Humanity Thru Art: The Blog

"Art is the mirror we hold up to society. Dare to look into it."

Category: Poetry

As The Snowflakes Fell

snowflakes

A familiar mountain stood before me.
It beckoned me to spend the day
Surrounded by its beauty.
A quiet voice asked me to stay
As the snowflakes fell.

The evergreens stood tall above me.
They fragrance the air with pine
And guided my long journey
A higher, steeped path to climb
As the snowflakes fell.

The snow tumbled from the cloudy sky
It kissed my red and frosty cheeks
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While placing diamond in my hair.
The soft, white silence made me weak
As the snowflakes fell.

A white cloaked mountain gleamed before me.
It challenged me to embrace the day
Surrounded by its danger.
I’ve been here before, I could not stay
Because the snowflakes fell.

Nita Oard
December 8, 2015.
Revised, December 22, 2015
All rights reserved.

Immersion of Elizabeth Bathory

 

2UseFear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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An Iron Maiden drains the moisture of life
Red corpuscles drip from its silver faucet.
Virginal bodies, limp and white, surround
An ivory tub, now full of blood;

Long ago Elizabeth was penalized.
Her Personal Fountain of Youth involved
Sacrifice. Now social media brings
Suicidal volunteers. She smiles:

Her wrinkled flesh shows the truth of advanced age.
She submerges and soaks: absorbing youth
From the red sea, the perfect serial
Assassin dries with a cotton towel.

~PSLaRue 10-5-2015

We Dare U 2 Scare US!!!!

Let Me Introduce Myself….

The blood brings life renewed and the death card means change.
My poetry flows from my pen like blood from slashed veins.
Rejoice in the darkness until the light shines through.
My goal is understanding; I’m P S La Rue.

scary

I don’t drink blood, yet I can drain life.
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I pull the energy from your fingertips,
I suck the energy from your lips,
I capture your soul through the portholes of your eyes.
You belong to me…

We Meet Again

We Meet Again

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” she said.
“I’ve been really busy”
Her eyes caught the lie, if not her ears.
“Too busy to pick up a pen?”
I stammered some unresponsive excuse, which even I couldn’t understand.
“Too busy to peck out a few words on that infernal machine?”
“I use that to work…”
Her hurt was plain
“I thought I was your work”
“No, my love. Never work.
You are my passion, my hearts blood, my future.”
Bullseye. Dead on!
The target so often haunted me
In dreams and wakeful moments of perception
She had grown suspicious.
Jealous…Yet no less beautiful.
With just a few words I made her more substantial.
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I made her more real.
“You’ve made me seem a rainbow, you know?”
“I know.”
“But rainbows only come after storms, it seems.”
I shrugged.
She approached me,
Brushed my lips with a butterfly kiss, and was gone.
She’s always been funny that way; Infinitely appealing and ageless.
I’ve grown to accept her for what she is;
For what it is her nature to be.
No compromise,
No Sympathy,
No changing her
A muse must always be
Fickle.
~Adam Stuart Littman 1999~