Halloween Poetry (4) October 31, 2o15

Sadly, I didn't get the idea to post my Halloween poetry until . . . well . . . a couple of hours ago. But here are 4 poems that I've written over the years that have Halloween themes. Enjoy.

By Darkness

 

We who choose to live by darkness

spend our nights nailing shadows to the walls,
creating curtains thick and gray for covering the windows
so neither light of day or night can force itself upon us.

 

I grasp at thin threads of cobweb hovering above

my head. They silently swing back and forth. One bare
bulb dully lights the narrow hallway; it also sways
but like a hangman’s noose waiting for a neck.

 

The shag carpet in the living room licks at my sandals.

My knee clicks a bit when I walk. I took a fall last winter
on the black-ice in the parking lot. I don’t think about it
much. In fact I don’t think much about much at all.

 

We who choose to live by darkness

sleep without a thought for dreaming.
We seldom fantasize. We shut our eyes
and pray the monster never find us.
Woodie  4-26-12 (rewrites o6-1o-12)

The Wer

 

I

 

Light a candle by the alter

Keep the darkness black and vile
At a distance do not falter
Shepard guard your wayward sheep
Mothers tend your children’s sleep
On pad foot through the midnight hollow
The Wer casts forth its savage shadow

 

II

An eyeless moon pale and somber
The devil’s tongue red and burning
Lights its way while you slumber
The stars a torch that stokes the fire
The smell of human fear, desire
Wets its wanton appetite
Its lust for flesh unsatisfied

 

III

In deep despair and dark illusion
‘Twixt the night and blink of day
Hide the seeds of hearts’ confusion
Gnarled fangs dripping, craving
The sweeter blood of virtue waning
Weakened by those fiendish jaws
Death grips the soul in silent awe

 

IV

And spirits brave quake and shiver
‘Neath the heavy cloak of honor
Ghastly, pallid chills delivered
By the gentle click of talons
‘Gainst the fragile windowpane
The end of childhood close at hand
When The Wer stalks the land 
Woodie 11-26-o5

I love Halloween!

 

The sun is finally going down

the moon dressed in her starry gown
the season’s here for children’s glee
tonight’s the night of Halloween.

 

Monsters dark and nasty ghouls

will fill the haunted night with boos
and candy apples tart and sweet
will fill our bags on Halloween.

 

I’ll dress myself as Spider-Man

then door to door and hand in hand
with little sister Sara Lee
I’ll beg for candy on Halloween.

 

I hope I do not see a ghost

I think they frighten me the most
the pumpkin’s carved he looks so mean
Sometimes it’s scary on Halloween.

 

Mother quick no time to waste

the witches’ brewed us treats to taste
my friends are dancing down the street

MOM, Hurry up! Come on!
It’s Halloween!
Woodie 9-26-09 (rewrites 1o-25-13)

The Gobbley Goom

 

The evening moon is burning bright

The door is locked-up good and tight
The world outside burns dark with gloom
Beware sweet children the Gobbley Goom

 

He stalks on leggies made of clay

His face is yellow with decay
His breath smells like a rotting tomb
A nasty brute is the Gobbley Goom

 

When midnight comes he roams the streets

He looks for children bads to eats
The child who doesn't clean its room
A tasty treat for the Gobbley Goom

 

I heard there was a boyish brat

As dirty as an alley cat
And late one night he met his doom
Becomin’ a stew for the Gobbley Goom

 

There was a little girl they say

Who always had to have her way
She never learned to sweep a broom
Guess what? Yup! She got served up
as brunch for the Gobbley Goom

 

So all my precious ones take care

Mind your manners and brush your hair
Do all the things good children do
Or the Gobbley Goom will come FOR YOU!
Woodie 1o-31-2oo9 (rewrites 1o-23-14)

And there you have it, my Halloween poetry! They may be more BUT I'll save it for next year! Happy Halloween!

 

 

  

Bits & Pieces October o7, 2o15

I write "flash" poems every now and hen and post them on Facebook. They're off the top of my head, no rewriting, what you see is what you get. Facebook is doing this "memories" thing where they post the posts you made last year. I found a few of those flash poems, worked on them a bit and along with a couple of old poems  created one poem . . . sort of. Judge for yourself their worth.

Bits & Pieces

1

I don't dream as often as I should,

as well as I could. I tend to fantasize
in  reruns, streaming old episodes,
the ones in black and white where
it always ends quite bad for the protagonist,
no happy endings, inevitable sorrow.
Like Walt or Tony, I fading into the credits
accompanied by some old song
that no one remembers the name of. . .

 

2

My thoughtful-self chooses the late evening

(or is it early, early morning?)
to come along, pounding on the door,
scratching at the screen like a lost cat
or sometimes a restless mouse
searching for the cheese.

 

I never whispered a word into your ear

that you would ever care to hear.
I usually save such nonsense
for winter, when the moon neglects
to shine or I haven't found
a dream worth falling asleep on.

 

3

Silent yawns, hands, fingers

staggering about, short, awkward steps
across the computer’s uneven sidewalk.
If they saw them, the poetry police
would be suspicious. But my fingers
haven't touched a glass of beer
in so long a time. They’ve forgotten
how comforting a cold one can feel.

 

4

A sip of cold coffee—I glance up,

Just in times to see
a shadow standing in the door.

 

My heart beats somewhat slower

than a drum, somewhat faster than
the march of mourners toward the graveyard.

