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Post by ChrisLAdams on Oct 12, 2018 6:50:07 GMT -8
My Halloween poem - just wrote this one this week and posted on SwordsOfREH - a Robert E. Howard forum where I lurk. Maybe this'll get your blood pumpin' if it's chilly, like it is here this Friday morning.
Hellbroth Witch
When I was young and dumb, I used to succumb - To the Devil's Drink, in the bars where I'd run
Full of creeps young and old, Some nice, but many cold- I met Hellbroth Witch, Hot, wild and uncontrolled
They had a panty contest The girls were gorgeous and possessed Hellbroth dropped her skirt, and that place went Wild West
I'll never forget her smile Full of allure and beguile Her eyes stared into mine - She won that contest by a mile
Gulping Hair of th' Dog Staring through fumes and fog - I carved a path through the revelers, still gripping a glass of spiked nog
I tipped that glass back The room turned black – I stared into her eyes, my own were like a maniac's
To this day, who knows, why Hellbroth picked me, when she chose - She took me home that night I recall candles, and fish net hose…
That night, I believe, was my best All Hallows Eve - Hellbroth saw to that, She had so many tricks up her sleeve...
I don't know if, or when - I'll ever see her again- But her smell and touch remain, and thoughts of her fill my brain
She mumbled spells as we trysted - Phrases all jiminy twisted I saw true magic that night Words now hazy and misted
I know her lore was real Cause a hundred years is a big deal I ain't aged a bit, and I ain't lost my sex appeal
It's my hope every day Come what will or may- That this Halloween, Hellbroth Witch'll pass my way
I'll know her when I see her I'll know that silky purr I'll bury my face in her neck And pick back up, where we were...
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Oct 12, 2018 6:56:38 GMT -8
A grim one.
The Field Gun
How long I lay I don't know Surrounded as I was by the dead I heard the moanings of those who suffered And cried out from my own wounded head
My rifle I left where it fell With no strength to take it in hand I made my way down that hill Over dead bodies, and holes in the land
Those shells that could burst a man's ears Had killed every brother of mine Who lay scattered to a smoky horizon Those who yet lived, lay dying
My anger swept up around me A rage for those who shelled us With barely the strength to stumble I went forward like one possessed
I called out to a man I knew But he obviously didn't hear He sat slumped and holding his guts In his eyes raw, terrible fear
Past the enemy I slunk most wary But they never saw me go by Toward the hill where they had their great cannon That caused so many comrades to die
I knew my chances were slim But I intended to foul that gun's bore I'd blow it to smithereens So it could kill friends of mine no more
The enemy were thick as fleas I've no idea how I slipped through Maybe God walked beside me Maybe Satan had more work to do
But try as I might I was spent With no strength to pack that gun's pipe Sandbags were beyond my wracked body And the barrel lay in plain sight
I never liked a tight place Like a body rolled in a rug The idea of a coffin strikes a chord of fear To be laid in Earth, freshly dug
As I watched they took up a shell Somehow, I must plug that gun Oh, the sound it's destruction would make By my body would that gun be undone
The Universe hid my struggle As I squirmed my way deep in that bore The smell of burned powder was strong I moved forward, till I could move no more
There was a brief light when they opened the breach Then it was blocked as they loaded the shell I never heard the report Of the shot that sped me to Hell
I still walk the battlefield Though I no longer charge with the men My ghostly form seems no longer to mind The exploding shells' concussive din
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Oct 12, 2018 6:59:39 GMT -8
This is another horror-themed Halloween poem I wrote a week ago.
