Submissions by The_Silly_Sibyl (Jack Thomas)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
I've written about religious, historical, and philosophical subjects, because I find systems of belief and existentialism interesting. But I've also written a lot about stuff like The Jerry Springer Show, slasher films, and junk food.
A Vast Eternity, with You
for Kristie
if I could take you to the hall of Valhalla
where it sits on the endless ice
awaiting Ragnarok I would
and in that shambling hall we could
observe a fleet of dogs
come running at your whim
yapping round your spotless ankles
pulling at your skirts
and hoping to be held
the beer would flow
the talk would rise and fall
in endless waves
of sharp and hearty glee
and all the gods would sing as you
and I settle on a window seat
if I could take you to the hall of Valhalla
where it sits on the endless ice
awaiting Ragnarok I would
and in that shambling hall we could
observe a fleet of dogs
come running at your whim
yapping round your spotless ankles
pulling at your skirts
and hoping to be held
the beer would flow
the talk would rise and fall
in endless waves
of sharp and hearty glee
and all the gods would sing as you
and I settle on a window seat
#love
#sex
#dirty
#emotional
#emotions
516 reads
2 Comments
the last pagan god
I prayed to the sky
and it was there
I prayed to the wind
and it was there
I neither bade it come or go
but still it came and went
a tree in Autumn shed its leaves
like dandelion seeds
blown by a boisterous imp
the churches rose and fell
as insects often do...
the One True deities did too
so all that stayed aloft
in my epiphany
was that degraded panoply
united by a common soul
of sky and wind and tree
and it was there
I prayed to the wind
and it was there
I neither bade it come or go
but still it came and went
a tree in Autumn shed its leaves
like dandelion seeds
blown by a boisterous imp
the churches rose and fell
as insects often do...
the One True deities did too
so all that stayed aloft
in my epiphany
was that degraded panoply
united by a common soul
of sky and wind and tree
#strength
#dark
#nature
#pagan
#symbolism
512 reads
2 Comments
metaphors
a cabinet on the lawn of a psychiatric hospital
is just a cabinet
a television floating in a swimming pool
is just a television
what are metaphors but little lies
told to pretend that the
bare
unfurnished
settings of our lives
have meanings?
is just a cabinet
a television floating in a swimming pool
is just a television
what are metaphors but little lies
told to pretend that the
bare
unfurnished
settings of our lives
have meanings?
#dark
#lies
#TruthOfLife
#LifeCycle
#metaphor
768 reads
4 Comments
Inside a Weary Face
Line in speech marks taken from The Passion of Joan of Arc, a 1928 silent film. The accompanying image is also from the film; it depicts Renee Maria Falconetti in the title role.
What poets and fanatics want
is in that weary face:
a deep, authentic suffering,
a sacrifice to inner Hell.
"Has God made you promises?"
Has time, and art, and love?
What promise have you made to them?
The questions rise and judge,
a spectral court
like vultures old and fat
about a roadside corpse.
...
What poets and fanatics want
is in that weary face:
a deep, authentic suffering,
a sacrifice to inner Hell.
"Has God made you promises?"
Has time, and art, and love?
What promise have you made to them?
The questions rise and judge,
a spectral court
like vultures old and fat
about a roadside corpse.
...
#PopCulture
537 reads
3 Comments
Before the Calm (collaboration with lepperochan)
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poets/lepperochan/
1.
boil the blood, then drain the heart,
a sense of mist, a profanity hissed
a witch's brew to be dismissed
by all who'd loathe to tear apart...
a fair foul with fair force
all things considered
(you pluck the knife
and slit the scar of Hate)
a splash of malted vinegar
to speed on the rush
2.
We climbed the fabled steps and found
Nothing.
No gods, no men, just an old
and empty room.
The simple cry of agony ...
1.
boil the blood, then drain the heart,
a sense of mist, a profanity hissed
a witch's brew to be dismissed
by all who'd loathe to tear apart...
a fair foul with fair force
all things considered
(you pluck the knife
and slit the scar of Hate)
a splash of malted vinegar
to speed on the rush
2.
We climbed the fabled steps and found
Nothing.
No gods, no men, just an old
and empty room.
The simple cry of agony ...
#hate
611 reads
3 Comments
The Carnifex's Cross
Carnifex: an ancient Latin word for executioner.
I.
The carnifex is proud and sweet,
a happy man of noble meat...
So sing the crowd around the stage,
a mob of kinds dullard to mage.
The prisoner is piņata,
a bulging straw design
filled with obscene stigmata:
a blood unsanctified.
II.
The sacred axe is raised and poised
above the clean, soft neck.
A string of hesitation falls between
it and its new client,
the penitent so helpless that
a robin on a...
I.
The carnifex is proud and sweet,
a happy man of noble meat...
