Poetry competition CLOSED 20th March 2019 3:13pm
WINNER
MadameLavender
MadameLavender
Ravens and Poets
The Angel of Death
- The Angel of Death -
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
It doth seem to me that a long age hath come and gone…
I am waiting, so patiently waiting, for my soul's release,
When will the dark messenger come, to bring me peace?
That bright winged angel of soft shadows and gray mists,
Oh, when will my angel come, to offer me her fatal kiss?
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
Yet in the darkness, methinks I hear of her lonely song…
It is both inhuman and strange; it seems never to cease,
The shrieking and wailing seem to come from the Abyss,
Could it be my dark angel, come to offer me her fatal kiss?
The night hath grown frosty cold, the air is become chill,
The strange singer is drawing nearer, her voice high and shrill…
The shadows close in around me, like great birds of prey,
The blackness of their wings seems to promise no rising of the day.
I knew that I wouldst never live to see another bright morn,
Now I am certain, for here cometh my angel, like a fearful storm!
I canst hear the rhythmic flapping of her black raven's wings,
The shadows part for her will, and by that power I canst see…
Yet, I have opened mine eyes only to behold terrible things!
She descends to greet me, her smile as beautiful as canst be…
Clothed in robes spun from darkness and from mortal fear.
Yet, for me she doth shed a single bloodily crimson tear…
The night is no longer cold; the air is no longer quite chill,
My dark musician is with me, her voice: no longer high and shrill.
She sings now the honeyed dirge as for a loved one lost to all,
And from her dark yet gentle eyes, a thousand red tears do fall!
She takes me up into her pale, supernaturally strong arms,
And to my angel I am lost, as a maiden to her lover's charms.
Her touch is beyond cold, yet it chills not my dead bones,
The whiteness of that angel's flesh, so luminous and so pure…
Her face is so youthful, yet strong and aged like the stones,
The stones of Cairns, the stones of graves that line every cemetery shore.
Like the sands of the beaches that lie close to some great dark sea,
Like the pebbles in that sand, they doth now seem as to me…
I am most fortunate indeed, for she is not oft this kind to most.
She usually sweeps the soul from the body with her terrible scythe,
That she may steal away with their very spirit's immortal ghost.
She has laid aside her scythe, to be kind this night for me alone,
She has laid aside her terrible scythe, for there is no evil for me to atone.
I learned that day, so surprising to me that only the wicked so pass…
Or: those who hath yet to fulfill their destiny, those of a lesser class.
Her touch is no longer so chill, her flesh is no longer so very cold,
It seems that so much time hath passed, and my flesh feels so old!
I hath not so long to wait, for my immortal soul's final release,
For in the arms of the angel of death, I will be delivered unto peace…
Her pale face and her white hair are now stained with her bloody weeping,
And into my heart, a longing for my Heavenly Home was creeping.
Take me home, sweet angel, for my time hath come at last,
There is naught for me that I should so linger any longer here…
Nothing binds me to the present; nothing binds me to the past.
She moves to kiss me and I am glad, so glad that those lips draw near,
The kiss is like a passionate lover's kiss, and for a moment I feel aflame…
Then, I feel naught save endless bliss, and gone is my body's pain.
She lays my bones down upon the earth, my soul in her arms like a babe,
Her face now the image of a grinning bloody skull, her flesh withered and thin.
Yet with all the love of a mother, she carries me off into mists and shade,
Unto the heights of Heaven: where my eternal existence may truly begin.
Then, scythe in hand she will fly off away into the waiting night,
In search of more souls, that she may escort them beyond mere living sight,
In the service of neither the Darkness of evil, nor goodness’s Light.
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
It doth seem to me that a long age hath come and gone…
I am waiting, so patiently waiting, for my soul's release,
When will the dark messenger come, to bring me peace?
That bright winged angel of soft shadows and gray mists,
Oh, when will my angel come, to offer me her fatal kiss?
The air is chill as ice, and the night both cold and long,
Yet in the darkness, methinks I hear of her lonely song…
It is both inhuman and strange; it seems never to cease,
The shrieking and wailing seem to come from the Abyss,
Could it be my dark angel, come to offer me her fatal kiss?