The Ingredients
While many nod their heads, asleep Others, there are, who do not They cavort 'round witches' pots During the hours when strange things creep
On such a night, I lately found That forth I must adventure 'Gainst the rain I donned my trencher And tread the dark o'er soggy ground
Few there are among men Who don't fear this haunted wood Who would avoid it, if they but could As it o'erflows with foul dens
For myself, I am unafraid Idle fancies cause me no dread Who am I, to fear the dead? They can't hurt a flea, so I'm undismayed
After a time, I caught a hint Of motion - just there, behind me Where it believed, I might not see But, my nose had caught its scent
Twas a creature of the night And a right fierce one, at that It put up quite a scrap Yet in the end, I gave it a fright
I don't think that it expected That I would clutch it by its throat Or what I was like, beneath my coat That I'm worthy to be feared, and respected
You see, I'm not from around these parts But still, my kind has to eat Beit vampire, or goblin meat And no - you won't find my world on any charts
My kind are scattered 'round the globe Of this place you call the Earth This sphere gave none of us birth A veritable, 'Not of this world,' trope
I'm ancient beyond all ken I lived in Arkham for a time And Averoigne, in times sublime But I admit, it's for my own spheres I yen
For, I never see kith, nor kin We're scattered from sky to sky So we don’t drain the resources dry Who hunt us, to their own chagrin
I picked my prey asunder And enjoyed its agonized screams As its blood gushed forth in streams Watching life fade from its eyes was a wonder
And then I made my way back through Those dark forests and nighted ways I would lie up for days Chomping witches' bones, and werewolf stew
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Post by djmills on Oct 14, 2018 9:38:35 GMT -8
Chris, they are very good. :-) I can imagine you producing oil paintings that relate to each poem, and when you have enough, you create a coffee table book with the poem on each left open page and the painting on the right side. All glossy coloured prints. :-)
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Oct 15, 2018 5:38:42 GMT -8
Chris, they are very good. :-) I can imagine you producing oil paintings that relate to each poem, and when you have enough, you create a coffee table book with the poem on each left open page and the painting on the right side. All glossy coloured prints. :-) I like how you think, there, DJ! That sounds awesome. Might take me awhile, but I'm no hurry. I paint glacially. Speaking of coffee... When I wrote my back-story on John Carter, it naturally involved the American Civil War, of which he was a participant. While researching the war, I found out how important coffee was to the soldiers on both sides. It was as important as their homemade hooch. It inspired me to write this one. Make mine a Coffee
When Jonny Reb got whipped, back in ‘65 He only had one thing on his mind I know what you're thinkin’, and no, that ain’t it It was coffee. . .
Sometimes he liked mash, other days ‘shine He drank ale, and scotch and Moscato grape wine He loved his Bust Head, and O Be Joyful was good. . . And then there was coffee . . .
He always loved his java, he liked it creamed or black He had a coffee-grinder Sharps he kept slung on his back When he made camp, he first grabbed that old carbine And ground some coffee. . .
Yeah, hardtack and coffee kept that army on the go And he’d sip more at night ‘round the campfire’s glow It was strong enough, I heard, to float an anvil, he said Now that’s some coffee. . .
If he got cold, coffee warmed him right up Sit back, Reb, grab a chair, don’t forget a clean cup But if you do, who cares, just drink it outta the pot We know you like your coffee. . .
He was kinda glad, he told, for the end of that there war It got old fighting ‘gray backs’, and his feet was always sore He looked to better days, when all’s he had to do- Was drink coffee. . .
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Jan 16, 2019 9:12:25 GMT -8
It's been cold here, which put me in the mood to write something chilling. I saw sparkles of moonlight last night in the snow that looked like someone had scattered gems on that frozen surface. Immediately, I pulled out my phone and, while sipping some Gentleman Jack, recorded all of this but the last stanza, which I just added. It's a little weird, but given the circumstances of its narrator, perhaps understandable... One and All
I've seen moonlight glisten, like diamonds on the snow - And I've seen my face reflected, in a wet axe – . . . and so, I know …
That we are mortal - you and I And as such, we soon must die That when fallen, our bodies lie…
As fodder for the crow – . . . and so, I know…
We were not meant, to o'er long last That all too soon, we surely pass - Into a darkness, consuming all… Oh – that dark, unseemly pall!
