A Few of my Poems

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    Christopher Allen

    I have many varying styles of poetry. I like to explore what I am capable of conceiving. Here are only a few of my various poems.

    “Mysteries of the Night”

    Sullen spirits, Makers of the night
    Bring to me those who flee
    And together fill them to the brim
    With fright.

    For it is said of we
    The children of the night
    Who truly bare gifts in this world.
    Mysterious and haunted,
    We perceive the earth as others cannot
    We open our thoughts to that which others fear

    The unknown,
    In which it is We
    Who are the final frontier


    “My Lady Magdalene”

    My lady Magdalene
    Sweet and beautiful, thou art forever in me
    And I in thee…

    Under laced velvet moonrise we cling
    Whilst covened girls spread dead rose petals,
    In our midst to parry encroaching enemies,
    As they snake, so cautiously to see
    Thee, my dark malefic queen

    Swathed in blood after sweet sacrifice
    Of virgin girl turned to blasphemy…

    Speaking distrust of me and in turn thee
    She met tonight, eternity.

    Magdalene, wilst thou not bequeath to me
    Thine blood-lit, lustrous kiss
    So that I may scream in death and agony,
    Speared upon the palisades of thy wish,

    Magdalene, Come with me!


    “Rebel My Child”

    They wanted flames
    I gave them Ice

    They wanted lives
    I made them fight…

    For their right to survive

    Rebel my child
    Dress as the night
    And bring forth a constellation

    My armies of vast and loving
    Steal only their minds

    My love is vast; boundless
    Silence, the thought of a void

    My heart
    A desolation of sight
    An arbour of life
    And the cradle of might.


    “Reading In Memoriam”

    Deaf caverns met with necrophiliac stare
    Dead eyes drained, bled and cold
    Dead Ravens met with me that night
    Thrice I died, Thrice I cried
    Undead, Undead, Undead

    White on black clothes
    Dressed for my funeral

    There I stood, unrecognized
    Reading in memoriam

    Undead, Undead, Undead

    Most of these you can find on my WordPress.

    Tal Spek

    I liked “Rebel My Child” much better than the others. Seemed to have meaning, not just a story. Not just scenery. I see that you are fond of stringing pictures together in a montage of facets, trying to create one picture. That is a very nice practice, but it seems that if it is used on it’s own, it holds less weight.

    “Revel My Child”

    Revel, my child, revel
    In this world you’ll be given one day.
    Revel, my child, revel
    Before it is all whisked away.

    Revel, for we only have a short while
    Before all the men stop being.
    In this egocentric world, so vile
    Which was built by those so domineering.

    Revel on the sparse few green leafs around
    Or the few lakes of clear waters.
    Revel while on this hellish journey we’re bound
    Before the sun starts the slaughters.

    Revel, for in this world, all is so facile
    And emotions have no place at all.
    Saying more than two syllables – futile
    Ignored, you will be, like a doll.

    Revel for the short years before it begins
    An entire species is cleansed off the earth.
    We hang onto the planet, fall like bowling pins
    Only very few might escape death.

    First we will boil and then there’ll be hunger
    And then we will have no comfort whatsoever.
    And then we will scavenge, and science will slumber
    Or toxins – all life will sever.

    Revel, my darling, for none after you
    Will be able to do just the same.


    Christopher Allen

    Out of curiosity was your “Revel My Child” a response to my “Rebel My Child” or simply a coicidence of title?
    Either way I rather enjoyed it.

    My poetry has been for the greater part a distraction from thought rather than a reason to think. I’ve been using it that way since my girlfriend died seven years ago. I don’t tend to like the poetry that I write when it is meant to mean something. I find that I only ever write to mean something when I am trying to write something. The words end up ugly, lacking fluidity of any kind. I write when I am inspired. I do not think about what I am writing or what it might mean, I just write.

    Often the poems come out seemingly a testament to my sorrow at the loss of my late love Lily.

    This one for instance:

    “When the Stars Fade”

    I watched the stars fade, I saw the lightning slip away
    I lost my grip and now I sway; drifting in everlasting pain
    Lost here and there, forgetting who I am and what I fear

    Elate the pallid skies with new and old goodbyes
    I have died…

    I slipped away in the night, fraught with more pain than delight
    Wishing on a star
    That you had not gone far…

    The ones I posted originally are just some of my favourites. I have written too many to post even a quarter of them. The last count was something like 1,000 but those were just the ones I typed on my computer. I have many that were handwritten before I ever had a computer. Though I’d rather not take the time to count those especially since many of the slips of paper have unfinished poems on them.

    Tal Spek

    Your poem, “Rebel My Child”, prompted me to think of the word Revel and a dying world, which I decided was ours. I just went with it for a couple hours and posted.

