#Poetober

[betweenthetimeandsound]

Silver hands, fairy dreams, I hear fragile bells ring on the branches of willows. In a dream I find her amongst the elves; wearing translucent skirts and starlight falls on her waist, a queen without a crown.

She offers her hands as a gift, but I find slashes on her arms; from those scars, lilacs bloom. But between the floating blossoms, I find myself falling into an abyss without end nor wings...

In the morning, the sun rises, but only overcast skies remain. I ache between my ribs; the weight of existence manifests through a paper crane stained with fresh blood and fresher ink. Life gives me no gifts, but I only want for marble to turn into flesh, for expectation to turn into reality, and for her to come thtrough the door. --Elda Mengisto

[persuasivestrawberryafternoons]

Path 10/3/23 (Poetober)

The moss reached up 

 cradling my bare feet

Lurching forward as I trudged along 

Not quite softening the blow

but not quite letting me feel 

the gravel between my toes

The ferns waved and giggled 

Fanning me in their frills

Just like they did

 In the cretaceous era

And 1673

And last tuesday 

Maybe the moss and the ferns

And the ancient riverbed 

I washed my feet in

Think me someone else

Think me an old friend

an old face 

 with an old name

And maybe I am

Do they wonder 

how I’ve changed

Who else walked this path

before me

Who else never 

bothered with Their names

[sharixinsanity]

The Legend of Hades' Beast by Shari X Insanity

The Legend of Hades' Beast by Shari X Insanity

Author's Note: Hello, all. I'm Shari X Insnaity, and this is my Poetry Page. This is my second post here in this type of forum.

I used to post in Facebook's Notes Section, but that feature is now defunct, so this brings me here. You have all stumbled upon my poetry journal blog.

I'm going to be posting here often, so please be on the look out for more original poems, written by me, Shari X Insanity.

Please refrain from stealing, or copying, without my permission, or consent.

This post is a second post for Poetober, Poetober is like an Inktober, but instead artists, this is for poets, and there's also no prompts, just a theme--- horror genre, Edgar Allan Poe style techinque, Halloween, Spooky Season. Happy Poetober everyone, to all!

Subscribe, like, comment, reshare, onto other social media platforms, or follow this tumblr page/account/blog/journal, to check out for more Shari X Insanity poetry in the future!

The first Poetober poem, tumblr blog post was The Legend of Satan's Thirst, and this second post is called, The Legend of Hades' Beast.

You can either jump ahead to the poem which are Word DocX pics, PDF to JPEG pics, which are attached to this post, or you can skip ahead and read the caption, which are copy & pasted lyrics, and read along.

All poems are original poems written by sincerely yours truly, Shari X Insanity, and all copyrights are reserved to the poet, author, artist, writer, Shari X InsanityⒸ.

I'll be posting every Friday and/or Saturday. I hope you all will enjoy reading this, as I did writing this. Enjoy!

The Legend of Hades' Beast By Shari X Insanity

There’s a fiery that burns under my skin

An evil beast that I have kept within

I will be the fearsome demon that has ever been

I will be your worst nightmare

That you have ever met

 As my hair turns red

Eyes turn black

Too late, there’s no turning back

My tongue licks my lips

Your gaze already locked

It is time for me to be fed

 As my anger, vengeance, and rage

Builds up ounce by ounce

I can feel my demon heart bounce

I can hear my vicious thoughts race

So fast, so incredibly fast

 What is left of my soul

Right now are fighting to gain control

But it doesn’t stand a chance

Against the evil that boils inside

My human self won’t last

 Now that I have succumb

To my inner demon

That I have always hid from

I have become . . .

 The Beast!

Finally the beast is set free!

So, let’s begin the feast!

Stay away, stay away from me!

Because I have become my beast!

          You can’t run, you can’t hide

I am now embracing the demon

That I have always kept leashed inside

I can feel myself sinking

Sinking under more

I can see clearly the black, blood red gates

Of the Underworld

 Meeting me on the other side

Charon, the silent mysterious hooded cloak man

He nods his head with no words ever spoken

Taken all my golden tokens

His boat guides us down the river of Styx

 Sitting high and mighty on his throne

Hades, the ruler of all the pits of the Underworld

Once I am near him, I bow down

As soon as I get back up from my knees and the ground

He has a mischievous, wicked yet seductive smile

Creeping across his face

He has long black hair that covers his alluring eyes

 I should be afraid but I am not

Instead my stomach and heart are caught in a knot

His skin is pale and flawless

Hades’ beauty leaving me speechless

 Hades’ smile is still seen

Dark eyes staring down at me

Because he’s proud and pleased

Of his new, precious beast.

