The Poetry Marathon

Hour 18- Haunting Sadness

We traveled to New Orleans, to seek out the darker side

We headed to an apartment; there were secrets it did hide.

A tragic tale unfolded when a young man jumped to his end

A note found in his pocket, to his apartment police were sent

He had killed his girlfriend, in a fit of drunken rage

Authorities came to the murder house where a young woman ended her days.

It was to this apartment we went and answers we would seek.

The atmosphere was very sad and the floorboards did creak.

I was standing in the bathroom, where I asked if they were there

Two words came up on my app, they were “shape” and “male”.

At that exact moment, a tall, dark shadow flew by me

I was startled from my sadness, and tried not to flee.

I made my way to the other room, to find our great guide

I told her what happened and she began to smile.

She asked if the shadow was tall and when I did agree

She nodded her head, said she knew who it was, later she told me.

The young man who jumped to his death stood at six foot eight

His sadness still lingers, because of his grievous fate.

The situation was very sad; I did not find this scary,

I hope one day he will find peace, move on, let the past be buried.

Dream Visit

You’ve come to me in a dream again.
This time it’s exactly a year since
you left us,
after fist fighting with death
until there was no fight left.

Now here you are-
radiant and giddy,
“Fine as frog’s hair,”
unencumbered by aging or illness…
or a life that never pulled any punches.

I reach out with both arms
to pull you closer.
As I am about to touch you,
poof!
you are gone again.

The Crow

It was back
The crow with the single
Pale blue eye
Perched on Mrs. Haversham’s fence
Staring intently
Where it came from
No one really knew
But every day it came
Perching, staring
Immovable

They tried to scare it off
Shoo it away
But nothing they did
Seemed to have any affect

Time passed and soon the crow
Melted into the background
No longer noticed
By the passersby
No longer a mystery
Or point of concern
Just another piece of scenery
To be ignored

The day Mrs. Haversham
Passed from this world to the next
Rumors floated around
About what really happened
Some said it was natural causes
Some said it was suicide
Some blamed her greedy nephew
Some noticed the crow
Never returned

FATE

An unkindness soaring through the air,
Make their presence known,
Forewarning beware!
Wishing to be left alone,
You hurry through; too pressed to care.
In the distance arises dawn,
And the Ravens begin to appear.
You quicken your pace, looking in the direction from which they have flown,
And you say a little prayer.
For all the kindness you have shown,
You hope to be spared.
You look up to see him perched high on his throne,
Staring back with a glare,
You feel deep in your bones.

Self portrait as silhouette

Self portrait as a silhouette.

 

I forget my thumb in the fire

But I do not forget the thrill.

Every abstract’ biggest dream is

To own life, so we let the bowl be  filled

With sugar and cinnamon

A grey fizz, like a thunderstorm

Wraths a boys heart,  but boys

Don’t die, Boys don’t girl,

Boys are everything but tender,

But soft, but prayers axed into

The ground to never leave.

I forget my thumb in the fire,

But I do not forget the thrill,

I do not forget the sun

That rose from Bermuda

And slowly sways into my body

Like a pilgrim in his pursuit

For halo validation.

Hour 18

I made some chicken today,

I cooked it pretty late,

It was so delicious, I cleaned the plate,

I smothered it in gravy,

And seasoned it with love,

I ate it by myself, too bad no one was around to share,

You would have loved it, only if you was here.

Hour 18

Listen to a story ’bout a man named Black Tim Villines

a big man living as a hermit in the hills above Bullfrog Hollow

in the days when one black man in the county was one too many.

In the only surviving picture of him, he is wearing overalls with one strap off and

a shapeless hat like the one worn by the father in The Beverly Hillbillies mashed down on his head.

It came to pass that Black Tim, lonely as he was, was holed up in the hills for a reason.

He believed in the legend of the Dover Lights, which spoke of Spanish conquistadors traversing the country who died one by one in the Ozark hills laden down with the spoils of their looting.

Because they were suspicious of each other, they buried their gold and baubles down in the valley with the intention of returning in their spirit state to retrieve the treasures.

Ever since, swinging lights, said to be the oil lamps belonging to the dead soldiers, can be seen on clear and cold nights. One of the lights is red, and that light is said to belong to Black Tim who supposedly died while trying to follow the others’ lights

or maybe he was killed by the conquistadors for getting a little too close to their treasures.

 

 

Prompt 18 – Unfolding Clandestine Drama

Image Courtesy of Pixabay

 

Within a small white chapel, bathed in the soft, diffused light of forgiveness, a clandestine drama unfolds. A cloaked person, draped in robes of sanctity, stands before his prey, a vulnerable soul seeking solace within these hallowed walls.

Your power of seduction, shadowed by utter deceit and vindictive ploy, weaves its enchanting web. Words, like incense, rise in intoxicating tendrils, wrapping around the unsuspecting heart, luring it into the dark corners of desire.

To shatter a deathly heart, your emotional reward. Playful with them, agony’s toy. You, the orchestrator of this cruel dance, manipulate the strings of longing and vulnerability, a maestro in this symphony of betrayal.

But why such vile conspiracy? To what ends do you embark?

What vile techniques you employ!

The echoes of your sinister motives reverberate through the chapel’s sacred silence, a question left unanswered, hidden beneath the mask of divine devotion.

In the shadowed corners of this sacred space, the boundaries between salvation and temptation blur. The cloaked person’s seduction, veiled in the garments of faith, is a dark narrative etched in the margins of sacred texts—a story of deceit and the corruptible human heart.

small white chapel—

a sanctuary of secrets,

deception’s echo

Antoinette LeRoux © 2023

Hour 6: Reality?

I was hurtling headlong into a bottomless bit
Chased by dark, form-shifting shadows
A rumbling shriek of endless agony emanates
from the deepest craters of my inner being
I come to a bone-rattling stop
My hoodie has snarled on a dying branch
Headless wonders floating on cotton candy limbs
surround me chanting in a cacophony of voices
An icy finger extends its gnarled touch to my heart
which by the way stopped pumping moments ago
A haunting melody soulfully stirs my tortured soul
A waif wrapped in an electric blue lightning
twirls in a slow-paced dance of death
my rational brain struggles in vain to make sense
its enmeshed gears crashing in deafening silence
What is real? what is imagined?
What is true? what is false?

Haunted Home (back and forth nonets) – Hour 18, Prompt 18

Home

haunted

a whisper

wafts against skin

tendrils of white, within

a scent mirrors death, old

shivering begins in mold

a flash, something dark lay beyond

something brittle and twisted, lurks on

deeper, a feeling of fear hangs

alone, the heart triple bangs

dread, it’s covered in red

mouth gapes, eyes awake

a last mistake

your soul, will

haunt this

space.

 

– Sandra Johnson, 9-3-2023