    I generally hate everything I write, whether if story, poem or something else. I have been writing mainly to get things off my chest, but I have repeatedly tried to pick up my father’s old habit of writing a poem every day.

    I am sorry that you had to go through that, and I offer my condolences on your late Lily. I like that last poem, though.

    “Blocked by the Clouds” (yes, this is another spur-of-the-moment poem. I seem to be big on those)

    I run. I am barefoot.
    I cannot see the sun.
    Nor the stars. Just clouds.
    Grey, covering the whole sky.

    The sun is Juliette.
    I have not yet met the sun.
    And yet I run.
    To find her I run.

    The stars are society.
    I cannot see them right now.
    But I do remember – mighty,
    Numerous, and cold.

    What are the clouds?
    The clouds are myself.
    I am blocking my love
    And my life. I am deaf.

    Haiku (rose)

    A rose in my hand
    A torn rose in her clenched fist
    A torn heart retreats


    The world flickers like an old CRT screen.
    My third shadow faint on my right.
    I can see something is wrong,
    But I do not know why.

    I feel like I am an unstable bowling pin,
    Toppling not from pressure but from fright.
    This night is going to be long.
    Maybe I should be living a lie.

    A piano that is tuned to make me look thin
    Plays the concerto of a fight.
    I think that my head was made into a gong
    And my mind decides that it should die.


    I wrote this a while ago, for different reasons not related to a lost loved one, but…I think it fits here.

    Tears flow
    Into this cup
    With blood on my hands
    I drink its syrup
    Sweet like roses
    Thick like oil
    Throat stings
    Hurts like a wound
    Blood from my Love
    And from this Chalice of Despair
    I drink to thee,

    Lost Family


    I’m not nearly as good as you guys, but um, here’s some of mine.


    Kind of is a little lie.
    One we whisper in front of truths to diminish their meanings.
    Scared being honest will be too much to handle.
    “I’m kind of lonely.”
    No, you feel isolated.
    “I’m kind of scared.”
    No, you’re terrified.
    “I’m kind of hurt.”
    So that’s why you went home and cried until sunrise?

    You rarely actually mean ‘kind of,’
    Instead you mean
    But ‘Very’ is dramatic.
    ‘Really’ is too much.
    ‘So’ is the word they laugh at when you tell them how you feel.
    But hey, what do I know?
    I’m just a kid who kind of felt like writing.


    Webs of illusions interwoven
    Lies and deceit carefully chosen
    Sewn together, hiding words unspoken
    Inside the truth stays ever frozen
    Waiting for that perfect moment
    That they aren’t seen as an omen
    Or a worthless, empty token
    Of a failed attempt to show devotion.


    Words don’t seem real
    Even in small doses.
    Can’t help but to feel
    Each and every door closes
    To the path I wanna take.
    How do I elaborate?
    Without startin’ a debate
    When every move I make is fake.

    Your map’s faulty, leading me off of the roads
    And into the ditches where it’s freezing and cold
    But I can’t blame you- cause there’s no way you’d admit
    That my actions were only chosen ‘cause you deemed them to be fit.

    You’ll say it’s my life- until you wanna take control.
    Then I’m your pet- free to do only that which I’m told.


    Breathing in the fog saturates my brain.
    It clouds my thoughts, and I become lost in my own mind.


    This last one I wrote about my baby brother.
    He got married about a year ago and basically just cut himself off from our family, his wife is very controlling and basically wants all his time. Even when he was just dating her, I couldn’t talk to him for five minutes without her popping in. Of two hours at his house, I maybe only ever got ten minutes actually talking to him.


    I remember those days when we were toddlers, and practically inseparable.
    All the times we’d flip over rocks, looking for worms and bugs, just to see if we could find them.
    We’d come in covered with dirt, only to be tossed straight into the bath.
    We were convinced we were made to take a bath together to make sure the other didn’t drown.

    Or those crisp autumn days when we got older.
    We would run about, catching helicopters in our hands as they fell from the trees,
    Take them apart, and leave their seeds for the squirrels.
    We were convinced that doing this would save them from a long, hungry winter.

    How about our teenage years? When we got together and schemed against the world for our own profit?
    Those were the best- those moments where you shined and proved just how smart you really are.
    Nobody would ever know it, of course.
    You were convinced that being smart set high expectations, and playing dumb was much more fun.

    Now I wonder if you recall these memories of us becoming who we are today.
    Or if now that you found something you want that isn’t something I can help you get, we can’t be the same ever again.
    Or maybe even if it wasn’t you who needed me, but merely I who needed you.

    After a year without a visit, nor a call from you,
    I’m convinced that being your big sister didn’t mean as much to you as it meant to me.