The night hath grown frosty cold, the air is become chill,
The strange singer is drawing nearer, her voice high and shrill…
The shadows close in around me, like great birds of prey,
The blackness of their wings seems to promise no rising of the day.
I knew that I wouldst never live to see another bright morn,
Now I am certain, for here cometh my angel, like a fearful storm!
I canst hear the rhythmic flapping of her black raven's wings,
The shadows part for her will, and by that power I canst see…
Yet, I have opened mine eyes only to behold terrible things!
She descends to greet me, her smile as beautiful as canst be…
Clothed in robes spun from darkness and from mortal fear.
Yet, for me she doth shed a single bloodily crimson tear…
The night is no longer cold; the air is no longer quite chill,
My dark musician is with me, her voice: no longer high and shrill.
She sings now the honeyed dirge as for a loved one lost to all,
And from her dark yet gentle eyes, a thousand red tears do fall!
She takes me up into her pale, supernaturally strong arms,
And to my angel I am lost, as a maiden to her lover's charms.
Her touch is beyond cold, yet it chills not my dead bones,
The whiteness of that angel's flesh, so luminous and so pure…
Her face is so youthful, yet strong and aged like the stones,
The stones of Cairns, the stones of graves that line every cemetery shore.
Like the sands of the beaches that lie close to some great dark sea,
Like the pebbles in that sand, they doth now seem as to me…
I am most fortunate indeed, for she is not oft this kind to most.
She usually sweeps the soul from the body with her terrible scythe,
That she may steal away with their very spirit's immortal ghost.
She has laid aside her scythe, to be kind this night for me alone,
She has laid aside her terrible scythe, for there is no evil for me to atone.
I learned that day, so surprising to me that only the wicked so pass…
Or: those who hath yet to fulfill their destiny, those of a lesser class.
Her touch is no longer so chill, her flesh is no longer so very cold,
It seems that so much time hath passed, and my flesh feels so old!
I hath not so long to wait, for my immortal soul's final release,
For in the arms of the angel of death, I will be delivered unto peace…
Her pale face and her white hair are now stained with her bloody weeping,
And into my heart, a longing for my Heavenly Home was creeping.
Take me home, sweet angel, for my time hath come at last,
There is naught for me that I should so linger any longer here…
Nothing binds me to the present; nothing binds me to the past.
She moves to kiss me and I am glad, so glad that those lips draw near,
The kiss is like a passionate lover's kiss, and for a moment I feel aflame…
Then, I feel naught save endless bliss, and gone is my body's pain.
She lays my bones down upon the earth, my soul in her arms like a babe,
Her face now the image of a grinning bloody skull, her flesh withered and thin.
Yet with all the love of a mother, she carries me off into mists and shade,
Unto the heights of Heaven: where my eternal existence may truly begin.
Then, scythe in hand she will fly off away into the waiting night,
In search of more souls, that she may escort them beyond mere living sight,
In the service of neither the Darkness of evil, nor goodness’s Light.
Written by Kou_Indigo
(Karam L. Parveen-Ashton)
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The Ship of Death
- The Ship of Death -
I walked amidst the purple flocks, the tiny flowers smiling back,
I looked upon the old farmlands, and saw many a tiny shack…
How long has it been since someone worked those old lands?
How long has it been since the soil felt gentle, loving hands?
It is not a curse upon those grounds, but neglect that poisons,
And so I shall not venture there, thence thusly my pace hastens!
Unto the shores of the sea I’ll go, to watch the tide rolling in…
I must forget, the pain that brought me far from my fellow man.
And so I walk, but cannot talk, for who shall hear me there?
Far from where I’ve been before, I hear a voice say: beware.
It is not courage that propels me on, though never a coward I,
It is vain hope to which I cling, as I walk beneath the cold sky.
And as I walked, I heard a raven rasp its’ mournful call…
“Beware the arms of the Angel of Death, for she must take all!”
