The Return Of H.p. Lovecraft

The Return Of H.p. Lovecraft short poem

Photo by David Numeritos

oblong face like an opal grape
crag of nose guarding coinpurse mouth
how strange after a brief oblivion –
eighty years in the grave leapt
an exhalation of moribund mold –
body produced as a conjurer’s trick
shaken out of the ground
to blink at the ordinary horrors
of the twenty-first century

having found out about his return
the world looms in abuzz
a single unsleeping eye and an implacable
maw hungry for the diversion of news
could not let him alone
every wilderness full of adventure seekers
even the corner dust in the most common room
teeming with explanation – pollen,
textile fibers, shed hair and skin cells
from the ordinary souls that passed through
but not completely away

deathless he could not sleep
and sleepless he could not dream
so fraught with anxiety to the point of paralysis
he sedimented the dull dregs of himself
the unremarkable merely physical
setting up like an idol
eyes open now for eternity
standing stiff in the darkest corner
of the last independent bookstore in Arkham

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of GlenDodge


Signup / Login to follow the poet.
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of

Return Of The Poet

Return Of The Poet short poem

It is autumn grapes are bleeding. The orange color seeps into your eyes. Will you shut the green lids? You, start reading backward. Atavistic instinct to dig up the severed hands? Your house, died in the flower bed. Seeds were

No Return

No Return short poem

It was inheritance of age before the mirrors for the language of windows. The high rise buildings always cast a pall of seems to slide and I cannot reach the sky. I want to say what I did not

The Return Of A Lost Lover

The Return Of A Lost Lover short poem

Same dream, different night a sense of De Ja Vu takes me back to another life… my heart beats fast like angel wings, as you come in out of the shadows I begin to remember everything… Irish green eyes radiating

Return On D-day

Return On D day short poem

Why deceptive retrieve in a wheelchair for the fallen? Was it not a sheer wrong message of a space anxiety? The aboriginal name was dead in a traffic. What a choice to breathe its last in a city of buried

*Return Journey

*Return Journey short poem

I forgot, was it me in a body pile draped in dust, still hot, bruised, burnt, a mad megalomaniac starting a civil war, creating suicide bombers, young virgins inhaling death? This journey under the guns, displacing hapless thousands, will reach