Rise, Rise, Rise
Die, Die, Die
Oh why, why, why
do we Die, Die, Die
Snuffed.
All wicks have an eventual
end
All doors open
letting a cool breeze in
To flutter, to shake,
our souls
to extinguish
on a whim.
by Philip Wardlow 2015
Tag Archives: dark poetry
She Said – A Poem
She said ~
She said,
I am sick of crying….
I am sick of dying
inside
a little every day
and every night
because life
likes to throw
so much shit my
way
and I cant cope
as I try to lay all the lines
straight
and they just
become entangled
all the more.
Choices come cheap
she said.
If you allow them in
Chances can be taken
when you just jump
Change can happen
with but a whisper
of want conveyed.
So she said.
by Philip Wardlow 2015
Waiting for the Train
I sit.
The thrum thrum of the tracks travel
through my core…
from the cold rolled steel on
a winter morn.
It’s coming; my train.
The vibrations are distant as
my tensions strain
against the boundaries set long
ago in a land made of
flimsy paper mache.
It’s imminently imminent
that time ticks ticks
on the whim of
a pendulum made of wooden sticks
Light it low,
and watch it burn bright.
And by all the laws
of physics time ticks
faster,
and faster as it burns
the length of its swing.
The whistle blows.
As I continue to
sit
sit
sit.
On the track, on this
cold
cold
morn.
For my train to come.
By Philip Warldow 2015
Wild Child – A poem
Wild Child ~
Feral eyes
look back at me from the dark corner
of the room you crouch in.
Though your eyes are in shadow,
I sense the defiance in them.
You’ve been too long out in the wild
child.
Too long.
The woods may be your friend but
you need some taming girl.
Hair is unkept, fingernails split
cracked and bloodied
from all the bodies you’ve buried
each time you escape.
The pain leaks from you like a water through
a sieve.
Elusive composure, hunched and bent
reluctant words pulled in a snarl of
savage civility.
I know you, that soul that sleeps
so so deep within.
I see it fighting to overcome.
Always fighting,
beating and snapping, biting, clawing.
Painfully beautiful as you are
painfully aware of your
own vulnerability when you
allow the outside in.
Wild child you be
as your dark eyes look to
me for true
release.
by Philip Wardlow
Krampus Comes !! – A Dark Christmas poem
Be ye, young or old,
as a child of nine or ninety-nine
We all look to the magical time
when ol’ St. Nick comes a calling,
that jolly grey bearded man with a smile for all.
Traveling down the road in his horse drawn sled
from late dusk to early dawn.
The good ones know they’ll be visited by him,
adorned and wreathed with gifts from
head to toe.
They will sleep a peaceful slumber, full
of dreams of the bright morning to come
and the presents they so richly deserve
from a year of being so very very good.
I am afraid some may not be so inclined
at this joyous holiday time to partake of
all this festive cheer.
For you see, there are some children who lay deep in their
covers under the shadow of night as it plays
through their cold window pane,
waiting for him to come,
St. Nicks dark brother, the Other,
called Krampus to some.
This dark horned, hairy tailed, cloven hooved creature
knows your heart of hearts
and all the naughty things you’ve done.
And he is not forgiving like
good ol’ St. Nick.
With bundled birch sticks in hand
he will greet you with a sharped tooth grin
right before he lays into your
skin,
To beat you about the legs and arms,
a sweet painful present for all your
year’s sins and wicked charms.
Then if you have been especially bad
and you know who you are.
He will take down his big black
ruck sack from upon his back
Open it up, grab you up
and stuff you in.
Then quick out the bedroom window
he flies to disappear down the dark road
with you never to be seen
by your family
ever again.
by Philip Wardlow 2014
My Third Eye – A Poem
My Third Eye –
It’s been plucked.
Right out of my head.
There it is, pinched between
that raven’s beak.
It has been reclaimed it seems
since I never chose to use it.
An eye always closed.
grows dark and distant.
Best to give it to someone else.
Yet, I feel the pain of its
loss already
My mind, my spirit, my heart
has already dimmed.
I want it back.
I have learned my lesson.
I promise.
I will use it, give it back…
give it back,
please give it back.
I will use it
just give it back.
by Philip Wardlow 2014
Glady’s and the Bat – 30 Day Halloween Poem Challenge- Poem #30
Glady’s and the Bat
Glady’s was an adventurous girl
prone to fits of dangerous
distraction.
A faired hair maiden.
Fair of mind as well, a simple girl.
but strong of will.
And will it seems, goes a long way in the land of scary make believe.
as you will see.
For a creature existed at the highest of heights
who dwelt in a dark, dark cave of the evilest intent and might
At night this foul creature swooped and dove, and dove and swooped
into the quaint little village where Glady’s did dwell,
Shrieking as it flew, it carried off poor villagers from out of their beds.
The town had dwindled down next to nothing under it’s
never ending onslaught of nightly terror and dread.
Left now, were only Glady’s, the ice cream maker,
the pastor, and poor old widow Lady Albright
to be found in the town at next sundown.
“I shall face this demon,” Gladys told the others calmly.