At the shores of the sea, I sat upon some rocks amidst the sand;
A tiny crab was smiling at me, as if by some joyful command…
I spied a vessel coming forth through mists as old as all of time,
I heard the sailors singing merrily, the words of some old rhyme.
And soon the ship did drop anchor before my high rocky perch,
As towards the shore came a small boat, made from hard birch.
Sent from the larger vessel it was, that small boat made for two,
And rowing it was a lady fair, with bright eyes of sparkling blue.
Her hair was crimson in the sun, her gown as black as the night!
She put her craft upon the sand, and had caught me in her sight.
Reaching forth a slender hand, the lady urged me to come forth,
And so I left my gray rocky seat, for all that my soul was worth.
And as I walked, I heard a raven rasp its’ mournful call…
“Beware the arms of the Angel of Death, for she must take all!”
I asked the lady from whence she came, so she answered back:
“I come from across shadowy mists, and gulfs of outer black!”
I took her hand and it was cold as ice, numbing to the touch…
So as she led me to her boat, I was feeling in need of a crutch.
“Do you know why I have come, and whither we are bound?”
The lady asked me, but I knew not and stared at the ground…
At which she saw my puzzlement, and bid me take great heed,
She told me she had come, to collect the harvest of life’s seed.
To take the souls whose time is nigh and sail on darker tides…
For she was Death: and in colder mists her vessel ever resides.
And so I took my hand away, and bid the cold lady farewell…
Another time I’ll board her craft, when the tides rise and swell.
And as I walked, I heard a raven rasp its’ mournful call…
“You have spurned the Angel of Death, but one day must fall!”
I walked amidst the purple flocks, the tiny flowers smiling back,
I looked upon the old farmlands, and saw many a tiny shack…
How long has it been since someone worked those old lands?
How long has it been since the soil felt gentle, loving hands?
It is not a curse upon those grounds, but neglect that poisons,
And so I shall not venture there, thence thusly my pace hastens!
Unto the shores of the sea I’ll go, to watch the tide rolling in…
I must forget, the pain that brought me far from my fellow man.
And so I walk, but cannot talk, for who shall hear me there?
Far from where I’ve been before, I hear a voice say: beware.
It is not courage that propels me on, though never a coward I,
It is vain hope to which I cling, as I walk beneath the cold sky.
And as I walked, I heard a raven rasp its’ mournful call…
“Beware the arms of the Angel of Death, for she must take all!”
At the shores of the sea, I sat upon some rocks amidst the sand;
A tiny crab was smiling at me, as if by some joyful command…
I spied a vessel coming forth through mists as old as all of time,
I heard the sailors singing merrily, the words of some old rhyme.
And soon the ship did drop anchor before my high rocky perch,
As towards the shore came a small boat, made from hard birch.
Sent from the larger vessel it was, that small boat made for two,
And rowing it was a lady fair, with bright eyes of sparkling blue.
Her hair was crimson in the sun, her gown as black as the night!
She put her craft upon the sand, and had caught me in her sight.
Reaching forth a slender hand, the lady urged me to come forth,
And so I left my gray rocky seat, for all that my soul was worth.
And as I walked, I heard a raven rasp its’ mournful call…
“Beware the arms of the Angel of Death, for she must take all!”
I asked the lady from whence she came, so she answered back:
“I come from across shadowy mists, and gulfs of outer black!”
I took her hand and it was cold as ice, numbing to the touch…
So as she led me to her boat, I was feeling in need of a crutch.
“Do you know why I have come, and whither we are bound?”
The lady asked me, but I knew not and stared at the ground…
At which she saw my puzzlement, and bid me take great heed,
She told me she had come, to collect the harvest of life’s seed.
To take the souls whose time is nigh and sail on darker tides…
For she was Death: and in colder mists her vessel ever resides.
And so I took my hand away, and bid the cold lady farewell…
Another time I’ll board her craft, when the tides rise and swell.
And as I walked, I heard a raven rasp its’ mournful call…
“You have spurned the Angel of Death, but one day must fall!”
