Become an official Charter Member!

Hello All and (Poetic)Sundry (and everyone else of that Ilk),

I would like to welcome you to the official site of The Undead Poets Society. I am inviting all of my friends who engage in waxing poetique to contribute and be full-fledged inaugural “charter” members.

This site will be for all things poetic: rhyme, verse, prose poems, etc. Whether you danse macabre, have fangs, are zombie-like, or are just a living poet – and therefore, undead – (like me) you are welcome.

I have created a special Charter Member “your in the society badge”:
Charter Member UDPS Badge
To become a Charter Member of the Undead Poets Society, with all appurtenant rights and privileges (basically, bragging rights), one must needs do the following:

  • Follow this site
  • Follow UndeadPoets (or timkeetonwriter) on Twitter
  • Reply/Send me a poem of your creation to post on the site
  • Post a link to this site on your site, blog, Twitter, etc.
  • That’s basically it. I would like this site to become a Poetry Haven for those who wish to imbibe from the fair muse’s cup.

    Rhyme on!

    About Tim Keeton

    Flashfiction published by Seedpod Pub. Poetry appears in Read Write Poem 2010 Anthology. Founder & creator of the Undead Poets Society
    This entry was posted in Charter Membership, Poems, Poetry, UDPS and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

    13 Responses to Become an official Charter Member!

    1. Tim Keeton says:

      The Hunter King

      With striped fur abristle,
      and hunter’s eye agleam,
      Prowling ne’er ceasing,
      His claws remain unsheathed,

      Quivering, now unmoving,
      Still, still, as the night’s shadow,
      Immobile as a carved stone,
      The bane of many faster than he,

      Now quickly pouncing, leaping free,
      Silently he bounds and snatches his prey,
      Unknowing what awaited it, but a moment ago,
      The circle completes; he pads back to his lair.

      What awaits his noble countenance there?
      He knows not, nor cares he,
      He is lord and master of all around him,
      Undisputed king by tooth and claw,
      Raw lord of all.

      • I’d like to become a Charter Member. My twitter name is VividCurve, and here’s my poem:

        Rachel Rosenberg


        We’re counting on the zombie invasion.
        We’ve planned out every detail but the sheer brute will we’ll need to keep pounding away and swinging away for
        solid miles of re-killing,
        swinging, running and jumping, following lost leaders with plans in their panic,
        desperation of empty earth,
        miles of solid killing.


        Trees. Silos. Zombie birds of prey
        raining blood. Do they still eat only dead things, now that they, too, are gone?
        Gone but not forgotten. We wish we
        could forget, we wish you were gone.

        Man, if I had a nickel for every head I’ve bashed in…

        We’re done here. Time to move on. Grab the gas, the food, the liquor.
        Not for heavy drinking. We’re not stupid.
        Just a short for courage every time we have to lift the gun,
        (the bat the pipe the pole the stick the shovel)

        Re-populating the earth is our biggest joke.
        It’s still plenty inhabited.
        We’re the raiders, the aliens, seeking firma on what we thought
        was our terra. Because how can we win?
        How can we kill masses, millions,
        every one of them a person? Even if we were all up to bat swinging every second we couldn’t do it.

        We will do it until we die. Then die again. Do they
        die again on their own?

        They must. They were once human, how can they not still be people?
        How can they not still think, dream, fuck, dance?

        As a species, they do not make sense.
        Where lies their predatory edge for survival, except in overwhelming numbers? How is there
        animation without breath, thought, heartbeat?

        How is there instinct without a brain of one’s own?
        Alien life, life as we don’t know it.
        We’ve switched planets but it was an accident, a mistake, we swear.

        There’s more mist now, higher grasses, blockages on the roadways.
        So we bring a chainsaw
        when we load up the car.

        We can’t stay here anymore.
        We can’t keep killing people we already know and the scavenging is too scarce out here in the country.
        Maybe we should head for the city, tempting those shining, undead teeth in the glutted billions.

        Our team is ragged, is really alive.
        Two of us sit crouched in the trunk, back door lifted halfway.

        The boys in seats clutch supplies,
        ropes and hammers and saws, food and
        gallon jugs, gasoline and vodka and
        chocolate and coats and laptops and
        all the first-aid kits and antibiotics
        we could find, as if it would make a difference if one of us even got barely scraped by one gleaming tooth of that horde.

