leaves of the winter city
safe in the house of Nothing now he lies.
His white and burning girl, his woman of fire,
creeps to his heart and sets a candle there
to melt away the flesh that hides from bone,
to eat the nerve that tethers him in time.
He will lie warm until the bone is bare
and on a dead dark moon he wakes alone.
It was for Death he took her; death is but this;
and yet he is uneasy under her kiss
and winces from that acid of her desire.
poem by Judith Wright
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Everything is going to be wet
Every day rain falls down
from the overcast grey sky
and lightning bolts
flash blue white
like the fingers
of the gods
caressing the earth
while the leaves of autumn
cover every tree
in auburn, yellow and brown.
Green leaves on the stems
of big pink hollyhocks
here and there
dip up and down
when hit by drops of rain
as if suddenly coming alive
and it’s going to be
a wet winter
and probably
not all that chilly
with rain falling
out of season.
The grass is green
and everything but trees
are growing
as if it’s still spring.
and flowers bloom
on geraniums, roses, hollyhocks,
lilies, irises and petunias
in colours ranging
from white, orange, yellow,
violet to red and blue
and without covering
everything is going
to be wet.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Will Always Love You For Who You Are
Even if the leaves of ground turn red of my blood
Even if the leaves of ground turn happy yellow into dust
Even the leaves of ground turn brown into ashes
Even if the leaves of ground turn black into the night
You will always be swaying in my breath
Because I will always love you for who you are
Even if they take out my mind again
And spin it round the midnight blue
Even if they take my heart away again
And throw it down a silent well
From inside that well your name I will call
Even though I don't like to make promises at all
This much I can always promise
Because I will always love you for who you are
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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At the Okavango swamp
It was in the Okavango swamp
that the dark ghoul came at night
and passed so near
that I could smell its stinking breath.
Every morning the four-toed tracks
lay in the sand
everywhere in the camp
where it came to break into
what ever it could find.
With powerful jaws and premolars
made for crushing bones
it gnawed into anything
that it could lay jaws on.
Till one night that the dog like
brown-grey carnivore
with black spots
got a shocking surprise
and I saw yellow eyes glowing
while it draw closer and closer
while crying
like a hysterical human laughing
and walked straight into
an electrified wire
fitted to a couple of landrover
and four by four batteries
running around the camp
and blue white sparks flew
and covered that hyena
like a character
in a computer game
it was covered in lightning
and it howled and howled
rising in pitch
and never came back again.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Frozen, Where it should be
In a hardly long sunrise
my heart began its quest through the soft White Mountains
My heart is near, but my body has slept there
Over night
Thawed by the heat of lust
Though my body's dripping sweat,
My love is frozen in the mountain hips
This gold inferno is not gold enough for these pure cold blades
But down below on the lands far and wide...
My body whispers in hot delight
And the white moon that sings and kills... glimmers sweetly upon a heart so weary
and mad...
...my own
designed to tolerate the chills in solitude
Prone… to hunt solitude
poem by Cynnd Rose
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The Camp of Souls
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the 'Camp of Souls.'
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the 'paint of death,'
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue 'last smoke.'
13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.
19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the 'song of grief'
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their 'Camp of Souls.'
31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.
37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.
43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the 'paint of death';
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.
49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk 'Springing Fawn.'
55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.
61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.
67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the 'Camp of Souls.'
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Too soon so fair, fair lilies
TOO soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane;
The folded bud has still
To-morrow at its will;
Blown flowers can never blow again.
Too soon so bright, bright noontide;
The sun that now is high
Will henceforth only sink
Towards the western brink;
Day that's at prime begins to die.
Too soon so rich, ripe summer,
For autumn tracks thee fast;
Lo, death-marks on the leaf!
Sweet summer, and my grief;
For summer come is summer past.
Too soon, too soon, lost summer;
Some hours and thou art o'er.
Ah! death is part of birth:
Summer leaves not the earth,
But last year's summer lives no more.
poem by Augusta Davies Webster
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Autumn
The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.
The low winds moan for sad sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,--
Only a summer's fate of rain,
And a woman's fate of tears.
I walk to love and life alone
Over these mournful places,
Across the summer overthrown,
The dead joys of these silent faces,
To claim my own.
I know his heart has beat to bright
Sweet loves gone by;
I know the leaves that die to-night
Once budded to the sky;
And I shall die from his delight.
O leaves, so quietly ending now,
You heard the cuckoos sing.
And I will grow upon my bough
If only for a spring,
And fall when the rain is on my brow.
O tell me, tell me ere you die,
Is it worth the pain?
You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
Now that the sad days wane,
Are you repenting where you lie?
I lie amongst you, and I kiss
Your fragrance mouldering.
O dead delights, is it such bliss,
That tuneful Spring?