Written by Kou_Indigo
(Karam L. Parveen-Ashton)
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Nyx
quatern
With furtive whispers through the gate
Of slumber, tasking passion’s dreams
In sacrifice to Nyx, prostrate
Caught, impotent against her schemes
The senses’ twilight fades in gloom
With furtive whispers through the gate
Erotic fear wafts like perfume
Enslaved to her licentious fete
Seductive vapor stirs, frustrates,
As pleasured strokes debase her thrall
With furtive whispers through the gate
Foretelling tortures to befall
The succubus, with blade in hand
Now poised and eager to castrate
The sleeper’s spirit, soon unmanned
With furtive whispers through the gate
With furtive whispers through the gate
Of slumber, tasking passion’s dreams
In sacrifice to Nyx, prostrate
Caught, impotent against her schemes
The senses’ twilight fades in gloom
With furtive whispers through the gate
Erotic fear wafts like perfume
Enslaved to her licentious fete
Seductive vapor stirs, frustrates,
As pleasured strokes debase her thrall
With furtive whispers through the gate
Foretelling tortures to befall
The succubus, with blade in hand
Now poised and eager to castrate
The sleeper’s spirit, soon unmanned
With furtive whispers through the gate
Written by ReggiePoet
(Reggie)
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I am still here
Beat me bloody and bruised,
Tear me to shreds,
Gouge my eyes,
Cut my hair.
But no matter what you do,
I am still here.
The vultures!
They swarm me terribly.
Waiting,
Watching.
Those damn vultures want me dead.
You,
You want this day for me as well.
You all watch and wait,
The vultures you are.
You shall wait longer, ravenous birds,
For I, am still here,
I am standing.
Your words may break my mind,
Your blows may break my bones,
And yet,
My heart is beating,
My pulse is racing.
I am still here.
No matter what you do,
No matter what you say,
I am, alive.
Tear me to shreds,
Gouge my eyes,
Cut my hair.
But no matter what you do,
I am still here.
The vultures!
They swarm me terribly.
Waiting,
Watching.
Those damn vultures want me dead.
You,
You want this day for me as well.
You all watch and wait,
The vultures you are.
You shall wait longer, ravenous birds,
For I, am still here,
I am standing.
Your words may break my mind,
Your blows may break my bones,
And yet,
My heart is beating,
My pulse is racing.
I am still here.
No matter what you do,
No matter what you say,
I am, alive.
Written by StoryTeller
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The Mallard
a story, in verse,
with my apologies to Edgar Allen Poe,
and to anyone with a fetish for popcorn,
or spinsters,
or ducks
Once upon a May’s day, cheery, as I pondered, gay but weary,
Weary from the din of ducks amassing near my backyard door.
While I nodded, noontime-napping, dreaming that I heard some quacking,
Mallard drake was gently quacking, quacking at my backyard door.
“He’s just looking for a handout, quacking at my backyard door.
Only this and nothing more.”
Dreamt I'm hungry for a snack, and fetched some popcorn from the back, and
Poured it in a dish for that and opened up the oven’s door.
Eagerly I set the timer, strong was my popcorn desire!
Oven’s Bell! I got excited, and I spilled some on the floor,
In the kitchen, near the door, a little popcorn on the floor.
Only that and nothing more.
Thrilled with my hot buttered treat, I took the bowl back to my seat, and,
Thinking to myself, “I spilled some. Maybe, I should pop some more?”
While I dreamt of popcorn popping, quacking that I heard, not stopping
Duck outside now loudly quacking, quacking at my backyard door.
It can smell that buttered popcorn, lying near the kitchen door.
A hungry duck, and nothing more.
Through the backdoor window peering, hungry quacking I was hearing,
Dreaming to myself that I should sweep the popcorn off the floor.
What about that duck I’m hearing? It could help with popcorn clearing
If I let the duck inside, now quacking at my kitchen door.
It will eat the popcorn spilled there, popcorn lying on my floor.
Feed it popcorn, nothing more.
Feeding popcorn to that drake soon proved to be a big mistake, that
Mallard drake ate all the popcorn spilled upon my kitchen floor.
Now that duck’s fulfilled its mission, time to make it leave my kitchen!
Duck inside needs prompt eviction, quacking that it wants some more.