        We have a driver and a man sitting shotgun, fer real. He got it because
        he called it, grabbed it, cocked it.

        The only break in tension is action; roadblocks by long-dead farmers, huddled moaning masses off in the distance. Abandoned, beeping cruisers and trucks and overturned ambulances coated inside and out in brown blood, doors creaking open in the windy mist.

        I had never before turned my imagination to the macabre, but now corners scare me.
        The edges of darkness scare me. I’ve made my peace with Death, but Un-Death, that bastard,
        chuckles at my every effort from his deck-chair, working on his tan, marshaling his armies to move
        against us with a gesture from his cocktail.
        Death is our ally! Who could ever have guessed? He sends us his implements, his implements, and we bow to him and kill and kill and kill,
        solid miles of killing.


        We can never resist the temptation of a town, searching for original life or real dead, proof it’s ending.
        Our vacation from reality can end. But we never find—
        just miles of solid killing,
        then mobile, rabbiting away from the scene.

        Killing strangers is just as hard. Maybe I met you on the internet says something as I bash your face in, maybe you’re a friend’s mother, aunt, cousin as my shovel makes your necklace explode away from your body, head hanging mostly away, a jaunty angle parallel to the ground. Maybe you grew cucumbers I ate, printed my paper, distributed my cornchips and textbooks. Maybe I’ll slam that steel into your face again, left ear to right ear, off and away.

        Make for the city. Make it there. Find convenient parking. Choose the tallest building, grab the
        supplies, the weapons, the chocolate,
        the change for vending machines.
        This is too real to pretend it’s not happening anymore.

        They said it couldn’t happen, they laughed at us for planning it all over late nights and bubbling water,
        they laughed at us and then we killed them after they were dead.
        Solid miles of killing
        grinning faces on rotting bodies.

        Generation x, y, Z knows they were all wrong.
        Magic exists, they walk again. If only we can hold out for another thousand years
        we will walk in the sky at will.

    2. I LOVE this idea!! I’m so excited! Sign me up! Where do I send my poem? I’m following you here and on Twitter and I’ll add the link and logo to my sidebar as soon as I figure it all out..

    3. Oh, duh. I guess I “reply” right here! Okay here it is, I hope you like it, I wrote it just for you.

      The Zombie’s Point of View
      Lisa Gail Green

      It’s all I can think about,
      all I can see,
      wherever I look,
      they’re calling to me.

      Oh yes, they are hiding,
      inside of their shell,
      and I know what you’re thinking –
      I’m going to Hell.

      But really how can I?
      I’m already dead.
      And it’s not like there’s much
      left inside of my head.

      Just a ravenous hunger for
      what’s inside yours.
      Oh, I used to like muffins and
      tacos and s’mores.

      But now that I’m dead,
      those things will not do,
      I have to have slimy,
      and squishy brain stew.

      Scratch that – don’t cook it,
      it’ll lose all its flavor,
      the meaty thick texture
      that I love to savor.

      It’s not like I asked
      to become walking-dead.
      But now that I am,
      it needs to be said.

      I may not be fast,
      but I’m very persistent.
      So sit back and relax,
      it just hurts for an instant.

    4. lisagailgreen says:

      Hey – not sure how else to contact you, but I started a wordpress account and I’d be honored to have “author privileges.” Just let me know how! Thanks.

    5. lisagailgreen says:

      My user name is lisagailgreen, I didn’t start a blog since I am already established elsewhere. Let me know if I need to do that in order for this to work. Thanks for your patience!

      • Tim Keeton says:

        I believe you should be good to go, and I don’t believe you have to duplicate your efforts. You could see if you can post something on here…Thx again

    6. Adam Selzer says:

      by Adam Selzer

      We sometimes speak in what we know as zombie slang
      bringing back the dead words, daddy-o
      in a last ditch effort to make ourselves feel cool
      because this town is not hip, in fact it’s a waist
      full of overgrown weeds and overgrown faces

      overgrown potholes in all the wrong places.
      But when the rain comes down on the washed out shingles
      what you hear is like the guttural whisper of a passenger train

      chuga bompa chuga bombpa chuga bompa chuga bomba bomp bomp be domp bomp
      like the lonesome bitter ghost of that old drummer who died on the sleeper
      back when the jazz daddies were still riding trains all over.
      They say he was lying on his back, straining to stick his head out the window,
      wasted on heroin for the last time and shouting out with what was left of his breath
      There’s no way I’m dying in this town!”