 

His hands bloom two large fists,

scarred knuckles, wrinkled flesh
marred by liver spots, dark and brown . . .
the lifeless color of dried rust.

 

Hair, only a fond memory for the top of his

creased skull.  The sides and back
still alive in long, gray strains
of what was once unruly, red hair.

 

I recognize the eyes. two blue rocks,

a hard, unwavering glare,
that carves its memory, into my brain.

 

He tries to talk, his lips move

but not a sound— No, there is a sound.
The one that leaves make on a windy,
autumn day, the one
the dead make upon the slab . . .

 

I blink, he’s gone, just like that,

like a spirit or a dream— No, neither
spirit or a wayward fantasy, but a thing
it surely was . . . standing at the door.

 

5

I’m suspicious of that dark cloud
nibbling at the elm tree tops
just outside my window.

 

It moves like a black buffalo.

Quietly,  grazing on the lively sky,
on the rusty eves of houses.

 

No threat of rain, not a rumble thunder.

But that could change because it might
if it chooses unleash an angry downpour.

 

Its companion, a winter breeze that gently

tickles at said sad trees, the burnt
grass that wishes, prays for spring.

 

And there it is, quite suddenly, the rain.

Big, juicy drops committing suicide
in the middle of the day,
churning the sidewalks bloody gray.

 

I will not mourn for Nature’s tears

though they’re  forced to die on her command.
I do, however, weep for man.
Woodie 1o-o6-15

Gunny Boys October o2, 2o15

Stuff happens sometimes in life and you just feel like you need to say or try to do something. Another Mass Murder yesterday. I wrote a bit about it on The Daily (W)Rite but not very much. Why. Well, because it happens so often these Mass Murders that I'd just be repeating myself.

The poem I'm posting is an old poem about Mass Murder. Well, maybe it's more about our reaction as American citizens to such atrocities. I think it's obvious what I'm talking about in this poem, but you never can tell. Let me know what you think.

Gunny Boys

The gunny boys ride high today, they’re shootin’ up the mornin’ sky today.
Ragged jeans and tractor hats, six packs of beer, all blurry eyed.
They beat the dawnin’ sun into submission with their semi-automatics,
and their hallow pointed ammunition. They don’t need permission
‘cos the Bill of Rights done give ’em liberty to do just what the heck
they please on private property. The stratosphere is free, you see,
it don’t belong to you nor me, to none but God Almighty! Yes, and
He, Himself sports a B.A.R. He done scored in that war way back
in ‘44. So, He don’t mind a few stray rounds a buzzin’ by His golden
crown . . . although His angels up on high do tend to frown,
become a bit alarmed when redneck gun boys armed with AK-47s
blow to waste their sweet suburban homes in heaven.

 

My dog and me sit on the porch a scratchin’ at our fleas, we watch them

drunken gunny boys across the gravel street blow tiny holes in ever after.
How they smirk each time the blast sends mama’s scrawny cat a runnin’
for the cover of my daddy’s beat up Ford— But oh my Lord.
That skinny redneck with them sharp gray eyes that dirty AC/DC T-shirt
tied around his scarecrow waist . . . Yeah, that goober’s lookin’ right at me
as he humps a 12 gauge pump and licks his lips and moans and grunts and groans—
Man, it’s  the only lovin’  that boy’ll ever know.

 

Luckily for me, a flock of barnyard geese take to air; AC/DC locks

his red-eyed stare on them . . .  and suddenly, he starts a singin’
softly a good ol’ Sunday hymn :

 

Go tell it on the mountain

Over the hills and far away
Go tell it on the mountain
That Jesus Christ is born . . .

 

And as the friendly birds majestically ascend,

they gracefully circle young AC/DC’s greasy, redneck head . . .
and then, and then . . . BLAM! BLAM! BLAM…!
Three giant birds hit ground like lead . . . dead. 
All the other geese flee for the shelter of the Blackjack trees
on the far side of the fence. AC/DC’s drunken friends,
they look at him, surprised . And he just smiles a toothy grin says, “What?”
And boy, they laugh, they laugh so hard, they laugh so loud,
they slap ‘im proudly on the back as they stagger to their truck.
And dog and me watch helplessly as the pickup rumbles out of sight
leaving in its violent wake red clouds of bloodied earth and down
that settle with a graveyard hush upon the recently deceased . . . geese.
Dog, he gazes up at me, but I can’t look at him. That mangy
cat crawls out from underneath my daddy’s car and joins us on the steps.
My daddy’s flathead Ford . . . That damn thing . . . it never ran for shit.
Woodie o1-o4-13 (rewrites o3-o4-13, 11-1o-13, o1-2o-14, 1o-o2-15 )


 

Cleansing October o1, 2o15

Here's another one of those poems that I started but never finished and wound-up forgetting that it even existed! A short piece that has more of a specific structure than most of my work. When I look at it, it seems that it does have something worth saying even though it may just be a small bit of thought.

Cleansing

 

Sweeping up what's left of me,

toss the broken pieces
I no longer need

 

into a plastic garbage can.

Difficult to rid myself of all
those brittle bits of trash

 

which spent the whole of life

contained within my leaky brain.
Too much mold and rot to fit inside 

 

the largest Hefty Bag. Memories

are a lot like Autumn leaves,
the more you rake ‘em up 

 

in awkward piles of nice and neat,

that many more fall from the tree.
An endless chore, forgetting is.
Woodie 1-24-12 (rewrites 1o-o1-15)