It can smell my bowl of popcorn, quacking that it wants some more.
Quoth the Mallard “Popcorn! More!”
Duck was fast and clearly able, flew upon my kitchen table,
Eating all my buttered popcorn right from out my popcorn bowl!
Damn that duck for stealing popcorn, eating all my buttered popcorn!
Duck inside with wings a-flapping, quacking that it wants some more.
I went to fetch more popcorn and discovered that there was no more.
Then the bird said “Popcorn! More!”
Angry now, popcorn bereft, my outrage on that duck beset, I
Shooed my fow’l popcorn pest from off my table to the floor.
Popcorn thief showed no contrition, as I chased it ‘round my kitchen
Cursing it to fowls’ perdition, as it flapped across the floor!
Stared at me with strong suspicion, then it waddled out my door.
Silence then and nothing more.
Flustered by that duck, now vexed, I dreamt that I should calm myself, by
Walking to the cineplex, to watch a movie and unwind.
On the way, while walking there, I dreamt the day was bright and fair, and
I enjoyed some clean, fresh air, no longer lacking peace of mind;
Suddenly, I heard the blare of hungry quacking from behind!
Think I’m going to lose my mind.
My anxiety came back when, whereupon that hungry quack from
Mallard duck, my walk bushwhacked, as toward the cineplex I plied;
Soon, the ticket window reaching, with that hungry quacking screeching,
Ticket window lady preaching, “You can’t bring that duck inside!”
Spite against all my beseeching, by her rules I must abide.
Overreaching rules? He’ll hide!
By that duck, denied my entrance, dreamt I feigned a measured temperance.
Mallard duck my new apprentice, whom I now must sneak inside.
In my trousers I must stuff that menace of a hungry duck if
I am to have any luck and win my entrance, get inside.
I must hide that stupid duck within my trousers, to abide.
Silly rules now brushed aside.
Bought some popcorn, found my seat, I sat down next to sisters, sweet old
Ladies sitting in their seats, just chatting calmly next to me.
Eating popcorn in my seat, and feeling kicking from webbed feet, my
Zipper, opened, Mallard beak poked out from trousers, so to breathe.
Spinster sitting next to me can not believe what she now sees!
Just a duck that needs to breathe.
Hungry duck has found my popcorn, duck’s head buried deep in popcorn;
Spinster seethes with fear and scorn, believing I’m enacting porn.
Spinster sitting next to me elbows her sister, for to see, what
She mistakes as part of me, a private part she should not see!
Worldly sister smiles with glee, “That’s nothing that we haven’t seen.”
“Seen One, and you’ve seen them all!”
Spinster sitting next to me keeps gawking at the part of me that
She believes that she can see, a shocking masturbation scene.
Sound of duckbill mastication, munching popcorn, no cessation,
In the dark, duck’s head’s gyration, crunching popcorn, is a blur.
Believes that I am masturbating, in my popcorn, just for her.
Exposed, indecently, to her.
Spinster sitting next to me elbows her sister frantically, but
Worldly sister casually just waves it off with just a laugh.
Hungry duck then finds her popcorn, frantic spinster’s box of popcorn
Duck’s head flips her box airborne and dumps it all upon her lap.
When it tries to eat the popcorn, I receive a righteous slap!
Shocked awake from noontime's nap!
with my apologies to Edgar Allen Poe,
and to anyone with a fetish for popcorn,
or spinsters,
or ducks
Once upon a May’s day, cheery, as I pondered, gay but weary,
Weary from the din of ducks amassing near my backyard door.
While I nodded, noontime-napping, dreaming that I heard some quacking,
Mallard drake was gently quacking, quacking at my backyard door.
“He’s just looking for a handout, quacking at my backyard door.
Only this and nothing more.”
Dreamt I'm hungry for a snack, and fetched some popcorn from the back, and
Poured it in a dish for that and opened up the oven’s door.
Eagerly I set the timer, strong was my popcorn desire!
Oven’s Bell! I got excited, and I spilled some on the floor,
In the kitchen, near the door, a little popcorn on the floor.
Only that and nothing more.