“Very well, do what you must, but leave us be,” Lady Albright intoned.
“Oh, simple child,” the ice cream maker only said.
“I give you my protection,” the pastor simply said, as he looked to the heavens.
Gladys boldly walked into the square at twilight while the others peeked
at her from the safety of their bedrooms.
Sweaty palms held tight to her late father’s sword,
now rusted and pitted but still sharp and keen of edge.
A flutter of wings sounded in the distant as
a dark shadow descended.
A flit of nothing flew over Gladys and beyond her.
A crash of glass, and a scream ripped the night as
poor Lady Abright was plucked from bed and covers.
Her tortuous wail faded into the dark clouds as
the creature escaped back to its lair.
“We must go after her!” Gladys told the others
“Are you daft dear girl, we would surely die!” the cream maker wailed.
“Her fate was already written I am afraid.” said the pastor knowingly
Looking to them both, her eyes narrowed in quiet consternation.
Then an AHA! moment entered her wee brain.
“Next time he comes I have a plan,” she said quietly.
The moon fell and the sun rose and then the moon rose
again as the next night came.
“I don’t see how this will help, we shall all surely die.
I am the most important can’t you see? ” the pastor intoned.
They all stood clutching each other together tied tight with rough braided
rope at the waist in the middle of the street,
“Are you not assured of your safety through your piety? What’s there
to fear for you?” she smiled slyly.
The ice cream maker shook in his place and simply held tight to his
tub of cream that he had been told to bring.
A shriek preceded it’s shadow as it decended.
Talons clutched and pulled, grabbing the pastor
Yet the pastor did not budge, the weight being too great.
“Hold, monster!” Glady’s yelled.
“Is it blood you seek? I have something sweeter,”
Glady’s grabbed the tub of cream, popped the top
and plunged her hand in deep.
She then slathered the good pastor from head to
toe.
“Go ahead have a bite” Gladys said
The creature landed,
Black fur, big ears, wings ending in talons,
Teeth white, sharp and long,
Eyes wide and mad approached on spindly legs.
It looked at them each, and slowly full in the eye.
“Sweeeeeeeeeeeet!” it said sniffing the air.
Then bit into the pastor deep.
The pastor squeaked then died.
The dark bat licked the dead pastor clean.
“Mooooore!” it simply said
So Gladys gave him more.
And more, and more.
Now her and the creamer
share a house and keep the cream
well stocked.
As her and her pet bat go
on many a midnight walk.
by Philip Wardlow
Creepy – 30day Halloween Poem Challenge – Poem #29
Creepy –
I bet I can creep you out in some small way…:)
What exactly are you scared of?
You sitting there, looking at your screen reading this.
A thousand things in nature perhaps may be just around
the corner. Waiting to meet you.
Be it man, an animal, a deformed creature or the unholiest of holies
in the night.
Some DO exist, and some may exist. You don’t really know for sure if they don’t.
It’s a big creepy world out there with big creepy things in it.
Do you need to go to the bathroom? Have a sit on the toilet.
Try not to look down and imagine something slowly crawling through the pipe
into your business. Is that the sound of very small teeth?
What’s your number? And is it up tonight?
You can probably say no. BUT you could be dead before the morn.
Singled out by that leery eyed little man down the street,
that’s taken a fancy to those beautiful feet.
He must have them for his collection you know…he must.
Oh, you’re at a party amongst your closest friends?
So you’re safe…sure, sure, no worries. He’ll wait.
Check your car, check your closet, check under the bed.
that’s where I would hide If I wanted you dead.
What’s that tickle in your throat?
What’s that rumble in your belly?
Something kicking and crawling to get out?
Now how did that find it’s way in? Perhaps through
your belly button.
Well after all, it is Halloween my friend.
by Philip Wardlow
Stingy Jack – 30 Day Halloween Poem Challenge – Poem #28
Good Old Jack,
walks in the twilight between our world and what you would
call the other.
Into the out of, on paths that only he can see
with Fool’s Fire held in a hand-carved gourd to light his way.
A Ne’er-do-well if ever their was.
Cursed to wander the earth.
Never to know heaven or hell.
You may see his spook light bob in a graveyard or two as you pass,
especially on All Hallows Eve and on through to all Souls Day.
Wise men say, Old Jack’s looking for a way into heaven or hell
on such nights as these when the veil is thin.
If you see him, it’s best to keep on walking.
He has anger in him, a deep abiding bitterness swells.
like the ebb and flow of time that has trapped him.
He will have no hesitation to collect your soul should
you cross his path.
So beware or you may find yourself dead or a mindless
freak.
by Philip Wardlow
Life in Death – 30 Day Halloween Poem Challenge- Poem#27
Death appreciates life , just as life appreciates death.
Both are impartial to the other.
A cold touch caresses the
beauty which flits to and fro
with seemingly
chaotic intention.
How are we are to interpret the horrors of this vitality
when we ourselves are trapped in a purgatory
of our own design?
Perhaps a small light
shall lead the way for each of us
in our final hours as we lay
in our deep dark
grave.
By Philip Wardlow
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 