      But he didn’t make it, he bought the farm in the city limits and the last thing he ever wanted was a goddamn farm in the first place.

      This is what we have in this town:
      An old town square for the small town faithful, three prisons,
      a coupla tattoo parlors where there are never any sailors
      and the stretch of tracks where Black Cat Harris finally bought it.
      And I see his ghost peeking into windows in the bars late on the colder nights,
      or sometimes he’s sitting on top of the lonely traffic light on Clark and Hancock

      and I can see that he’s aged well, though on these random fleeting sightings
      I never get close enough to see that certain manic glint in his eyes
      that his friends talk about all the time in that biography that Cohen wrote.

      But when I see him under the old wooden bridge every time the train goes by
      He looks right in my direction and glows a little bit whenever the whistle blows
      and that’s when I can see, oh, yeah, that’s the glint they meant all night
      I can tell even though they’ve never found a good photograph of it
      just a murky one that someone took from too far back
      in a nightclub full of sailors somewhere in Europe during the war.

      He shouts at me in fluent zombie slang, but I can’t decipher it yet
      so mostly we just communicate by banging on whatever’s handy
      and I never know what I’m saying, except for maybe a word here and there
      but he knows what I mean and I swear to God I understand every word he drums.

      He does a little monologue about this girl he once saw on the boardwalk in Jersey
      and spouts off some famous sayings that are collected in the liner notes of his greatest hits
      but mostly he just says “Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, keep moving…”
      over and over like the record is scratched, only not quite the same
      and then as the train pulls away he disappears like a slow fade with too much echo.

      But if I listen hard enough in the middle of the night when I’m lying in bed
      I can always hear the train rumble by in some distant town outside the city limits.
      Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

    7. Angel Zapata says:

      Hi Tim.
      Great site. Becoming a member of the Undead Poets Society sounds horribly fun.

      The Playground

      They dwell below the sandbox
      where the playground blocks the sun.
      Their toys have all been broken,
      useless legs refuse to run.

      They thrash against their coffins
      frantic for the world outside.
      Living children bounce above them,
      screaming as they swing and slide.

      Beneath the dirt they’re buried,
      hapless victims of decay.
      They hide, but no one’s seeking.
      Dead throats whisper, Come and play…

    8. Appurtenant rights dammit !!!!

      Tim, read your stuff on RWP a while back, and was recently made aware after extensive testing at my Doctors office that I am, in fact an Undead Poet and that it is of the genotype Charter variety. She indicated that appurtenant rights could possibly increase my undeadness indefinitely, and promptly bit my neck to the point of bleeding. Weird huh?

      I have had a blogroll link on for several weeks now, and am infinitely more qualified since Mr Munsterman, educated me on how to trim my creations this past week, in his fine article from the Swampland.

      So, for the final requirement, I humbly submit this heartwarming tale of bipolar intervention. Have a nice weekend….
      Betrayed By A Gift Made of Gauze

      Gauze sleeves.
      White as light.
      Worn after a night
      of not so good dreams.
      Took so little effort to sweep me away.
      If only it were not so.
      But this carefully quiet waif
      captured my heart so quickly. Completely.
      Her full grown childlike hands
      flutter by, moth-like, drawn to a flame.
      Attached to the wisdom of the ancients,
      and the beauty of marble statues from the seven hills.
      So alluring. I was smitten. Instantly. Completely.
      My eyes searched for curves under her blouse
      and found, smoky blue eyes. Hair colored like late harvest fields.
      Unadorned with jewels.
      It seemed her beauty eluded her.
      She might have been, in another time,
      a castle bound maiden or dancer.
      It was clear she saw herself as
      just THAT gardener’s daughter.
      “Life never seems to work right,” she muttered to herself,
      and anyone or no one at all.
      She acted more bothered than angry.
      I doubted true anger had ever visited her up close.
      Her fragile nature never withstood
      such an internal storm.
      Lightning came at the flash of a razor, the flick of a bic.
      To love her I gave her
      the gift of a frock
      made of gauze.

      The Emotional Orphan /Jack Varnell

      • Tim Keeton says:

        Velcome, Jack! I have added you to our blogroll, and (since you began pursuing this option back when it was available) given you author rights as our 13th and final Charter Member Undead Poet. You may use the Charter member insignia on your website, blog, wherever.

        Rhyme on, my (persistently) undead friend!

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