Thrilled with my hot buttered treat, I took the bowl back to my seat, and,
Thinking to myself, “I spilled some. Maybe, I should pop some more?”
While I dreamt of popcorn popping, quacking that I heard, not stopping
Duck outside now loudly quacking, quacking at my backyard door.
It can smell that buttered popcorn, lying near the kitchen door.
A hungry duck, and nothing more.
Through the backdoor window peering, hungry quacking I was hearing,
Dreaming to myself that I should sweep the popcorn off the floor.
What about that duck I’m hearing? It could help with popcorn clearing
If I let the duck inside, now quacking at my kitchen door.
It will eat the popcorn spilled there, popcorn lying on my floor.
Feed it popcorn, nothing more.
Feeding popcorn to that drake soon proved to be a big mistake, that
Mallard drake ate all the popcorn spilled upon my kitchen floor.
Now that duck’s fulfilled its mission, time to make it leave my kitchen!
Duck inside needs prompt eviction, quacking that it wants some more.
It can smell my bowl of popcorn, quacking that it wants some more.
Quoth the Mallard “Popcorn! More!”
Duck was fast and clearly able, flew upon my kitchen table,
Eating all my buttered popcorn right from out my popcorn bowl!
Damn that duck for stealing popcorn, eating all my buttered popcorn!
Duck inside with wings a-flapping, quacking that it wants some more.
I went to fetch more popcorn and discovered that there was no more.
Then the bird said “Popcorn! More!”
Angry now, popcorn bereft, my outrage on that duck beset, I
Shooed my fow’l popcorn pest from off my table to the floor.
Popcorn thief showed no contrition, as I chased it ‘round my kitchen
Cursing it to fowls’ perdition, as it flapped across the floor!
Stared at me with strong suspicion, then it waddled out my door.
Silence then and nothing more.
Flustered by that duck, now vexed, I dreamt that I should calm myself, by
Walking to the cineplex, to watch a movie and unwind.
On the way, while walking there, I dreamt the day was bright and fair, and
I enjoyed some clean, fresh air, no longer lacking peace of mind;
Suddenly, I heard the blare of hungry quacking from behind!
Think I’m going to lose my mind.
My anxiety came back when, whereupon that hungry quack from
Mallard duck, my walk bushwhacked, as toward the cineplex I plied;
Soon, the ticket window reaching, with that hungry quacking screeching,
Ticket window lady preaching, “You can’t bring that duck inside!”
Spite against all my beseeching, by her rules I must abide.
Overreaching rules? He’ll hide!
By that duck, denied my entrance, dreamt I feigned a measured temperance.
Mallard duck my new apprentice, whom I now must sneak inside.
In my trousers I must stuff that menace of a hungry duck if
I am to have any luck and win my entrance, get inside.
I must hide that stupid duck within my trousers, to abide.
Silly rules now brushed aside.
Bought some popcorn, found my seat, I sat down next to sisters, sweet old
Ladies sitting in their seats, just chatting calmly next to me.
Eating popcorn in my seat, and feeling kicking from webbed feet, my
Zipper, opened, Mallard beak poked out from trousers, so to breathe.
Spinster sitting next to me can not believe what she now sees!
Just a duck that needs to breathe.
Hungry duck has found my popcorn, duck’s head buried deep in popcorn;
Spinster seethes with fear and scorn, believing I’m enacting porn.
Spinster sitting next to me elbows her sister, for to see, what
She mistakes as part of me, a private part she should not see!
Worldly sister smiles with glee, “That’s nothing that we haven’t seen.”
“Seen One, and you’ve seen them all!”
Spinster sitting next to me keeps gawking at the part of me that
She believes that she can see, a shocking masturbation scene.
Sound of duckbill mastication, munching popcorn, no cessation,
In the dark, duck’s head’s gyration, crunching popcorn, is a blur.
Believes that I am masturbating, in my popcorn, just for her.
Exposed, indecently, to her.
Spinster sitting next to me elbows her sister frantically, but
Worldly sister casually just waves it off with just a laugh.