A grim gash leaves a splitted skull…
Then we know - we all are fools! That one and all, we're naught but tools! To be used until we fell - upon hearing Death's dark bell, toll and join, that darkly pall, each of us - one and all…
Frozen rubies made of blood A River Styx - a crimson flood - Flows down my face, across my breast, stains my jerkin, and my flesh - Limbs do stiffen as I die, ice-cold winds, now freeze my eye Men above me stomp and swear But I - I no longer care…
(Image from Pinterest was uncredited)
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Ria Stone
SWF Writers
Posts: 1,055
Joined: Oct 30, 2013 14:12:26 GMT -8
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Post by Ria Stone on Jan 18, 2019 11:37:20 GMT -8
It's been cold here, which put me in the mood to write something chilling. I saw sparkles of moonlight last night in the snow that looked like someone had scattered gems on that frozen surface. Immediately, I pulled out my phone and, while sipping some Gentleman Jack, recorded all of this but the last stanza, which I just added. It's a little weird, but given the circumstances of its narrator, perhaps understandable... One and All
I've seen moonlight glisten, like diamonds on the snow - And I've seen my face reflected, in a wet axe – . . . and so, I know …
That we are mortal - you and I And as such, we soon must die That when fallen, our bodies lie…
As fodder for the crow – . . . and so, I know…
We were not meant, to o'er long last That all too soon, we surely pass - Into a darkness, consuming all… Oh – that dark, unseemly pall!
A grim gash leaves a splitted skull…
Then we know - we all are fools! That one and all, we're naught but tools! To be used until we fell - upon hearing Death's dark bell, toll and join, that darkly pall, each of us - one and all…
Frozen rubies made of blood A River Styx - a crimson flood - Flows down my face, across my breast, stains my jerkin, and my flesh - Limbs do stiffen as I die, ice-cold winds, now freeze my eye Men above me stomp and swear But I - I no longer care…
(Image from Pinterest was uncredited) Chris, your writing is energetic and inviting, I want to keep reading and I don't usually consume a lot of poetry.
Please publish!!!
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Jan 19, 2019 17:25:23 GMT -8
One and All
I've seen moonlight glisten, like diamonds on the snow - And I've seen my face reflected, in a wet axe – . . . and so, I know … Chris, your writing is energetic and inviting, I want to keep reading and I don't usually consume a lot of poetry.
Please publish!!!
Thanks, Ria! It's on my docket to hopefully do so this year.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 21, 2019 8:33:08 GMT -8
I've had Vikings on the brain of late. No, not the guys from Minnesota--the horn-helmed ones. The ones that, when you think of them, you think of raids and longboats; flaxen haired women; giant, iron bound men with reddish locks and beards; longswords clutched in swarthy grips wearing fur capes. If you care, join a few of these worthies on an early morning raid, as told by a lad on his first foray.... A Rough Stone Ax
When I was a lad, not yet a rogue, we sailed an icy morn'; at the helm stood Mōg – I shivered from cold, and shook from great fear; My teeth chattered loudly; I feared they'd hear;
Mōg wished to take, Óle Hellström's keep, and planned that day to upon his foe creep – For Óle had slain, Mōg's youngest son; as Mōg would have it, vengeance be done;
Our boatful of reavers hit the sand at dawn, which I lept in the water to drag the boat 'pon – We rowed all night to catch Hellström asleep, that Mōg might be assured a victory to reap;
How had Óle knew? How, by Ódin, would I know? I was a boy - fit to labor and row – In my fist was only a rough, stone ax, while the men bore steel to defend and attack;
As I and three others struggled to land, dragging a boat nearly filled to a man – There burst on our ears from the trees 'long the banks, a war shout so fierce it nigh split our ranks;
That icy water stung to my waist, and I saw strange patterns in gushing blood traced, in half-frozen sand as men stomped and roared; smote, cut, stabbed, punched, twisted and swore;
They'd ambushed us - as we'd intended them; and from what I saw, our chances were slim – I saw Lars cut down, cleaved nigh in twain Høk, Krøk and Abyørn also were slain;
I was a lad, when I killed my first man, my rough-cut ax spilling brains to the sand, of that frozen bank, below Hellström's keep, with no thought I'd make a widow to weep;
Twas my little stone ax - hard dealt and swift borne, to many-a-skull, that saved Mōg that cold morn – Mōg tripped on an oar, and fell 'pon his back, and Óle leaped quick - sword high - to attack!
