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The Haunted Coasts of Cornwall
- The Haunted Coasts of Cornwall -
As the waves crash like eager lovers upon the rugged coasts,
Of old Cornwall's ancient, picturesque, and legendary lands…
On the howling winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
Perhaps they are trying to point to us the way to old Lyonesse,
That kingdom long since vanished beneath the waters of the sea.
Mayhap they are merely seeking to achieve their most final rest,
And by that act, at last escape from the harshness of this reality!
Do their hands still bear the standards of old, long dead kings,
As they match in ghostly legions that are still too proud to die?
Mayhap they strive to ward off the wailing banshee as it sings,
As it serenades its’ victims with its’ sad and ever mournful cry!
Often, thou canst witness such strange things, and much more,
When the wraithlike shadows deign to part the crisp autumn air.
In these moments, voices call from beyond this mortal shore,
With words that only they can speak, both frightening and fair.
The barriers between worlds do fade, as we look on in fear,
Gazing ever timelessly into another world, and a foreign time.
Sometimes, the spirits move us to shed for them a single tear,
Or mayhap even to compose for them but one solemn rhyme.
I have seen the lost children of peoples once lost to red war,
Still playing, upon the pale greenish meadows of their homes,
Even though the old places that once were are now no more,
And long buried within the earth, are those innocents' bones.
They still call lovingly for their parents, who will never come,
And for friends, and playmates, who have long passed away.
They still pray that their wishes and their hopes will be done,
For such spirits, there is not to be any other foreseeable way.
They look upon the circling ripples in the cold waters below,
Whilst, if they yet walked in flesh, they might prefer to weep!
From this endless purgatory: not any respite, do they know…
Until, upon their souls, the dread of this existence doth creep.
Haunted are those broken cliffs and those gray rocky crags,
Wherein countless otherworldly spirits yet continue to dwell.
Whether they be the phantoms of beautiful maidens or hags,
The torment they endure, is more horrific than a burning Hell.
Upon the ocean can oft be seen sailing, a ghostly Viking craft,
Returning to slake an unquenchable thirst for glory and blood.
The smoke of burning villages, upon the wind in its’ sails doth waft,
Across centuries come the memories of ruins and soiled mud.
Look ye beyond the world thou dost know, and of sunlit life,
And gaze upon the night that exists beyond life’s final breath.
There, thou may catch a glimpse of the face of eternal strife,
The face of the realms that consist sometimes: of endless death.
There, the dead do languish and wait endlessly beyond all hope,
For many do not even so much as know about their true state.
They cling ever to the life that hath passed beyond their scope,
Some never even once suspecting their actually ordained fate.
Like a morbid play, the dead keep enacting of past lives’ joys,
Enacting still, their fears, their pains, and their suffered sorrows.
It is just easier for the living to ignore their clamor and noise,
With it's dirge of a thousand and one shattered tomorrows.
So the waves just keep on crashing, upon the rugged coasts,
Of that land called by men Cornwall and its’ ancient lands…
Whilst on the winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
As the waves crash like eager lovers upon the rugged coasts,
Of old Cornwall's ancient, picturesque, and legendary lands…
On the howling winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
Perhaps they are trying to point to us the way to old Lyonesse,
That kingdom long since vanished beneath the waters of the sea.
Mayhap they are merely seeking to achieve their most final rest,
And by that act, at last escape from the harshness of this reality!
Do their hands still bear the standards of old, long dead kings,
As they match in ghostly legions that are still too proud to die?
Mayhap they strive to ward off the wailing banshee as it sings,
As it serenades its’ victims with its’ sad and ever mournful cry!
Often, thou canst witness such strange things, and much more,
When the wraithlike shadows deign to part the crisp autumn air.
In these moments, voices call from beyond this mortal shore,
With words that only they can speak, both frightening and fair.
The barriers between worlds do fade, as we look on in fear,
Gazing ever timelessly into another world, and a foreign time.
Sometimes, the spirits move us to shed for them a single tear,
Or mayhap even to compose for them but one solemn rhyme.
I have seen the lost children of peoples once lost to red war,
Still playing, upon the pale greenish meadows of their homes,
Even though the old places that once were are now no more,
And long buried within the earth, are those innocents' bones.
They still call lovingly for their parents, who will never come,
And for friends, and playmates, who have long passed away.
They still pray that their wishes and their hopes will be done,
For such spirits, there is not to be any other foreseeable way.