Is love so sweet, that comes to this?
Kiss me again as I kiss you;
Kiss me again;
For all your tuneful nights of dew,
In this your time of rain,
For all your kisses when Spring was new.
You will not, broken hearts; let be.
I pass across your death
To a golden summer you shall not see,
And in your dying breath
There is no benison for me.
There is an autumn yet to wane,
There are leaves yet to fall,
Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
And, pitied, pity me all for all,
And love me in mist and rain.
poem by Alice Meynell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Seasons
I
As if summer will never end
irises are everywhere in the garden
with opening flower after flower
in light yellow, deep purple and rust-brown.
The bright hot sun hangs day after day
in a cobalt blue sky and even carnations, geraniums
and flame lilies are showing their beauty,
are still holding onto summer.
Doves are still cooing in the oak tree,
their are finches and sparrows cavorting up and down
and it’s as if nature is thwarting autumn
while dew is still shining on the leaves in the mornings
until later the sky becomes dull blue
while the sun is getting much more faint.
II
Slowly the leaves are falling
descending in different colours,
in one’s and two’s and later in a bigger number
tree-trunks become dark brown, red and some pallid
until every tree but for those that are evergreen stand skeleton,
the birds that remain sit next to each other shivering,
wishing for the winter to past
having difficulty to find seeds and other food
and the cold winter wind blows through everything,
filling the air with whirling dust clouds
with stripped branches flinging up and down
and everywhere leaves and branches lie in a jumble
until the wind dies down and the morning fog hangs like vapour,
at times only at noon is dispersed by the sun.
III
Days are cold and grey while the sun hides,
with a owl hunting during the day
searching for hungry mice sneaking around in the yellow grass
and all other signs of animal life is missing
but for doves sitting here and there
on telephone wires,
in disconsolation staring into the distance
and early mornings the grass is covered with white ripe
and it is as if every flower succumbs,
is shrinking crumpled and are folding close
until the first spring rain comes suddenly,
with sprouts and buds appearing and new flowers folding open
when fruit trees are covered with white, pink and yellow blossoms
and the sudden beauty takes your breath away.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Plynth
(hopkins, wood, stewart)
I've woken up on mornings such as this
And thought exactly the same as i'm thinking now
Every night for a year i've slept alone
My cold damp room looks worse than me.
I got a fear of death that creeps on every night
I know i won't die soon but then again i might
Just like water down the drain i'm wasting away
And oh, doctors can't help. a ghost of a man, that's me.
I'm going far
Ah, ah, ah
And oh, water down the drain flows to the sea
The pattern of my life keeps a-hauntin' me
Like moisture from the ocean fills the sky
Comes on down to the ground as time goes by.
Ah, ah, ah
Please don't weep for me when i'm gone
Ah, ah, ah
I got a fear of death that creeps on every night
I know i won't die soon but then again i might
Please don't weep for me when i'm gone
Ah, ah, ah
A fear of death that creeps on every night
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Encountered a Dragon
If a monster occupies the clump of eyes on our face
We hate the return of senses to the tears and face.
One monster is commotion, two creates tragedy
As well farce, fodder and feminine curiosity.
For these she-devils do not undermine the soul
As much as dragons, talons from the talent, creative sort.
We needed the strength and the spirit, the afflatus;
What is the amperage they create from the breath?
Which impulse afflicts him, the dragon?
He needs me to answer him, yet I do too,
And to aerially combat him is grand with amperage
As I do be grand, the eyes can tell and demonstrate
And commence for all the time.
My sword is my soldier, an affray has emerged forever,
Between dragon and human-beast, what is the final result?
Only a monster like me can win, can win;
Killing the scales of yellow, I discover it is not golden but bronze
And yet I want death for it, for him, for him,
Upper class dragon!
I am upper class, and fatigued by the whole battle
Inside which is death for the dragon,
I see its heart, and I see its belly
But I strike the heart, and no brain of a dragon interferes.
Instead I interfere, and this heart of its will shudder and fall
To be the death of the dragon, bronze dragon.
All of death occurred, wild dragon has been defeated
As the weapon I choose is good for poking hearts.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A lonely young boy herds some cattle
In the open veldt
a lonely young six year old boy
herds some cattle
and follows them as they are grazing
following shoots of green grass
that appeared after the early summer rains
and he knows the names of every one
and with a knobbed walking-stick in his hands
he guides them while looking out
for leopards that are sneaking around
in the nearby hillocks
and time and again
his eyes is on the ground
finding tracks.
Out of an open blue sky
suddenly a big shade covers him
and before he realizes
that danger is upon him
a huge bird falls as quickly
as a bolt of lightning from the sky
with claws stretching out.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Without Bargaining
A view from the cause,
alters the landscape in you
I surrender to the earth,
the roots. Purifying the leaves.