[gamboling-gossamers]

#poetry #poems #distraught #poetober #poetrycollection

[tetcny]

Doors open 7:30pm for the 8pm screening of

THE DEATH OF POE

Friday, 6 October 2023

The beautiful Harbor East Cinemas

645 S. President St.

Baltimore, MD 21202

Tickets:

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-death-of-poe-movie-night-for-poe-fest-international-tickets-698963798537

I'm pretty proud to have been a part of this film.

Now glad that it's screening to help the Poe museum.

A benefit for The National Edgar Allan Poe Theatre, and Poe Baltimore (The Poe House and Museum).

Q&A after the film with actor-director Mark Redfield and David F. Gaylin, President of The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore. They’ll discuss the making of the film, the mystery surrounding Poe’s death, and take questions from the audience.

THE DEATH OF POE on Friday 6 October, 2023 kicks-off Poe Fest in Baltimore, continuing the 7th and 8th of October, 2023, with a weekend of free events:

https://poefestinternational.com/festival-program

Start POEtober 2023 right!

MarkRedfieldStudios.com

[markredfield]

BALTIMORE

Get ready for POEtober as the indie feature film THE DEATH OF POE kicks-off the 3-day POEFEST WEEKEND!

THE DEATH OF POE

Friday, 6 October 2023, 8pm

Harbor East Cinemas

645 S. President St.

Baltimore, MD 21202

Tickets link below!

A benefit for The Poe House and Museum in Baltimore (Poe Baltimore Inc.)

Q&A after the film with actor-director Mark Redfield and David F. Gaylin, President of The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore. They’ll discuss the making of the film, the mystery surrounding Poe’s death, and take questions from the audience.

THE DEATH OF POE on Friday 6 October, 2023 kicks-off Poe Fest in Baltimore, continuing the 7th and 8th of October, 2023, with a weekend of free events (linked below!)

Start POEtober 2023 right!

https://www.eventbrite.com/e/the-death-of-poe-movie-night-for-poe-fest-international-tickets-698963798537

[praggya1993]

You drink the poison

Of your sins and scream

Till the voice within dies out,

Guilt reaching above

Till you choke

And find nothing to resuscitate you

All around,

Where are the gods you wonder

Did they left sometime when you grew up,

It's impossible to remember

But now all that's available

Is your razor sharp tongue

And a cavernous maw

That feels as if there's someone else

A haunting that doesn't ends,

Memories of a bygone subtle magic

Ring somewhere in the distance,

But the overgrown cemetery

Of your faded vigour

Makes it difficult to comprehend

If something is sonorous,

And the place which

You once inhabited.

[tinyblips]

I saw him there out the corner of my eye A phantom a vision a little bit of my imagination A ghost a wisp a figment oh much too shy Something glaring out at me from Hell’s damnation

He stood there in the doorway Leading deep into the mausoleum Crumbling marble amongst which demons play He stood as still as a statue in a museum

I reached out my hand and touched his face He startled staring at me shocked floating vapor Grabbing me he pulled me into an embrace And with a great shuddering sigh he was no more

_____________

[Inspired by @goneahead's Poetober Prompt List: Day 12 - Crumbling Mausoleum]

[canisonicscrewyou]

I’m a fetish and a death threat rolled up into one neat little faggot.

[ribozomik]

Words in autumn fall like withered blossoms Constant application for some Reliant bug for others Itched by multiple flowers Eating the last piece of art Reading the beginning of a new tart Riddle Kuddle Riding a new season for emotion In a letter made like a stop motion

[beeecreates]

Bed Bug

i want to sink into my mattress

and rest in its stomach

let me stay there

dont make me get up

these legs carry me through the day

unconscious

i answer questions:

when is it due

where is your work

why is it late

what do you need

what do you want

"to feel awake when my eyes are open"

to trade my dark circles for sweet dreams

to not have the world wring me dry

and hang me outside to bleach in the sun

i drag myself through everyday

and lose myself every night

longing for peace

seeking the day when i can finally

sleep

------------------------------------------------‐--

Prompt from Weekly Poetry Challenge: write a poem with a quote in it

credits for line 13 go to Maggie Stievater

Poetober Day 21: Sleep

[betweenthetimeandsound]

--prompt from @nosebleedclub "crows and ravens" (1 October)

Crows and ravens take flight in overcast skies, unwary of the leaves following them, colored with gold. Unraveling threads accompany a violent wind, which whip the innocent into submitting into time's embrace, with scarred cheeks and flying hair.