    Tal Spek

    “Kind of” is magnificent! I absolutely love it! The only thing I would change is this: when you say “a kid who kind of felt like writing”, do not stress the words “kind of” at all, leaving us to understand after a few moments. I am not sure if people will realize it, though.

    The last one starts very, very well, but ends unclearly. You should make the resolve more understood, maybe even connect it to his wife. We need to see Oedipus fall, to see a tragedy. Only then will we experience the catharsis that can come out of this raw gemstone of a piece.

    Last piece of advice – I think that it is better for your writing to explain it only after it is read and thought about. Because a piece that is explained at first is not as free to live it’s own life, and it’s faults and wonderful, special little details do not stick as much. It can be improved less, and is stuck with the same old meaning that you think of it with, not making others think as much about it, not gaining an independent soul.


    I’d like to share a couple of my poems with you guys-
    The first’s title is “Scavenger”

    Pieces of beauty
    scattered whispers
    allusions of dreams
    and of the future
    we’re always looking for
    for something more
    than what we miss
    give me just a little
    touch of bliss
    the vortex that pulls
    tries to consume and blind
    we run away from
    to find the sun again
    reaching toward the sky
    to float on the surface
    we hold our hearts out
    like a beggars cup
    oh but we were born to fight
    the only thing is finding
    what we’re fighting for
    just to rise above the din
    the clatter of shallow eyes
    the blinking of grey materials
    and we see a glimmer off a ways
    for now we’re in a fishbowl
    some of us are like lead
    stillborns to begin with
    and some of us always push ahead
    always moving forward
    to rise again
    to wake up
    and see the threads
    untie and pull the seams
    to find beautiful faces staring at us
    but we must find the face
    that sees us through
    our own existence
    and feels us in return
    that’s the only place we belong


    I identify also with Ariel’s style of… I guess you call it “thought words?”

    ~Goldie Locks~

    Can’t tell if my heart is too hard or too soft,
    all I feel is the anger and pain.
    I’m trying so hard to differentiate, and learn if there is anything to gain.
    I dream, but then hate reality- more and more.
    Can I be the peace, If I cannot find it for myself?

    How can one rise above, if they’re buried so far….
    Uncertainty, feeling like an orphan in a sea of detached hearts.
    Is there a home… is there ever a home for me?
    Trust is hard to come by, if your life has been filled hearing lies
    When people say what they don’t mean, and think it’s alright.
    It’s not alright, that’s my heart you’re hurting.
    I mean those things, so don’t tell me lies.
    I know because you say one thing.. but drastically show otherwise.
    Who cares? I can’t see your heart if you hide it from me.

    No one should ever hide.

    I grow my hair out because that’s the way I’m seen as beautiful…
    but then I cut it because I want them to think myself is beautiful
    Either way I’m invisible, if no one truly sees me.

    No one should feel un-beautiful.

    We are told what is right, and just believe it.
    Who questions what all accept?
    Then you’ll never know the truth.
    So I don’t care to hear you tell me “what’s what”
    when you’ve never questioned, or asked “Why?”
    You try to tell me about myself, as if you know.

    I know me. So no matter what you tell me, it does not change the truth.

    You think my feelings aren’t reasonable… you like to judge my feelings as if they were “wrong”…
    but you do not know my thoughts nor why I think them.
    You do not know what I have experienced. Do you even care?
    Do you like to think it is “nice” to be “nice” to people… even if you don’t feel connected to a person?
    I have no desire for dishonesty.
    If you don’t value a person, don’t waste their time.

    Everyone should have someone who makes them feel cherished.

    and never feel alone.


    Thank you to everyone who shared their poetry.

    • This reply was modified 9 years, 7 months ago by Raie.

    Time Makes A Visit

    Time moving
    outside of my awareness
    spilling sand
    waves in water.

    There’s a window emerging
    I’m supposed to walk through.
    Step out into space
    arms spread wide
    for some wingless flight.

    My toes catch the edge of the sill
    gripping it like a birds claw.
    My spine straightens
    curving up, re-aligning my eyes
    until they look direct and ahead.

    A wind whips up from the other side
    as I bend minutely forward
    pulling away
    from the comfort
    the familiar warmth
    of my bedroom.

    The icy chill of fear
    drags itself across my cheek
    threatening to undo
    all the courage I have gathered
    threatening to weigh down
    the lightness in my feet.

    Time beckons me forward
    quietly urgent, palpable.
    It drops a warning in my gut,
    begs me not to waste the window,
    reminding me gently that opportunity is fleeting,
    and so is my life.

    And as the grains of sand drift downward
    to collect in all the memories and all the days
    I have walked through since my birth
    I finally feel the movement of it’s passage
    I finally understand the message,
    it always says:


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