In sound and fury you delight, sovereign of vast gulf of night. Thy gelid wrath in umbral flow, vitiate both high and low.
by Carl Scharwath My words Composed and forgotten. Created like A dewdrop That vanishes In the primordial Morning Sunshine. Evolving into The loudest silence Never heard. Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography (His photography was featured on the cover of 6… Continue reading A Poem Never Read
Thrilling cut, through meekness, strike, to fracture earth and skin alike. Malformed, craven, sickly clique, upon them horrors, savage wreak; til blood is strewn across the stars, precursor to their fate once ours.
Sat the abyss, the blue marble shines, stony step of a steep stair to climb. Red god and lover, first to be tread, that decrepit Jove's laurels, may, thorough, be shred. Reaved the caduceus, sandals unwinged, progeny freed from Ops' consort's rings. Thereafter, the father, by sickle undone, reposing before, the horse master's run. Wrest… Continue reading Aevum
Dead men speak from living maws, as cordyceps, rampant, affixing jaws. Gnashing flesh of self and kin, rending veins for phantom sin. Their funhouse mirror reflects no face, no eyes to chart the charnel waste. Yet, from the blind, keen cheers abound, libations for the hungry ground. As the last lichling tumbles in, a eulogy… Continue reading Necroontologic
Short breath falls the worms arraign, flesh before a clamoring hain. Hungry ore, the mold it fills, maw surpassed, now overspills, the marble blue, to gild the dark.
by John Grey Snow falls on snow. And, in between, I trudge. Yes it’s beautiful but it chills my bones. It decorates. It beautifies. But my fingers freeze despite my gloves. I am on my way to a place that will offer me radiance and discomfort in equal abundance. The weather forecaster got… Continue reading My Forecast
by John Grey Firs and hemlocks reclaim this land for forest. An old rusted train track doesn’t deter them. The last echo of a whistle died eighty years ago. Same with the buzzing of the saws. Logged out, replanted, throw in a few alders, cedars, many years worth of rain, and the woods rejuvenate in dampened… Continue reading Reclaimed
by John Grey It’s blanched white tunnels that tube-worms dig, swirling around in complex patterns like the trail of a child’s finger in cake frosting. Or the emerald gleam of glowworms. Or tiny scarlet and blue-jeweled crabs. The world offers small as much as it does large. A lizard stares up at me from beneath… Continue reading The Small World