Vengeance

On frigid nights along the moonlit way
when the trees have a propensity to sway
their dreadful crooked branches shaking
comes the vengeful mistress bent on slaking
a thirst to find her deceitful paramour
who once threw her with abrupt clamor
down a ravine for refusing to bend
to his wish of their relationship to rend
and return to his wife who knew naught
but bludgeoned him to death when caught;
Finding his headstone, the spectre cackles
sounding of a chattering, ill-omened grackle.

Final Spell

A collaborative poem between me and Morgan from booknvolume written specifically for Halloween. Morgan was another early poet I met here on WordPress and her poetry contains a startling beauty few can capture. The poem below is also posted at her site. Please visit to explore more of Morgan’s offerings!

Graveyard
Image by AshenSorrow at Deviantart.com

Willows Whisper in muted Tones
O’er the graveyard’s Hallow Groans,
While the Pale Moon Silently Sails
The Midnight Hour where Darkness Prevails.

Was that the Stir of Some Ghostly Spectre?
Here Upon this Unkempt Hectare
Do the Wails of Mournful Souls Resound
On this Night when They Roam, Unbound?

Shadows Ripple, Light Shifts and Bends,
Echoing Wails as the Witching Hour Ascends,
Ribbon of Moonlight upon the Darkling Road
Where Underworld Denizens Taunt and Goad.

Scrambling, Groping for a dimly Lit Path,
I Come Again Under a Spiritual Attack
And Cry and Plead for an Exit Most Needed
Before the Foul Ghouls will have Succeeded.

Ebon Night Resounding round
As the Earth moves with rumbling Sound,
Feel the Icy Grip of Mortal Fear
E’en as Glowing Matin draws Near.

With One Last Breath, I Cry to You
To Act with Caution and Beware of Fools
On Halloween, They’ve Caught Me at Last
Against Moonbeams, the Final Spell is Cast!

Invitation to a Demon

The monster crouches upon the chair
Around him tread? No one dares
This stranger reeks of putrid scent
Discarded peels and riper vents
Eyes flare with malicious light
Struck with each glance, another plight
Milk won’t sweeten his dour mien
Nor holy water rinse him clean
Speak to him and he’ll count you friend
But don’t doubt, he’ll make no amends
Seven years, you’ll dance his frightful tune
Until death take you, far too soon
So heed my words, they are your boon:
Grant him entrance and it’ll be your doom.

Keeper

Dark hearts dipped in dark ink
Left smoldering, ashy-bitter
In attic corners
Teeth-chatteringly patient
For the pleasured thrust
Of your fanged consumption
Pale before the musky thrill
Of preparing
(For you)
A sumptuous (murderous)
Meal.