Along life’s bumpy dirt-covered road there’s an animal you ought to know well, he’s wrought with terror, and born from thunder, during the howling winds of hell. His eyes have a ruby red glow, his coat is slick and fine. He’s called the black hound of depression, or so some people say, and no amount of medication can scare the black hound away. It would mean your demise, so please people be wise, do not allow the black hound inside your mind. On some windy night you’ll awake with a fright and onto the city bridge you’ll find.
Leaping to your death, you think, is the only escape to keep the hell-hound at bay. Downward you’ll plunge into the great abyss, giving the water below a sapphire kiss.
Your mind’s videotape spins it’s last reel, the final frame will show the black dog, still nipping at your heels. ~ Poet Stoker
The gawking crowd watched on in amazement that day as another drowned body was taken away,
In a failed attempt to skip from ship to shore he’d lost his footing and was seen no more,
Mr. Beck he was a good old man but too many times he’d had drinks in his hand,
A Ten Penny beer in his back pocket was clear, and his body was dressed in white turtle neck gear,
Beck’s bloated body was all that remained of his beautiful soul that night in the rain,
Macabrely they paddled in their little row boat until nearing Becks’ body which was close by and afloat,
Beck’s death grip was pried loose from the slimy-green-spiles, as his two grown sons, Kenny And Neil, stood silently weeping a while,
What a way to say goodbye to your dad, god bless their souls, Father raised out of the harbor by hook and by pole. ~ Poet Stoker
*Dedicated to the late Clarence Beck, RIP.
Written By @cagestokerblog
Nineteen and thin, a sexual beast, her skin was a feast of coffee-mocha brown; the poor boy was lean and not quite sixteen as she spun his head around. It was an awkward approach, but she sparked-up a roach as they revved-up her burgundy car—drove around for a while, too nervous to smile, as the tape-deck played Hendrix guitar. Parked by the lake, it was no mistake when she killed-off her front headlight beams. It was late at night but he’d put up no fight, as she slowly unbuttoned her jeans. The leaves rustling in trees, mixed with their love moans on the breeze, seemed to echo in nearby streams. ~ Poet Stoker
What if in the future being right was wrong?
What if good was actually bad?
What if, in some futuristic war, ten million animals and humans died and, because the world was so over populated by then, it was thought upon as a good thing..wouldn’t the planet have more room to breath?
What if zero was the highest number..then what friend or follower number would social media use to addict our children?
What if blowing-up yourself and innocent others in the name of religion was really not a terrorist act, but a way to cleanse the earth of those who have too much, and think too little of smaller countries by rewarding greed, using government corruption to get rich, and then overcompensating those who are destroying the natural balance of the earth’s crust by digging for oil which is no longer there?
What if death was right and life was wrong?
What if both heaven and hell were here and now—and all of this planet’s beautiful life forms were merely cancerous growths in disguise, eating, breathing, defecating and spreading, until finally in the end consuming the hand which fed it?
~ Poet Stoker
The misty moss-covered forest floor this time of year is scented with mayflowers. The aroma of new life in spring brings joy to my nostrils and softness to my step as I explore the lovely woods of Robert Frost’s poetry. How nice it would be if you were here with me; together we could pick wild flowers and mushrooms, make a smudge fire, fill our bodies with sweet smoke and chew spruce gum while singing songs of lost lovers and figures so forlorn. ~ Poet Stoker
Now behold above you glowing dim, an orb of splendor in low light’s whim. One to place your soul upon its brim, and hang your hat upon a limb. Naked and bathed in golden light, the time is nearing past midnight. ~ Poet Stoker