Such Days, a H. P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

Such worlds,
They spin through me,
Carving loops in my thoughts.
Such sins forgotten; such dark days
As those that I wished had long passed me by;
Such days...

But no,
My regrets live,
Sculpted with butcher knives
On pyramids of reddest clay
Pulled from deeper sands than man has known in
Such days...

I should,
And so I do
Remember her dim eyes,
Loving, fading in the white room
She had, in those latest hours, called her home;
Such days...

All filled
With tarnished words
Stained by her long illness,
By my known, secret betrayal,
And the knowledge that I was there to watch
Her die.

Such worlds,
They spin onwards;
Such lovely parallels,
Sweet temptations of better times
Where you lived and I was more than a worm,
Than slime.

I reach,
Rough skin, rough bone,
Rubs on my softer palms.
I decide that the price is fine.
Such days are gone, and such a lonely life
Is mine.


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The Shine Troupe, a H. P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

Reading by Morgan Scorpion

@morganscorpion on Twitter

They called themselves Shine,
Their dance sublime.
Each yellow sash danced
Through the hazy air
Pushing radiance,
Forcefully,
Into my reeling mind.
Each face was masked,
Featureless,
Mirrored and fine,
Reflecting us,
The watchers,
The stunned audience
Witnessing our own demise.

The movement of one man,
Clad in finest robes,
Wrapped in dirty bandages,
Jerked skillfully,
Unnaturally,
Inhumanly.
Turning from us
As he passed each mime,
He removed his own mask
So we could not see.
In turn, they fell,
Like perfect dominoes
Before a storm,
Clutching their open skulls.

The last harlequin fell.
The lord stood alone,
Smiling somehow
Through his pallid mask;
Smiling at us.
Bright fear shone out,
Yet none could avert
As his hand raised
And smoothly removed
The wall between him and us;
Between truth and us.
The yellow mark burned,
Our retinas misshapen,
We fell as one in dust.


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HaiCthulhu by Adam White, poet

What age crafted beast
Play these drums in my weak mind.
Their rhythm kills time.

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The King in Yellow, a poem of many parts by Adam White, poet

1

Drawn in by the rumours

The meek and wealthy hundreds,

The great and good file in the drafty hall,

Newly decorated

In thickest, yellow curtains

Arranged to cover every inch of wall.

Word of mouth had called them,

Each tender soul had listened

And come to fill the coffers with their gold.

They'd come to hear a story

Of a throne, of sons, of daughters

And a king who was both terrible and old.

The seats did creak beneath them

Before silence overwhelming

Drowned out the sound of crowdedness and strain,

That the room was now submerged in

As the folk await our pageant,

Wishing our truth to come like heavy rain.

The lights all fall, the veil draws,

With baited breath they listen,

The emptiness now has them all enthralled

And then, a wrathlike figure walking,

A pallid mask upon him

And his body wrapped within a yellow shawl.

Part 2 coming soon, the tale of the Regents of Yill and the coming of the Masked Stranger.

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Black Goat, a H. P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

What blooded fingers trace these idle patterns in my mind,
Forging memories of a most bleak, unusual kind.
I remember that which I have not, could not have seen,
A black and goat faced man who stumbled as he ran from me.
I wander, sleepless through the night to the empty south,
Warm puffs of misty air issue from my chattering mouth,
To the woods, the open darkness that lies inbetween,
An other place I now recalled from a distant dream.
There it seemed all perfect. Idyllic in it's way,
The creaking bark in strongest winds not heard in brightest day.
It touched upon a sinful thought that lingered in my head,
To leave my dying wife alone. Leave her to the dead.

It's right that I fell as I did, down in to a hole.
My face found dirt and water to mark my sullied soul.
I clambered from the ditch, roughly scraping at the mud
And on my hands and knees I lingered long before I stood.
A print pressed in the mire catches my drifting eye,
Making real my suspect fallacy, a truth from my mind's lie.
A hoof mark, large and heavy, goat-like and immersed
Deep in to the sludge that passed out here for the earth.
Could this be my quarry, the beast-man from my thoughts
I should not tarry here further, lest I should be caught.
My feet found stronger footing, I turned from where it faced
And witless, stumbled back in to the hole with wobbling grace.