I leaped too, my ax drawn far behind, and when Óle saw me, his face was resigned – My ax cracked his chest like a piece of dried wood, and there stood I - where Óle Hellström once stood;
We burned the Hellström keep to the ground, there wasn't much of Óle's we didn't burn down – We herded his women and get to our boat, and made them help push the boat back afloat;
Then we forced them aboard and they rowed us home; to the wailing of women, the tears and the moans; Mōg reached me a sword – I recognized that blade; Twas Óle Hellström's sword, high-crafted and well-made;
Mōg had me sit at the helm beside he, as our spoils of war rowed us back out to sea – And as one of Óle's girls, kept catching my eye, Mōg gave me her, too; Aye, I liked to died;
Tho' a boy left that morn, 'twas a man returned, after 'pon our enemies soil we sojourned – and Helena, dear lass, tho' Óle Hellström's get, bore me great sons, and walks 'side me yet . . .
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Post by Ted on Feb 21, 2019 9:24:08 GMT -8
I wish I had your talent.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 21, 2019 12:53:52 GMT -8
I wish I had your talent. You write any poetry, Ted?
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Post by Ted on Feb 21, 2019 17:41:49 GMT -8
I did many years ago. I'd write little love poems and place them under my friends pillow where she sometimes find one and sometimes not.
My soul mate and I used to read poetry to each other as we lay on the couch sipping white wine and enjoying what ever nibbles she or I made.
She died of cancer and I miss her dearly.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 22, 2019 5:42:06 GMT -8
Sorry to hear that, Ted. I certainly didn't intend to dredge up hurtful memories. I have some I wrote along those lines--words inspired by the heart. When I was younger, I had a couple 'crushes' that went completely unrequited. I wrote this one about one of those. about a girl
there's a bright star i can see in the sky hopes stem from the glow, dreams are birthed at the sight but blessings and gifts fall to other men, not i wishes are withered words, i can not touch this light a wasted thought to even try...
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Post by Ted on Feb 22, 2019 5:56:48 GMT -8
Sorry to hear that, Ted. I certainly didn't intend to dredge up hurtful memories. about a girl
there's a bright star i can see in the sky hopes stem from the glow, dreams are birthed at the sight but blessings and gifts fall to other men, not i wishes are withered words, i can not touch this light a wasted thought to even try...
No hurtful memories. We were like two kids at a circus. In this case the circus was the world around us. We had the wonderful opportunity to meet some real characters amid all the chaos and beauty surrounding us.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Mar 8, 2019 10:44:10 GMT -8
The Old Man
It's weird to think, that I'd now rather sit at home, than to wander cross the world I once loved to roam;
My mind is as restless as once my feet were, those comet-like days of my youth begin to blur;
I'm filled with passion like a violent, boiling pot, I am fearless--yet afraid; there is nothing that I'm not;
People call me clever, but brilliant I know I'm not, for I know the truth when I find myself caught;
Yes, I can do this, and yes, I can do that; Yet, I always come up short—I seem always to fall flat;
Many think me funny, but I know that I'm quite grim; Else, why does my mind drift beyond the cosmos' rim?
I know I'm a wreck, and that nothing can be done; This isn't a battle, nor a war, that can be won;
I'm a complex man, filled with joy and filled with wrath, and I've wandered far since my feet picked out this path;
Yea, I'm closer than ever to Death's dark and yawning gate, if I'll go kicking and screaming, is only known by Fate...
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