They look upon the circling ripples in the cold waters below,
Whilst, if they yet walked in flesh, they might prefer to weep!
From this endless purgatory: not any respite, do they know…
Until, upon their souls, the dread of this existence doth creep.
Haunted are those broken cliffs and those gray rocky crags,
Wherein countless otherworldly spirits yet continue to dwell.
Whether they be the phantoms of beautiful maidens or hags,
The torment they endure, is more horrific than a burning Hell.
Upon the ocean can oft be seen sailing, a ghostly Viking craft,
Returning to slake an unquenchable thirst for glory and blood.
The smoke of burning villages, upon the wind in its’ sails doth waft,
Across centuries come the memories of ruins and soiled mud.
Look ye beyond the world thou dost know, and of sunlit life,
And gaze upon the night that exists beyond life’s final breath.
There, thou may catch a glimpse of the face of eternal strife,
The face of the realms that consist sometimes: of endless death.
There, the dead do languish and wait endlessly beyond all hope,
For many do not even so much as know about their true state.
They cling ever to the life that hath passed beyond their scope,
Some never even once suspecting their actually ordained fate.
Like a morbid play, the dead keep enacting of past lives’ joys,
Enacting still, their fears, their pains, and their suffered sorrows.
It is just easier for the living to ignore their clamor and noise,
With it's dirge of a thousand and one shattered tomorrows.
So the waves just keep on crashing, upon the rugged coasts,
Of that land called by men Cornwall and its’ ancient lands…
Whilst on the winds are borne the voices of forgotten ghosts,
Reaching out to touch the living, with their cold spectral hands.
Published 8th Nov 2014
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Anonymous
8th Nov 2014 2:15am
Beautiful haunting alive it is such a wonderful poem you have shared with my dearest Mentor. Terrific job!
8th Nov 2014 2:22am
Very happy you enjoyed this poem, dearest Lily! It is one of my older works from back in the day that I've redone and updated, and improved. Haunted places are an interesting subject to write about... and read about too, of course! :)
Anonymous
8th Nov 2014 9:56pm
Felt like the wind in my face,ice cold in the dark,a robe around a man,journey at his feet..
Dark and captivating tale,dear Jessica...
Dark and captivating tale,dear Jessica...
8th Nov 2014 10:33pm
I am pleased to see you enjoyed it, dear sister! I always try to captivate the reader when I pen my darker and more Gothic tales such as this one, and it seems I have not lost my touch when it comes to drawing the reader into the worlds I share through my poetry. Very glad to hear from you! :D
Anonymous
8th Nov 2014 11:46pm
my pleasure,dear sister,
9th Nov 2014 4:57am
I'm excited by your words. They are so expressive and perfect. Story well told.
T
T
9th Nov 2014 10:45pm
Very happy you enjoyed the poem, Anthony! I tend to go all out when penning my more Gothic tales such as this one. Very happy to see the work I put into these sorts of writings is appreciated! :)
9th Nov 2014 4:00pm
Excellent piece! So many lives and histories have passed before us. I'm fascinated by this premise. I live on an ancient native American hunting path that then became the great wagon road west that then became US highway rout 30. So many lives have walked here. Your poem is beautiful and perfect! Thanks
9th Nov 2014 10:55pm
Ah, I too am fascinated by the histories of places and peoples and things that came before! There is so very much life that gets lived down through the long count of time and ages that come and go as time passes along... and it is simply incredible how much some people can forget whilst others still remember, even beyond what history itself records. Myself, I live in New England and a lot of the land near my home is actually old Native American ground too... the site where a big pond is today, a local park, and other places in my town all have this tremendous amount of old and sometimes forgotten history to them, and more than their share of ghosts to go along with that history. There can be a certain beauty in haunted places sometimes, and I tried to capture that in this poem about old Cornwall over in the U.K., which is a place I have always been fascinated with due to its' history and ties to the Arthurian legends. Many believe Cornwall is the place where King Arthur was born, at Tintagel Castle. King Mark also lived in Cornwall, and was an important figure in the story of Sir Tristan and Lady Isolde. So there is a lot of interesting history and myth and legend surrounding the place. Definitely, the stuff of poetry!
I am so happy you enjoyed my poem and saw the beauty in it! Makes me very pleased indeed. :D
I am so happy you enjoyed my poem and saw the beauty in it! Makes me very pleased indeed. :D