My ankle broken, here I lay with all the ants,
Just as petty, just as tiny, just as meaningless.
Drowsy, laying in my ditch, I can dimly hear,
The thud of heavy hooves approaching, thumping at my fear.
The sound of evil in my bones, I'm consigned to my fate,
My body his to do with as he chooses with his hate.
I know him better from the walk. I recognise his art;
He is abandon. He is cruel. He is my own heart.
I smell his breath, I hear his mind nagging like an itch,
His horned visage peers at me. He covers me in pitch.
My wife will long outlive me now, feeling solemn, spurned
And I'll lie here in these woods forever, lonely, loveless, burned.

Thumb me good and hard (press the like button) if you like the poem or just tweet me on Twitter.

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Words - A HaiCthulhu (I'm so funny) by Adam White, poet

Dark arts, lesson one.
Today I learned a new word
That can burst your heart.


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Stars Are Right, a poem by Adam White, poet for One Stop Poetry

Outside time,
It cruises the stars,
Just waiting
For the sign,
For the brightness to align
So it's light might shine.


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A Shadorma for form monday. To find out more go to http://www.onestoppoetry.com

Balloons, a poem by Adam White, poet for One Shoot Sunday

What world turned topsy-turvy this,
When weight and weightlessness are gone
While people watch in heady bliss.
A world turned topsy-turvy this,
Where lead balloons we would dismiss
As much a fact as one is one.
Our world turned topsy-turvy this,
When sense and nonsenseless are gone.

I coined that word in bold there. Served my purpose, so there.


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Asylum - a Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

He looks on me, His mirrored eye
Smooth & black to spite the starless sky.
This moon. This empty nighted moon.
It's light a cold and pleasing boon.
Such a gift he kindly gave
With no small expectation due.
Tendrils reaching from His grave,
Covered in this evening's heady dew.

Barred windows casting silhouettes.
My mind not strong enough to bend them yet
His voice bids me sit, to stay a while,
Honeyed words through a broad and lipless smile.
"Wait. The stars will soon be right,
And I will break your spirit free,
To hunt your prey in empty night,
A black and loyal hound for me."

The rousing scent, Arkham's blood does boil,
His hands pull me through it's stale soil,
Help me cross it's russet pools
To find my food, that hive of mortal fools,
Ignorant of His awful sapping will,
The glory waiting to be found
Beneath the mud, the shadowed hill
Where he slumbers in cool and lifeless ground.


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A Lovecraft inspired April

This month I will be providing ONLY poems inspired by H.P Lovecraft and his eerie works. I hope you enjoy them. First one tonight.

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Haiku

What horror awaits,
Peeking through steepled fingers
Held over my eyes.

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You Were Right (About Some Things) a poem by Adam White, poet

I am pretty good, though
probably destined to be
The poorest sibling of all,
Yet I'm happy. I'm childless,
Far away, cold and creative.

My own sister calls me mysterious.
Does that mean she doesn't know me?
Do I pass like sand through the fingers,
No better than a whitening lie,
Or a secret bullet on the wind.

I whisper a missive to the sky.
My parents didn't meet her.
A mess in her torn up dress,
Relatively nice singing voice,
Never pretty in her own way.

Three years in and I confess a sin.
You're shocked but supportive.
I make a little more sense I think,
But you still struggle to understand.
The slick fluid dries quick on my hand.

I am pretty good, though
I have my creaking flaws,
Noisier for my bending bones.
The weight is too much weight,
To release or bare alone.


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For Those We Miss

For those we miss on days like these
Your names are inked on loving hearts
That speak aloud that we're apart,
But unified on savage seas.
You hold out hands in darker times,
When providence is absentee
And all we have is memory
To ease our often troubled minds.

You walk in empty fields green,
Of which we think of jealously.
We gathered here remember you,
Why should fields have your company?
But time will reunite us, then
We'll talk of things long passed for us,
For those we miss on days like these,
One day we'll sit as one again.


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