Getting Undressed, a Haiku by Adam White, poet

Hands pull at stitches
Beneath a bright cherry tree;
Pale skin unveiled.

Click here to read "Open Air," another of my haikus.
Click here to read "The Moon and His Music," a Cthulhu Mythos inspired piece.


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

The Moon and his Music, a Cthulhu Mythos/H.P. Lovecraft inspired poem by Adam White, poet

In soundless space,
Only one voice carries;
The rust red moon,
Whose lilting harmonies
End gods slumbering swoons.
Seeking them out,
A note of growing fear
Thrums in dark rocks.
The music of the spheres,
Fluid songs of times lost.
Vast nemesis;
You glide through endless night.
Avert your gaze,
Avoid our earthly light.
Be on your vile way.
Oh cursed fate,
The sky burns with your stare.
We see your eye.
Ghroth, wrought of pure despair,
The tide is rolling high.
Battered for days,
Our shores stained ocean black
By horrors old.
We dare not speak, nor act,
Against horizons cold.
Wrinkled and vast,
It rises from the sea.
Bulbous and dead,
It comes at last for me;
The horror in my head.

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

I know what is to come.

Sleep has become a foreign thing.
In each dream I awake to the rough earth
Of the woods by which I was raised.
My heart reformed as drums to my dark thoughts,
My foreknowledge of all to come.
My mind runs rampant; becomes errant, crazed.

I know what is to come.

I hear their chants. My legs resolve,
Bypassing permission. I walk to them,
Covered with their wet, acrid clay.
Their eyes blaze white, dancing in the deep dark,
Firelight reflecting off their
Slick, naked muscles, all supple, stained and grey.

I know what is to come.

Without resistance I call out. Ia!
I hail her name. Black. Unspoken and lost
In the light. Gone just as it came.
The chanting stops. They turn to me as one,
All hungry teeth and hungry stares.
The cloud resolves above the open flame.

I know what is to come.

Hands find me. They brandish their tools.
Needless. I am supplicating and cool,
Yet wordless and dispassionate.
They place me on the teeming earth.
The whirl continues. It spins on.
Ia! As destiny watches, I, resigned, wait.

I know what is to come.

One dancer, maybe beautiful,
Though the mud masks her true form completely,
Falls to knees in violent assent.
Her playfellows fit; laugh fevered and hot,
The trip turned furious and fast.
That black cloud begins it vicious descent.

I know what is to come.

The smoking night swallows her whole.
A scream ruptures the thick and filthy air
As she is reshaped for her part.
Audible, the crack of her brittle bones
As she is lifted from the ground
And Elder Things devour her soul, her heart.

I know what is to come.

Carried up on wings of evil,
Her shattered form is dropped in to the flame.
Her burning shape transforms in to a mass,
Huddled close to the kindling, newborn, small,
But rapid in its wicked growth,
Her newest vessel tumbles to the grass.

I know what is to come.

She stands. Cloven feet shod in brass,
And wild horns curl from her bestial head.
Her fur is night, her colour ash,
She comes to me, the black goat of the woods.
Ia! Worship at her holy house.
She takes her fill while dancers watch and pass.

I know what is to come.

Broken, I am weak and failing,
Each carnal plunge an act a sacrifice
of spirit stolen, raped and bled.
The earth does open, taking me inside,
The primal womb a welcome hole
For those among the dying and the dead.

I know what is to come.

I am spent. She roars in glory;
No mewling for this beast of empty air.
Her stomach swells by twice at least,
It fills her berth with every inch of me;
All my now lost blessed mornings,
All my potential drained in to the beast,
Each stolen kiss I may have had
Taken, removed and used to shore and feed
Unholy child, part her and me.
The tears swell, pride jostles with a fury,
As the torment retreats again
And I wake, unrested fearing what will be.

I know what is to come.

Click here to read the Lovecraft inspired poem "Such Days"
Click here to read the Lovecraft inspired poem "Asylum"

posted for Open Link Night at dverse poets pub


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

Review of "Heather Grace Stewart - Leap"

I was first acquainted with Heather Grace Stewart (known as Sprout by many) through the glory and wonder of social networking. Browsing my way through poet's blogs, looking for inspiration and stumbling over the disordered ramblings that the internet is so full of these days, I stumbled upon a gem.

Heather Grace Stewart's work is a joy to read. In thinking about what draws me so much to her style, I had to read back through the body of work she has provided for public consumption and nail down the precise X-factor that she has. If it is anything, it is her developed sense of self, her often sly social commentary and a well nurtured sense of humour about the whole sorry affair we call life.

In this collection, she explored such topics as the modern obsession with social networking, the joyous trials of being a parent, matters of love and loss and the realisation that often children have much more to teach us than we have to teach them. She tackles each subject with ease.

While this collection is full of great poems (check out Tiny Teacher, The Bard on Facebook and Lolita,) there is one truly stand out poem. It is called "Coping" and my review does not do it justice. It rings with the kind of pain, joy and honesty that encapsulates the entire reason I have made poetry such a large part of my life. The painting of a picture or a soul through words is something that many poets (myself included) spend many years hoping to do right even once. In my opinion, Heather Grace Stewart sucker punches you with "Coping," clearly her shining moment, when you least expect it.

As a poet, Heather Grace Stewart has come on in leaps (see what I did there) and bounds since I started reading her work. If she continues to develop at this rate, people far more reputable than me will be reviewing her work in short order.

