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Best Poems Written by John Arthur

Below are the all-time best John Arthur poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Dogs

The feeling is neutral if not numb;
to the fact that most dogs are now rather dumb.
They waddle and limp to whoever has food,
regardless of thought or apparent mood,
led by hungers conjured and imbued.
Forgetting to hunt, they now excrete and eat all day,
mumbling and barking with nothing to say.

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The Washing Machine

The Washing Machine

Trembling, writhing in pleasure!
Upon which arouses without measure,
As it was, as it were,
The washing machine, upon which sits thy mother!
Behold! A sight unforetold!
This is no jest.
Do not fret, lest 
you forget, that she hath needs of her own.

Tis be best to forget, bleach thou minds eye of what art known,
seeing as thou an adult, fully grown.

Run away! As what witnessed, to thou, thine eyes doth shewed and shown 
What was witnessed upon that vibrating throne,
the screams of your mother on that pleasurable chrome!
Tis a tragedy, especially in thou home.


02/23/2023

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Graveyard

Graveyard

I arose, my eyes open, though it was not what I chose
Eyelids rotten, which did not close
Forced to behold, a fate unforetold, 
merely whispered by the foolish and the bold.

An unhallowed grave, a darken tomb.
Awakening within the deathbed of the reapers womb,
To that familiar scent, of a loathsome doom,
Which unto my senses, which although dim,
Declare a darkness which crawled without limb
In a land of the dead, ghastly and grim.

Vistas macabre and morbidly new
Instilling fears that continue to brew,
Feelings that within me doth grew,
If not due
Towards visions of thyne fellow dead, now risen anew.

I struggled and limp from that darthly crypt
Naked, cold, forlorn and stripped
Of coherent thought, nor simple articulation
Confused in the delirium of a harrowing anticipation.

I know not where I am.
Tremors signal the birth of the unseen,
I am lost. I know not where I've been.

I know not time, nor place nigh destination,
If not certain of that chronic sensation,
Drowning in the certainty of an ethereal damnation.

2023/02/23 
'Writing Challenge - G Words -'
Constance La France

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Upon the Deserts of Damnation

Behold! 
Where is it no mortal soul fathoms to dare?
The foretold detestable dunes of despair!
Whose sands of crystalline luminescence 
Drown and drain thy essence. 

Far within that redolent tomb 
Hidden deeper inside the heavens moon, 
Where the souls of the damned unwillingly swoon 
Slaves to the sin that fathered their doom. 

Where thou art subject to phantom pains 
Orchestrated by the Litch who reigns 
Without delay upon his frozen throne of ice 
Whose subjects lament in the decay  
of blood maggots and eerie lice.

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The Death of the Sun

Upon fields ripe with earth, alone we lay,
yearning the foretold birth of a brighter day,
far beneath the heavens' maw, 
nearer the crystal seas and her luminescent shore
we await the light we've grown to adore.

The sands, the dunes, were wet with waters crystalline,
of fragrant colours like none thou have seen,
a place not before we have been, 
yet forever enamoured by vistas holy and serene.

The beauty, slowly, began to decay,
Slowly, we realize the sun would never rise, nor surmise,
the delivery of another day.

And so, it ended and began rather forlorn,
Ailing no array of light, no sun, no dawn.
Instead darker, if not colder too,
the shadows of night so continued to brew,
birthing horrors unchronicled, unexplained and new.

How could we have known, or have ever knew,
That the Sun would die, birthing a darkness anew?

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Deja Vu

Déjà vu                 

You look familiar, have we met?
I feel as though the memory has yet to set.

Perhaps this is a sensation of déjà vu 
Perhaps we’ve once talked, me and you,
A memory I think I once knew.
Though I am unsure, yet certain in my confusion
That you are familiar beyond articulation.
My words are spewing without humiliation
As I am certain of this particular occasion.

This place, this smell, it is familiar.
Do you not sense it to be similar?
An occasion of a memories ancestor.

Those eyes, that hair, it seems nearly unfair,
That my memory would forget, that it would chance to dare
To fail to remember someone so fair.

2023/02/23
Déjà vu 
Unseeking Seeker

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Oceans of Blood

A drowned Perpetua inhumane, whose dwellers art furthest from sane, 
where mortals had once sought to reign, now mindless husks subject to an eerie pain. 

And so, amidst boiling waves of a single flow, which so seek to sate hungers that blindly echo from beneath that gangrenous gore 
eclipsed in crimson too dark to ignore, 

Nearing if not therefore, beneath those vermillion dunes, chronicled from before, hidden nearer the ocean floor. 

Far beneath bore that which only fellow filth may grow to adore. 

So arose the disembowelled silhouettes of creatures eerily unfound, hidden beneath corpsed constellations that continue to astound. 

Ripe with rot, anywhere yet not  
upon thine festering flesh, betwixt sinews which crudely infest.

Alive by the necromancer's bequest, so welcoming thou as their unholy guest.

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The Morgue Necropolis

Laid naked and bare,
Dilapidated beyond repair,
Deeper within the dark bowels of ruined Ultair,
Whose ruler is a Litch,
A city rises from a darken phosphorous pitch
of shadows and mists of unhallowed portraiture
whose sights are akin to visual torture.

Where evils forgotten lie in one's peripheral,
perpetuating fears begotten and ethereal.

Do not fret and be a fool.
Lest you forget what may beguile.
For what dwells here, of those curious shall lure;
Creatures whose countenance spell the very essence of fear,
whose residence unwillingly endure.

However, so I say, you would be wise to obey,
To never venture into the night,
of this foul blight,
not a city.
Wherein darkness consumes the most radiant of light without pity.

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Land of the Dead

Behold! A land writhing in cold 
prophecies untold, uttered by the foolish and the bold.

Where the darkest of clouds swirl and unfold
to reveal a land ripe with a decay uncontrolled.

Forevermore stained in the wet contorted hues of crimson red
where life continues, if not broken, as a soulless token
To this, what else can truly be said?
if not instead about that particular dread;

Behold! The wondering damned, to their graves by the nose were they led
Whose dark blood flows through the limbs of the living and the dead.
Wretched denizens of damnation, upon lands no mortal shall explore to dare.
Uttering their pathetic lamentation, a morbid unholy prayer.

Together in conjoined suffering of no delay, do they share
the putrescent smells rancid and fresh from decay, so taint the air,
a foul stench too much to bare.

Deeper betwixt that ethereal black mountain
of dark waters and darker fountain.
From this a city rises dark and abrupt
Seeking to consume and corrupt.

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Zombies

Behold!
That which art carved from deaths mold;
The undead. 

What more can be said 
to those who have already bled 
and passed, wondering, pondering, seemingly lost, if not instead 
without destination, all seeking to sate an unfathomable sensation. 

A hunger most tormenting,
which no mortal lamenting could comprehend 
The ethereal pains of zombies who survived their end.