Charmed and beautiful, I revel in my curly hair, covering my eyes and grazing my soft cheeks. But when I wander outside, a mourning wind conquers a zephyr and leaves it yearning, submitting to the quickly disintegrating autumn skies, only a trickle of sunlight gives out some gold.

I bartered your soul for maidens' hearts of gold; they glimmer in the dusky skies; with time, only sodium lamps are submitting to the ugliness of day, shining on tangled hair. Contemplating on the ruddiness of your cheeks, I hold myself and wait for the wind.

Out on the sidewalk, I face the wind, but it only accepts those who are submitting to the falling odds, with open palms and falling hair. I remember when you gave kisses on my frozen cheeks, and then lit a candle to bring some gold to the silvery overcast skies.

When will I wake up to pure, turquoise skies, and have only delicate rays caress my cheeks? I hide myself, making a veil out of my hair, and only offering a hand out for gold. Accepting your loss is submitting to a last gust of hurricane-like wind...

..which throws me off balance, a bastard wind. The soul would know better not to trust the skies; to accept the constellations as they are is submitting to a fate so wretched, it could even tarnish gold. You would recognize me by my raggard hair, but the crows and ravens cannot kiss my cheeks;

instead, they arrive and peck at your cheeks, relishing the fleshy and raw gold which is only revealed in the winter skies. --Elda Mengisto

[persuasivestrawberryafternoons]

Fortune 10/10/23 (Poetober)

The fabric hues of purple and gold surrounded us

The smell of earth and fire 

burning incense

Tickled at my nose

And there she sat

Pondering 

The crystal globe 

I’ve always sought my future

Wondered how it will go

But not my fortune 

My desperation look held 

In a chokehold

She winked at me

As I drew a breath

Silver shimmering from the table below

“What does it mean?”

I asked

Anticipation drying my throat 

“I see nothing” she said

“Nothing at all”

Your fortune is your’s

And yours alone

[sharixinsanity]

The Legend of Satan’s Thirst by  Shari X Insanity

The Legend of Satan's Thirst by Shari X Insanity

Author’s Note: Hello, all. I’m Shari X Insanity, and this is my Poetry Page. This is my first ever post here in this type of forum. I used to post in Facebook’s Notes Section, but that is now a defunct feature, so this brings me here, and you have all stumbled upon my poetry journal blog. I’m going to be posting here often, so please be on look out for more poems. These are all original poems, written from myself, please refrain from stealing, or copying, without my permission or consent. 

I will be posting here often for Poetober, Poetober is like an Inktober, but instead for artists, this is for poets, and there’s also no prompts, just a theme -- horror genre, Edgar Allan Poe style technique, Halloween, Spooky Season. Happy Poetober to all! 

Subscribe, like, comment, reshare onto other social media platforms, or follow, this tumblr account/blog/page, to check out more Shari X Insanity poetry in the future.

The first Poetober poem/Tumblr blog post is The Legend of Satan’s Thirst, you can either read along in the caption which I’ve copy & pasted my poem lyrics/verses, stanzas, or you can read the PDF/JPEG files which are attached. 

I’ll be posting every Friday/Saturday.

Enjoy! 

All poems are original poems written by the author, and all copyrights are reserved to the poet, artist, author, Shari X Insanity©.

The Legend of Satan’s Thirst 

By: Shari X Insanity

 There was once a drink,

That pours in red.

The color of blood,

And death.

No human, or mortal,

Could survive the sip.

One shlook, one gulp,

And you will drop.

So much to take in

‘By toxic, poisonous,

Mouthful.

 Off goes your head.

So much smoke.

That you need to hold yourself.

Before you choke.

 Because Satan is a demonic devil,

With a dark sense of humor,

Despite being a malevolent ruler, or King of Hell,

Constantly throwing the biggest, grand parties, and ordeals.

 The King of Hell is greatly entertained by his guests' pain.

Alas, Satan, the King of Hell, may dwell on the nine fiery pits’ delves.

And he sends his best regards, as he cordially invites one and all.