I tell myself, this was not me,
my music. Still my skin
has the tattoos of pandemic deafness.
I am breathing through the lips.
My attachment to death
is a private affair
my voice lies in a lake.
The butterfly in a womb.
the psalms under the rocks.
Is it ending of death
or death of ending?
I go beyond the brink,
dropp the stone in water.
When the moon touches
my eyes, like a kiss
I start sharing the menu of night.
The rimless thoughts are hovering
like small birds. I listen
to their flappings.
Can we live without bargaining?
Do you know the price?
poem by Satish Verma
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On Another Day
A lone white sail boat
Slowly gliding south-wards.
The mournful cry of the seagull,
Soon swallowed into fog's belly
Camouflaging my world with so much easy.
Such a gray day it is!
Rain! Rain! Rain!
All day long showers fall unabated;
Mother earth quenches her thirsty.
Outside the wind whistles,
Caressing mother earth's gonads;
Leaves rattle on the ground;
The wind continues on its secret journey:
Area of origin and destination details unknown,
Yet for centuries untouched it has blown.
The rain has stopped.
Stars shine brightly
And the crickets never stop singing.
poem by Tafadzwa Matamba
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Krishnakali
In the village they call her the dark girl
but to me she is the flower Krishnakali
On a cloudy day in a field
I saw the dark girl's dark gazelle-eyes.
She had no covering on her head,
her loose hair had fallen on her back.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelleeyes.
Two black cows were lowing,
as it grew dark under the heavy clouds.
So with anxious, hurried steps,
the dark girl came from her hut.
Raising her eyebrows toward the sky,
she listened a moment to the clouds' rumble.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
A gust of the east wind
rippled the rice plants.
I was standing by a ridge,
alone in the field.
Whether or not she looked at me
Is known only to us two.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
This how the Kohldark cloud
rises in the northeast in Jaistha;
the soft dark shadow
descends on the Tamal grove in Asharh;
and sudden delight floods the heart
in the night of Sravan.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
To me she is the flower Krishnakali,
whatever she may be called by others.
In a field in Maynapara village
I saw the dark girl's dark gazelle-eyes.
She did not cover her head,
not having the time to feel embarrassed.
Dark? However dark she be,
I have seen her dark gazelle-eyes.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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This Side of the Truth
(for Llewelyn)
This side of the truth,
You may not see, my son,
King of your blue eyes
In the blinding country of youth,
That all is undone,
Under the unminding skies,
Of innocence and guilt
Before you move to make
One gesture of the heart or head,
Is gathered and spilt
Into the winding dark
Like the dust of the dead.
Good and bad, two ways
Of moving about your death
By the grinding sea,
King of your heart in the blind days,
Blow away like breath,
Go crying through you and me
And the souls of all men
Into the innocent
Dark, and the guilty dark, and good
Death, and bad death, and then
In the last element
Fly like the stars' blood
Like the sun's tears,
Like the moon's seed, rubbish
And fire, the flying rant
Of the sky, king of your six years.
And the wicked wish,
Down the beginning of plants
And animals and birds,
Water and Light, the earth and sky,
Is cast before you move,
And all your deeds and words,
Each truth, each lie,
Die in unjudging love.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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A Single Candle/Death Herself
A single flame lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death
Her hands clasped anrond their souls
The souls of the dead
She feeds of their screams
The screams of the dead
Her legs lay bellow her
Bellow death
Her black gown over her body
The body of death
Her chest rises and falls with her breath
The breath of death
Her cloak drawn over her long flowing jet hair
The face of death
Her eyes unmoved unfeeling
Do you see it?
Do you see the soul of death?
Do you feel it?
Her skin as white as snow as it fades into darkness
The snow of tears
Her cloths as dark as night that swallows the light
The dark we all shall see
Her eyes close as she feels their souls flow
Flow from the dead
She leaves them there to lay in darkness
She steals from the dead
A single candle lights their faces filled with her
Filled with death
They fall into the darkness of her eyes, of her heart
The darkness of death
A single candle shall stay to light their way
Their way through the dark
A single candle holds their past
The pain and trials
A single candle lights her face
The face of death
A single candle holds her fears
The fears of death herself
A single candle
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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But When The Flames Of Fires Touch Your Eyes
The leaves are gone; the world’s gone to sleep
The grass is brown the earth is dark and bare
And if you look beyond that silent peak
Silence is there
Then in the morning when the world’s young
When all the children still sigh in their sleep
Before the fog is lifted from the ground
Silence creeps
But when the flames of fires touch your eyes
When everything you’ve loved leaves you alone
When even moons refuse to wax and wane
Silence moans
So I will walk upon this sidewalk loud
And sing old songs that have no melody
In hopes that with this lonely clamoring
Silence leaves
poem by Ben Paynter
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