EXERCISE Poetry Challenge #26 -- The Cryptic Skull

Discussion in 'INSPIRING MUSES' started by Fluffy, Nov 20, 2011.

  1. [​IMG]


    There's a mystery behind every bone you dig up. How did it get there? Who did it belong to? There are many questions, you see? Imagine you come across a mysterious looking skull, be it during a treasure hunt, grave robbing, a murder, etc.! This seemed like it could be an interesting, fun topic for poetry. Use any style of poem you wish and get as creative as you'd like. I'll provide a few ideas to help get started, if you need:

    • Digging for treasure
    • Exploring a cave
    • Solving a mystery
    • Telling a horror story
    • Murder
    • Curse
    • Nightmares



    I encourage you to make the poem(s) look pretty with bbcodes. (; Also, look at Shadow Poetry for structure ideas. Don't hesitate to ask any questions!
     
  2. [Hi, is this challange still running?]
     
  3. Yessum. You can post in it whenever you'd like, even if it ain't sticky'd. :D
     
  4. I have a secret,
    But I simply can't keep it hung up.
    Not in the shadows of a proverbial closet.

    It's far too close to me,
    I cannot leave it behind.
    Fear, I suppose, is the reason
    I carry it at all times.

    Nobody seems to suspect.

    In spite of keeping it in the open,
    Everyone sees what they wish to.
    I guess only a genius could keep it
    Hidden in plain sight.

    It drives me to the edge,
    At the times I want to shake it off.
    Deceptively white,
    It digs it's fingers into my skin.
    My
    skeletons won't leave me.
     
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  5. (This poem is strange and came out of nowhere, and has no real format, so all apologies for confusion and eye scarring.)

    I found you.
    I loved you.
    Despite all the meat on you,
    I admired you,
    I desired you.
    I would take you for my own.
    I didn't cut you.
    I didn't kill you.
    But I surely must have scared you.
    Through the wood,
    for hours I chased you,
    You still rolled away from me.

    I left you,
    though I loved you,
    let the flies and worms take you,
    reconsidered,
    rushed to save you.
    You were there,
    waiting for me.


    I brought a bucket full of lye.


    I scrubbed the last of your life off you
    boiled you,
    bleached you,
    brushed you clean.
    You're almost sparkling,
    twinkling madly.
    Your smile literally gleams.

    You are my precious treasure.
    Dust and grime I won't abide.
    Now you're ready for the wedding.
    My pure beauty,
    my white bride.
     
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  6. you're in luck fluffers....i found an old poem that fits this nicely : D

    [​IMG]
    Death
    On the darkest hour of this ever dark day
    We find our sanity drawn thin and beginning to stray

    Hope drifts just out of greedy fingers way
    And Death doth walk the dark corridors we paved
    With our blood our hearts cry out in pain
    Forever lost in this sea of darkness with no hope to gain

    This coldness, that seems to ever grow,
    Settles into my decaying bones.
    My eyes shine dully with lust no more!
    My soul cries out, it falls to the floor.

    A heart once beating turns to ashen gray.
    As I close my eyes and begin to pray.
    Darkness slowly creeps into my sight;
    As Death's hand sweeps his mighty scythe​
     
  7. Skull

    Skull.png
     
    #7 AkikoYukito, Jan 10, 2015
    Last edited: Jan 10, 2015
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  8. White knuckles grip the counter,
    As she stares into the mirror.
    Tears drip onto the floor,
    But her reality is warped.

    She sees something far different,
    Different than what the others do.
    She sees ugliness, she sees fat.
    But they all see a skull.

    Paper skin,
    Thinning hair,
    Weak knees,
    Furred skin.

    She's chasing an impossibility,
    And destroying herself,
    But all of the rest know,
    This isn't who she's supposed to be.
     
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  9. While planting flowers in the garden this year
    Miss Ethel stared at the ground quaking in fear
    A skull rose up in the soil she had tilled
    Her eyes were wide and her breath stilled

    She dropped the tiller and ran inside
    She dialed the phone wondering who had died
    The police she alerted without delay
    They dug up her yard the rest of that day

    They never did tell her what they found
    But there was not an inch of undisturbed ground
    But the news caster had no similar care
    She said twenty-five bodies were buried there

    Now Miss Ethel had lived there most of her life
    Since the day he late husband had claimed her as wife
    He had never allowed her a garden in the yard
    His lawn was his baby and never to be marred

    But now she wondered at the green of the grass
    And the way he would grump until winter would pass
    Had he killed all those people what were found there that day
    Had he gone to his grave without having to pay

    Looking out at the mess that had called a garden
    She prayed up to heaven to beg the Lord's pardon
    "If he made it there Lord, don't let him go free
    I'm bringing the paddle to bend him o'er my knee
     
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  10. The lab is a temple,
    each cabinet a tomb,
    for therein are skeletons
    all about the room.

    Clear tubs are their caskets,
    their marker'd "names" a string
    of numbers and letters and location,
    ready for identifying.

    Out comes the skull from the box,
    which once had eyes to see,
    the very prison of the human soul,
    of what makes you, you, and me, me.

    In all the 200 cc's it can hold,
    there once were thoughts and dreams.
    There was love and hate and drama and madness,
    perhaps even genius bursting its seams.

    But this skull doesn't have a face,
    and its owner remains unknown,
    as the grave was found shallow and hastily dug,
    into which the body was thrown.

    So there goes the skull, onto the seat,
    and markers grace its curves,
    and with a little bit of digital magic,
    a face you may slowly observe.

    it is lumpy and strange, this visage,
    cast in polygons and data,
    a face from beyond the grave,
    a possible persona non grata.

    Human eyes look back at you,
    and despite their lack of life,
    you feel for them and their last struggle,
    ended by gun or hammer or knife.

    So you click to "save" this human face,
    and into a file it flies,
    and this you send to the database,
    to another fresh pair of eyes.

    It is this rendition the officer sees,
    which they match with great care,
    to find the owner who wore this face,
    unfortunate enough to meet Death's stare.

    And then sometime later, they will find
    a photograph so close, so near,
    and with a scrambling, beating heart,
    will see that they did disappear.

    An investigation will there follow,
    and the dots will begin to connect,
    as the rest of the skeleton is thoroughly prodded,
    with of course the utmost respect.

    They will find they'd broken an arm in soccer,
    that they were hardly more than twenty-eight,
    from a break in the humerus and the ulna,
    from fully-grown epiphyseal plates.

    A spur on the foot, a sprain in the ankle,
    the wear-and-tear on the head and feet,
    will the story of a young man
    who was a fit and avid athlete.

    The nick on the fifth costal vertebrae,
    will match with the edge of a blade,
    one that penetrated his back,
    the weapon with which he was slayed.

    And from here, the anthropologist is done,
    the bones go back in the tub,
    for the investigators must now take over,
    to a suspicious and skeevy pub.

    At last we can pull out a marker,
    and pen the man's name on the label,
    rearrange all of his earthly remains,
    and get them off the exam table.

    For the bones have spoken their story,
    even after years lying in the murk,
    and for the anthropologist who studied him,
    well - just all in a day's work.
     
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