To a noisy, rowdy, raucous, wild, chaotic, unruly, frenzied, relve.

 Scallywags, scoundrels, and tricksters are in attendance alike,

Who have responded to the mass invites in bulk.

Who have arrived for the evil, devious, diabolical, wicked time.

For mischief, mayhem, havoc, and shenanigans.

Of all of the nine realms.

 Before the time, or hour befalls,

For the Grim Reaper, the ferryman, shall collect all of the souls.

The souls that will fall on the river of Styx,

When you hear the bell that has been rung.

 Satan truly hopes that this astonishing ball.

Will bring everyone altogether high, down, up, below, from near, or far.

That the attendees will reach an unlimited capacity, and near full.

That the bash will be not close to being dull.

 Only non-stop, crazy fun.

Even if you cannot leave when you are done.

Even if you cannot say your bid well, or farewell.

 Satan is feeling most prevalent and celebrant

To get everyone to dance in their cells, until they cannot anymore.

To dance, dance, dance—and dance,

Until their limbs fall off, and they can no longer go on any further

 To dance as if enchanted, spelled, or hexed,

From some unbreakable trance.

Satan smokes and drinks, but you cannot smell his burnt of ashes odor,

Only his chocolaty tint dipped with something sweet

The unfamiliar sweetened, sugary and spice, the scent is along with

Satan’s aftershave, perfume, or cologne.

 Maybe his scent or aura.

He is an exhumer and consumer of sorts.

A Jack of all trades and cohorts.

Cards falling or hidden, while tucked into his sleeves

He is very tight, very close with his imps, as thick as thieves.

Always talking super-fast when telling grand tales,

Getting his tongue caught into a knot, that he will have to unravel

His tongue, like a dagger and its sheath, wrapped in cloth.

 Always with a grin, smile, or smirk

Laughing at his subjects, minions, and impish jokes

Impish cackles, and laughs maniacally evilly.

 Not being able to contain himself,

As his stomach rumbles.

The drink is dripping down from his chin,

Down to his whiskers.

He is drinking the goblet of nightmare

With a bloody éclair.

 The drink spilling and spitting

Everywhere into the air.

Spilling, spitting, dripping in drink

As the foam and suds covers and drenches

His goatee and mustache

His laugh is infectious and contagious

Which spreads and reaches to every last one of his subjects.

Because he is sitting upon his throne, hand raised, about to make a toast.

 He drinks the bubbling, fizzing, tonic

Which can be scotch, vodka, or cognac,

That will make any living mortal’s blood vessels, to burst,

Mortals with a working pulse.

Because maybe Satan’s a maniac.

 This drink is only for the dead or undead

Not for the faintest of hearts.

 This is Satan’s preferred drink.

Preferably shaken and stirred.

With a decapitated finger,

Of a lost soul that has since been tortured

With mixing, stirring with just the tip.

 Using the keepsake, leftover finger as a teaspoon.

That Satan kept fondly in the pocket of his suit.

Alas, that poor buffoon.

Whomever that person t’was.

With a laugh, a smile, another chug

From his drink, and a shrug.

 Drip, drip, goes the drink,

The contents have dripped.

Down Satan’s chin.

 Sliced, diced, minced, spiced, on the rocks,

The ice cubes stained in blood, on the icicles,

Within the cup.

 Satan chugs the malice.

That’s within the cup.

This cup is a goblet, a chalice

Extravagant, and luxurious.

Lavish to a deathly fashion.

 Upon his throne

He sits high, tall, and almighty

Wearing a three-horned crown

Fire, flames gathering,

Surround his entombed throne.

 Screaming, piercing, cries of the tortured

Of the sinned and punished

Surrounds the chilled, dead silenced, air.

Begging out for mercy, if there’s any left,

Satan, the Hell’s king, is examining his clawed nails, apparently daft.

 He ignores the cries, shrieks, and screams.

He smiles from ear to ear.

Enjoying the sounds and what he hears.

Only fuelling his hellfire to grow.

Fuelling his hellfire to glow.

 His hellfire is bubbling in a nearby cauldron

The essence of the Outworld, the Otherworld, Underworld.

And everything that falls within the balance in-between the worlds.

 Satan wants to rule, to lead,

To dominate.

To conquer.

To be the only one true king.

 He wants to spread his dominance

Into heaven

To be a king there

Or unleash to earth

And spread his fire, whichever which way

On whatever perth

Fire leading behind a path.