So sing the crowd around the stage,
a mob of kinds dullard to mage.
The prisoner is piņata,
a bulging straw design
filled with obscene stigmata:
a blood unsanctified.
II.
The sacred axe is raised and poised
above the clean, soft neck.
A string of hesitation falls between
it and its new client,
the penitent so helpless that
a robin on a...
542 reads
5 Comments
Darkness Swept Jerusalem
Darkness swept Jerusalem,
The Great Whore rising in
the red-hued East.
An altar splits
in two.
Volcano drowning proud Pompeii,
a molten surging through the stony wound
predicts our final vows:
the brimstone kingdom
finding feet, on earth.
What weird Satanic feast
will strain the tables of the East?
The church doors open as the nave
ejects a plume of smoke,
the desert night
stinking like
a bonfire.
You and I
we pray for this
dreaming of the old spires ...
The Great Whore rising in
the red-hued East.
An altar splits
in two.
Volcano drowning proud Pompeii,
a molten surging through the stony wound
predicts our final vows:
the brimstone kingdom
finding feet, on earth.
What weird Satanic feast
will strain the tables of the East?
The church doors open as the nave
ejects a plume of smoke,
the desert night
stinking like
a bonfire.
You and I
we pray for this
dreaming of the old spires ...
466 reads
2 Comments
Sonnet on Contemplating the Cross of Mathilde
The darkened space its chosen frame
to guide the light in steadily,
It waits for those who know Its name;
symbol of the Middle Age
when centuries believed, and prayed.
The light upon His gilded head
reveals itself: a strange bouquet
that washes all the coloured gems
and captures in the instant one's domain.
The bundled yellow stems
are gripped in time's un-weakened hand,
the gift of one moment
when life, a falling grain of sand,
enlarges to permit Heaven.
to guide the light in steadily,
It waits for those who know Its name;
symbol of the Middle Age
when centuries believed, and prayed.
The light upon His gilded head
reveals itself: a strange bouquet
that washes all the coloured gems
and captures in the instant one's domain.
The bundled yellow stems
are gripped in time's un-weakened hand,
the gift of one moment
when life, a falling grain of sand,
enlarges to permit Heaven.
509 reads
6 Comments
The house
This is a "drabble", a 100-word story.
The house was full of an empty yet endless pain, sunwashed in that sadistic bleaching way that peels wallpaper, rots floorboards, and refuses to allow quietude, peace. The house as I remember it was near a cliff edge, (as all such houses are), and had French windows in the living room, all the better for bringing in that burning light. I would hide in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but not those furthest from the horizon because despite everything I liked to stay within view of it, undistinguished as it was by other houses, streets, towns,...
The house was full of an empty yet endless pain, sunwashed in that sadistic bleaching way that peels wallpaper, rots floorboards, and refuses to allow quietude, peace. The house as I remember it was near a cliff edge, (as all such houses are), and had French windows in the living room, all the better for bringing in that burning light. I would hide in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but not those furthest from the horizon because despite everything I liked to stay within view of it, undistinguished as it was by other houses, streets, towns,...
539 reads
9 Comments
Lost as If in Sorrowing
581 reads
6 Comments
Inside St. Nicholas Church, Harwich
A painted offering of stone
behind a great altar, beside
the placques that give the Words. The throne
is glimpsed within this place, the hides
of souls its cushioning, its arms
and legs golden. What ancient charms
can still be seen among the pews
and high inside the organ's flues
are stepping out, again to see
the faithful come to kneel, to plea.
The nave is packed with tourists now.
The portrait of Moses with God's
tablets - ten rules inscribed for how
a life should play - looks on, at odds.
behind a great altar, beside
the placques that give the Words. The throne
is glimpsed within this place, the hides
of souls its cushioning, its arms
and legs golden. What ancient charms
can still be seen among the pews
and high inside the organ's flues
are stepping out, again to see
the faithful come to kneel, to plea.
The nave is packed with tourists now.
The portrait of Moses with God's
tablets - ten rules inscribed for how
a life should play - looks on, at odds.
529 reads
2 Comments
the melting dream
I.
hang me on
Your latticework of myth
let roses twine
about my limbs
the wall to which
the lattice clings
whitewashed beside
a Grecian sea
You breathing out
the clouds above
II.
the twilit street
with neon shops
resolves in
the wake of a blur
left by
my melting dream
and all
its vacant premises
hang me on
Your latticework of myth
let roses twine
about my limbs
the wall to which
the lattice clings
whitewashed beside
a Grecian sea
You breathing out
the clouds above
II.
the twilit street
with neon shops
resolves in
the wake of a blur
left by
my melting dream
and all
its vacant premises
529 reads
7 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by The_Silly_Sibyl (Jack Thomas)