Hungry duck then finds her popcorn, frantic spinster’s box of popcorn
Duck’s head flips her box airborne and dumps it all upon her lap.
When it tries to eat the popcorn, I receive a righteous slap!
Shocked awake from noontime's nap!
Written by ReggiePoet
(Reggie)
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RAVENS
Ebony winged angels,
Ravens are not the Devil’s make
Rather, they have been sent to earth
By Heaven’s sake
Not morbid creatures
Prowling about a moonless night
Instead, they fly on the edge
Of the new morning light
Whether alighting upon a branch
Over a deer just killed
Or circling above another animal
That death has willed
The raven’s loud
Clarion call
Reminds us mortal
We are all
So, prepare your soul
And renew your spirit
For at any moment
A raven may come to visit
Ravens are not the Devil’s make
Rather, they have been sent to earth
By Heaven’s sake
Not morbid creatures
Prowling about a moonless night
Instead, they fly on the edge
Of the new morning light
Whether alighting upon a branch
Over a deer just killed
Or circling above another animal
That death has willed
The raven’s loud
Clarion call
Reminds us mortal
We are all
So, prepare your soul
And renew your spirit
For at any moment
A raven may come to visit
Written by snugglebuck
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In much of medieval Europe ravens were considered angels of death. Indeed, they would often gather on fields of battle, even before the fighting would start, anticipating the tragic outcome. Even more profound, ravens would roost near the scaffold in wait for the condemned to arrive. It was reported that several ravens were waiting patiently above the scaffold the day of Anne Boleyn’s beheading. When she finally appeared, the ravens cried out in frenzied excitement. She is said to have glanced at them and smiled just before the swordsman swung his blade.
So, if by chance you encounter an unfrighten raven who seems to be calling out to you. Take pause and reflect, for you too, may soon be dead.
Accompanying art work was created by the author.
OH WOE OF POE
Oh woe of Poe, my tortured soul
Romance’s son, death’s friend
Forevermore doomed to suffer
Enslaved in the castle of lonely
Since my precious Eliza Clemm
Eloped with Azrael to Heaven
Within these blood soaked walls I anguish
Prisoner of this city in the sea
My love, oh sweet beautiful Helen
Who now ignores my passion
Why oh why can’t love find me?
Doesn’t she hear me softly weep?
Oh gossamer winged Israfel
I beg, come play your lute for me
Let your angelic music free me
From lost love’s depressing memories
That are so tormenting me
So I can sleep the sweet sleep
Oh woe of Poe, my bed’s lonely and cold
Israfel, lure me a love to hold
Romance’s son, death’s friend
Forevermore doomed to suffer
Enslaved in the castle of lonely
Since my precious Eliza Clemm
Eloped with Azrael to Heaven
Within these blood soaked walls I anguish
Prisoner of this city in the sea
My love, oh sweet beautiful Helen
Who now ignores my passion
Why oh why can’t love find me?
Doesn’t she hear me softly weep?
Oh gossamer winged Israfel
I beg, come play your lute for me
Let your angelic music free me
From lost love’s depressing memories
That are so tormenting me
So I can sleep the sweet sleep
Oh woe of Poe, my bed’s lonely and cold
Israfel, lure me a love to hold
Written by snugglebuck
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The Angel Israfel, 1919, by Claude Buck, from the Smithsonian Institute of Art.
Grey Rain
Let
me find you
the unsung songs
hidden in the deepest blue
Bring you the wicked souls of night
split from the morning dew
Let’s sit on tombstones and sing to the remains in the grave
Feel the cold raindrops on the faces while we look up at the grey
Come, sweet princess, I'll walk with you in these eerie roads
save you from falling for the false clerical wardrobes
fog in the atmosphere making a dream to celebrate our love
Now sleep tight sweetie,
and leave your
night mares
to me
Song of the Rain
.
thickend red drips dried on the cement,
rusty cuffs will wake my wounds after a night sleep
with every tear drop I sow a seed filled with hope
unlike soil, nothing grow on my pillow
some sleepless night ends with,
me hugging my knees
I do what the cuffs do.