I'd give Leap a 5/5 as a value for money collection of meaningful words and a look at a world through the eyes of a woman who knows what it is to be a feminine, modern and interesting mother while retaining the ability to see the world through the eyes of a child. It is well worth the small investment (you can buy it on the iBookstore and at lulu for only $2.99) and for those of you developing your craft, you may find some inspiration from her meaningful and pertinent observations of modern society.

Give it a look.
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/leap/16247447?productTrackingContext=search_results/search_shelf/center/2

You can find Heather Grace Stewart at her website http://www.heathergracestewart.com, on twitter as @hgracestewart or on her facebook page https://www.facebook.com/heathergracestewart



Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

Tales of the Apocalypse, a poem by Adam White, poet

He huddles alone in the dark.
Only a cool glow lights his face.
Outside, the sounds of rebellion,
Fury exploding from the open mouths
Of those with nothing better to do.
How did it come to this?

He checks the news. Nothing.
The media are in denial.
"Just a blip." they say.
The response is government mandate.
"Keep calm. Carry on.
Everything will be fine."

Tapping in the first few letters.
F. A. autofill. Enter.
"Safari can't find the server."
He breaks down in tears.
It's been three weeks.
Feels like ten years.

No comforting blue bar.
No pictures of whatserface
(She's heavily pregnant.
Last picture he saw was her,
Shirt raised, swollen bellied.
He masturbated, the freak.)

No mindless quizzes,
IQ tests, social games,
"Friend" requests, liking
(Does this mean he dislikes everything?)
Oh his giddy aunt...
No notifications!

Oh beloved facebook,
Why have you forsaken us?
Something explodes outside.
Children laugh. The cry
Of those with nothing better to do.
How did it come to this?


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

Open Air, a haiku by Adam White, poet

Standing on the edge,
The animals that we are
Long for open sky.

Stupid Interview Question - Sunday 160 by Adam White, poet

"Describe myself?"
Stubborn, strong willed,
I exude a faux confidence.
I can be manipulative,
Sneaky,
& more than a little cruel.
"I have great interpersonal skills."

Wanna try writing a Sunday 160? Visit Monkey and try your hand.


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

Highlight, a poem inspired by the art of Andy Warhol, by Adam White, poet

Can I lay my face in to four squares,
Highlight in each image a difference
Through the improper use of colour,
Show myself to be something else.
  Bloodthirsty, drugged and high-colour,
Teeth stained with lipstick
Drunkenly applied too swiftly.
  Undead. My lips black to show
I will obviously die too young,
my eyelids turned an icy blue.
  All draped in pink, subtle eyes
Inviting, asking if you would
Kindly, carefully, let me be your whore.
  Soft-lit beauty. The person I am
To the naive. The person I am
On the rare quiet night
Where I'm home alone,
Looking in the mirror,
Undressing myself of my face
And feeling as disgusted
As any girl who sells herself.
  My eyes are uniformly sad.
My smile is a lie the camera tells.
No change of colour can fix it.

Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet

The Shine Troupe Act 1, a Cthulhu Mythos poem, inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft by Adam White, poet

They called themselves "Shine,"
and their dance was sublime.
Moving in unison, seven souls
Enacted the perfect play,
Circling a gracious prince
At his coronation masquerade ball.

They turned and twisted,
Silent as sorrow-filled ghosts,
A yellow sash at every side
Twirling like sand with their hips,
Pushing hidden beauty, bright radiance,
In to our gleeful, reeling minds.

Two girls glided on to the stage.
Slender things they were,
All pale skin wrapped in purple lines.
Bruised belles, sisters with bright eyes,
Waltzing an incestuous circle
Of secret corruption. Forbidden. Divine.

Heavy doors swung swiftly open.
We felt the touch of winter rain,
The fingers of night, the scent of static.
We saw the endless black of Yhtills seas.
In the distance, a shape resolved.
A tower apparent, glassy and slick.

The dancers fell in a faint as one.
The crowd were confused by the sight,
For what madness of thought was this?
Silence. The theatre carried no lone cough.
As one we looked to the distant shore,
Where a figure walked alone, approaching swift.

The dancers slowly stood. The prince, unswayed,
Bids attendant men to close the door.
The movement slow. The figure drew ever near,
Visible until the last as locks made good.
The music resumed. The dance went on,
A spiralling trial to forget the fear.

A knock, heavy and harsh, sewed discord in the notes.
Nobody stopped. Another knock, the rhythm failed,
But the troupe span on in stubborn pain.
A final knock and light became dark.
For aching seconds of breathless fear,
There was only the drum of sweeping rain.

By candle light the stage was returned.
Inch by inch illumination gave us sight.
Centre stage stood the knocking man.
Tattered bandages wrapped his form,
And a hood enclosed a featureless, pallid mask.
He bowed to the prince, and then he danced.

The pale sisters joined his twist,
Fascination catching every obsessed eye,
The girls laughter like lilting violins
Playing the tune of my heart.
They reached to take his disguise.
He let them reach. He did not resist.

Their fingers found no edge. No purchase.
His wore no mask upon his face.
The sisters screamed the first vocal sound.
Then he spoke. No man, he was a creature,
A Phantom of Truth who told of the end,
The rain slick tower, the yellow king profound.

Herald of Carcosa, he held the room.
Breath became a privilege none owned;
None but he, mouthless beast of words.
He finished, with his lords demands;
Yhtill was sacrifice. Hastur had come.
All would bend before the yellow sign.

Rage overcame. The dancers fell on him
And held him steady to the door.
The prince laughed loud, grabbed his bow
And fired an arrow true and strong.
The Herald died, his heart punctured through.
The curtain fell and we awaited act two.


Follow me on Twitter http://twitter.com/#!/AdamWhitePoet