 Satan has an unsatisfied appetite or desire

That’s left unquenched, and unextinguished

Hunger or thirst

Until snuffed or smothered

 That’s more than what is in the cup.

The unknown concoction of contents,

The mysterious alchemy of ingredients,

By one gulp, about to blow,

Once swallowed in the esophagus,

And the world as we know it

Would be toast, or cease to exist.

A burnt inferno left in crumbs.

 Satan with his red face

Drawn out eyebrows, cocked, arched, and raised.

His face was in a grim grimace.

A goatee at the chiseled chin, like a Roman myth statue

And an Italian pizzeria chef, with a catfish-looking mustache.

Horned by three at the top of his head.

His stare is deadly, eyes the color of crimson red.

 He wears the finest of tailored suits.

Pinstriped down the middle

Trousers to match, and complete the ensemble

A top hat sits at the top of his head

Hiding his three horns inside

And tucked in, is his long forked tail

That slips down his side.

 And sat in his hands is a timepiece

That always knows “the time”.

His bash is near the end and he takes out his pocket watch

To look upon the pocket watch’s front glass, the front face

To read the hour hands and minute hands, and know what time it is

Because in hell, time is simply fleeting, fleeing fast.

 The pocket watch is attached to a long chain

And is placed in his trousers’ pocket’s back belt loop, expectantly and indignantly.

As he is tapping on one of his leather buckled shoes, impatiently.

He stares at the pocket watch for merely a second,

And places the pocket watch away with a sway immediately.

With his drink set aside, he toys with a two-sided, double-sided coin.

 Satan always toys and plays with a coin.

A double-sided coin that’s neither heads nor tails

A coin that’s a bit of a shiny bronze,

A rusted fool’s gold that has since lost some luster and shine

However, that’s not what catches Satan’s red eyes

It’s the coin’s design

So obscure and arcane

 The coin slips back into Satan’s trouser pockets

Along with the pocket watch attached to the long silver chain

He chews on a flame’s match from a matchbox, instead.

As he lifts his goblet, to hold and juggle, masterfully both,

Balancing with both hands, the items, as balanced as the Fates’ scales.

With both hands.

 He chews on the match

And sometimes a cigar

That never blows out.

An endless, neverending smoke.

That never seems to ever end.

 And he doesn’t need a matchbox

To lit the flame

The flame on the end of the cigar is always lit.

By a snap of a finger

Sometimes getting zapped that he sucks on it.

Or a wave by the hand.

 Chewing on the end of the match

Doesn’t seem to stop the quench

That tug in his stomach or gut

The squelch, twinge, or pinch,

The smoke doesn’t even cough up his throat

Or even his lungs.

 His thirst is for something more

That cannot ever be explained

The thirst for power

A power that needs to be obtained,

But once obtained, the Seers and Fates have spoken and prophesied:

Nothing in this world will ever be the same,

And nothing could ever seize or stay.

 The hell, earth, and above

The storm, the fire, the black,

Even heaven will seize to exist

Plummet into an apocalypse

And explode.

 All because of one drink

That had Satan’s sip.

Everything that we have known

Everything that we’ve held dear

Would be left in remains.

 Satan will walk into this graveyard,

Of what the universe left behind it,

The harbinger of that apocalypse

Of omens, of how things end,

And all’s well, that ends well.

 Satan will bend down to a sitting crouch,

Both hands on his knees, in that squat,

Swept his fingers across the dust,

And be marveled of Satan’s thirst.

 Of what he created and made.

Of Satan’s wrath.

 As this story, this tale, this legend, draws to an abrupt close.

As fiery fireballs ablaze the path.

And be heard of in the distance are wings of bats,

Flying together as a family, in a colony, in a cauldron,

As they do fly into the night,

Across the dark sky’s clouds,

About to take flight.

– Fin –

[brokenhearted-beauty]

[buzzbookstore]

Continuing the #Poetober theme, here are two 1890s copies of “Weird Tales” by Edgar Allan Poe, published by Henry Altemus of Philadelphia. I shipped out two similar editions of Poe’s “Poems” last week but these are more fun if you ask me. #edgarallanpoe #weirdtales #talesofmysteryandimagination #creepystories #shortstories #vintagehorror #classichorror #imjustapoeboy #vintagebooks #rarebooks #bookcollecting #altemus https://www.instagram.com/p/CGsoSLghUtP/?igshid=jrb9474x7mk8