peeling off the dry skin from my ankle,
and I listen to the rain on my metal roof
wind control the volume and vapour in my cote
fill in of thunder screening shady shows to the wall
I crawled inside my wings to cover my naked body, shivering
sitting on the black feathers
It's my vip pass to the show
my breathe keep it a little warm inside
I look at dancing shadows through the feathers
listening to the rain
then comes the verse
played by the drops at the edge of the roof
wind will blow a background harmony
conducting music to trees
leaves and branches play their solos
then the crickets join in, then the frogs,
special features by wolves and owls
it is my window of satisfaction
I feel refreshed, I feel calm, I feel empty...
then the alarms of crows
the rooster, final act of my show
I don't want the sun to rise
I cant bear the torrid air
comes from the iron grill above
I love the night
I love the rain
I await your visit
bring me a
new song
.
thickend red drips dried on the cement,
rusty cuffs will wake my wounds after a night sleep
with every tear drop I sow a seed filled with hope
unlike soil, nothing grow on my pillow
some sleepless night ends with,
me hugging my knees
I do what the cuffs do.
peeling off the dry skin from my ankle,
and I listen to the rain on my metal roof
wind control the volume and vapour in my cote
fill in of thunder screening shady shows to the wall
I crawled inside my wings to cover my naked body, shivering
sitting on the black feathers
It's my vip pass to the show
my breathe keep it a little warm inside
I look at dancing shadows through the feathers
listening to the rain
then comes the verse
played by the drops at the edge of the roof
wind will blow a background harmony
conducting music to trees
leaves and branches play their solos
then the crickets join in, then the frogs,
special features by wolves and owls
it is my window of satisfaction
I feel refreshed, I feel calm, I feel empty...
then the alarms of crows
the rooster, final act of my show
I don't want the sun to rise
I cant bear the torrid air
comes from the iron grill above
I love the night
I love the rain
I await your visit
bring me a
new song
.
Written by dejure
(vick)
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Blackened angels
Tell me of your inner thoughts
for the gleam, or are they compromised
a trancience of dark across your mind
Are there flights you try to hide
that nest
where you can stash your guilt
Tell me what is that collective noun
for those black angels
the flutter in your cerebral cortex
A misdemeanor is too weak
feet of talons
sainted face foreshadows bleak
Turned from stone and fall from grace
weather beaten with the stain of sin
that pedestal is now in lower case
Beating wings
how long and dark the shadow cast
the wind of guilt that chill breeze felt
For radiance and the ways of right
the black angels cloak that shrouds your mind
the fifty shades of grey combine
Blanched intention that dreaming
Bird of Paradise
the ink and dye the carrion quill
The scratch of rats and gaping crypt
bats that tangle in your hair
creeping mist, dive into conscience perch
A cross that tilts, the crooked spire
cracked bells dicordant harmony
echo the raptors covet greed
spirits of the dead re-energised
They all, are sucking out the white
the clanking chains
the devils angels taking out all good and nice
Restless feet dance on the grave
at the foot where I am laid
gothic figures, etched on the ghosts of night
for the gleam, or are they compromised
a trancience of dark across your mind
Are there flights you try to hide
that nest
where you can stash your guilt
Tell me what is that collective noun
for those black angels
the flutter in your cerebral cortex
A misdemeanor is too weak
feet of talons
sainted face foreshadows bleak
Turned from stone and fall from grace
weather beaten with the stain of sin
that pedestal is now in lower case
Beating wings
how long and dark the shadow cast
the wind of guilt that chill breeze felt
For radiance and the ways of right
the black angels cloak that shrouds your mind
the fifty shades of grey combine
Blanched intention that dreaming
Bird of Paradise
the ink and dye the carrion quill
The scratch of rats and gaping crypt
bats that tangle in your hair
creeping mist, dive into conscience perch
A cross that tilts, the crooked spire
cracked bells dicordant harmony
echo the raptors covet greed
spirits of the dead re-energised
They all, are sucking out the white
the clanking chains
the devils angels taking out all good and nice
Restless feet dance on the grave
at the foot where I am laid
gothic figures, etched on the ghosts of night
Written by slipalong
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