New Document
RHYSLING PORTFOLIO FOR LORI R. LOPEZ — 2020 Poems
Lori R. Lopez
lorilopez13@
contact@
Thank you for reading and considering my verse!
Poems first published in 2020:
SHORT POEMS
the storm of Night
Beyond
Dismal
The Miserables
on the edge of night
Firebird
Graveyard Hours
The Twilight Lady
Bitter Sweet
Shudderous Qualms
Autumn’s Descent
Mud Baby
On Eternity’s Brink
The Beast Who Abides
Marionette
the storm of Night
I am a monstrous gale that cleanses land
A wildfire of air, scouring, devouring soil and sea
With wolfen howls, lashed by darkness to
Purify the earth, wood, flesh; the rock and brush
Sweeping debris, dead leaves and riffraff from
The surface of things
To collect in gullies and hollows, the bottom of
Lakes and streams, ocean floors. Each gutter
Dredged by humankind running deep underground
Sapping the planet’s blood and soul
Draining her lifeforce, harnessing her elements
Stripping her bare
Leaving only plastic. Beads, rings, bottles, caps
Littering any possible place, even the
Bellies of fish and whales. The lungs of every
Living gasping creature polluted by smoke and other
Nasty fumes, turning them toxic, cancerous
Insanely unhealthy
I am the Nightwind, the breath of Sleep
The negative speck between Dusk and Dawn
Once I was the scent of Evenshade
The gloaming’s magnificent starlight fall
Hear the crystalline drops splatter
Like hard-edged rain
Tears of sorrow. For now I must be the voice of
Castigation, the cold-steel tongue of Fury
Speaking myriad languages in wordless syllables
That hurl emotions spear-like to every corner
One long harsh scream to reach all that exist
And shake them
A wail of anguish so intense and immensely
Disturbing, it will wash away the pain and suffering
Shatter the bonds of greed and evil that choke
Our matter to the core. I am the storm of Night
And it is my solemn grievous duty to rescue
Revive, restore the Day
Before all chance is lost.
37 lines
The Horror Zine Magazine Spring 2020 Print Edition, February 2020
The Horror Zine Magazine May 2020 Issue (online)
* * *
Beyond
What do you know of the places below,
the crawlspaces and crevices wherein
cold nocturnals curl to sleep more,
grrrrowling gently whilst they snore?
Between most strands of spidery thrall,
so deep and syrupy, pooled ethereal,
tucked in rows of viiiiiiiiiiiiinish decay,
the Midnight Terrors wait to play . . .
In nether-reaches past a chasmous yawn
where lies the opening cosmic eyelet
of Sunset’s dawn; crouched nefariously for
a tardy awakening furtive outpour.
From shadow and corner they’ll creep!
Out of the depths in a Grand Mal Pageant,
any manner of cretins prance and foray,
festooned with moldy green and gray.
To the off-beat of the Moon’s tambourine,
the howl of an angry Twilight Loon;
peeping with a thousand-or-so-eyed stare
at the skittish gait of a reluctant Night Mare.
Far past the fringes of Never More,
beyond the borders of Nobody’s Land;
on demonic feet wearing threadbare socks,
these darlings of dusk sneak out of the box.
Teeming up cracks to greet Day’s demise,
they stamp countless tracks like little lost sheep.
Sprung from bed with the least of care,
Evil Dreads feast on hearts and souls laid bare.
Rollicking madcaps they scurry, Devil-may-care,
though not in a hurry the beasties of Noir.
Capering, tapering, picking stout locks,
these nasties are awfully unorthodox.
Then burrow again neath handcrafted quilts
as the Hourglass measures its up-and-down tilts . . .
ere the Sun spoil their eldritch eeriest fun —
all the leeriest conniptions they reap on the run.
Abiding beyond till the fireball succumbs
in a gloaming sky from which shadiness comes,
disrupting their slumber to maraud once again:
the darklings, the dingies, and their closest kin.
40 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 49, Spring, March 2020
* * *
Dismal
Out of wet murk thick as black velvet oil
Slides a hag, darker of heart than pitch
So morose in nature and substance is she
That her name would make you itch
Ears may bleed at the awful sound
And the rest of your life be accursed
She only appears on the deepest Midnights
When lights, even stars have all burst
And everything positive’s been upended
Or buried down a shallow unremarkable grave
Where it won’t be found till arrives the mourning
To salvage what shards can Dawn save
An abysmal and lachrymose state of affairs
Whenever this crone should crack her eyes
How we shiver and moan on such terrible Eves
Yet most of our days could not realize
The true cause of our dreads, our unnamed fears
In the hours when pulses throb or skip
For it’s such quiet turns of horrendous throes
That lead stable senses and minds to slip!
Her presence is nothing but a candle’s wax
Melting away, then forming anew
On each dismal dusk that becomes too dense
Sure to bring havoc from a witch’s stew
You had best not resist . . . yield to the frights
Or suffer the damage of shudders and quakes
Like a ship the commotion could break you apart
A body can die in the thrall of her shakes.
28 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 49, Spring, March 2020
* * *
The Miserables
They’re a clan devoid of couth or common traits,
not to mention being especially bizarre.
Their behavior is extravagantly peculiar,
and a little bit essentially Bête Noire.
The Miserables are not the best of neighbors,
for they haven’t learned the meaning of Polite —
each morning making racket much too early,
then arguing like mumps and grumps all night.
The world could not embrace so dismal natures,
the lawlessness exuding from their cores,
a morbid flair of undebonairy awfultry . . .
’Tis ill-advised to let them lick your floors.
Never, in case you glance by chance upon them,
for a glaringly rotten misbegotten curse,
would the risk or need arise to raise your gaze
and meet a sorrily-orbed stare in the reverse.
They might be Second Cousins of the Kraken,
and twice removed from Sharks with arms and legs.
The cretins waltz and minuet Piratically,
balancing on sea-limbs and wood pegs.
Revolutionary, evolutionary, born of madness,
they are not the nicest creeps to be around . . .
The crumps and lumps are likeliest to send an invite
for a bite from which you’ll nevermore be found.
24 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 49, Spring, March 2020
* * *
on the edge of night
Way out there on the fringes of the nightscape
where stirs the soup of grimmer-than-dark treacheries
that skim the surface of bloodpuddles and woe
lie untold creepen morasses, the goop of unsettled dreams
bottomless bogs of sylvan fog, wretched surprises,
of screeches that curdle the spine’s fluid to ghost-mists
that dance between Pines and a Willow’s Weep
like rivers of regretful undone endeavors that can never
be retrieved or returned, from the depths of tribulation
lodged in the bellies of dead Whales flopped on a beach
like the songs of Greek Tragedies and nautical tunes
crooned by mariners at the foot of an ocean’s sleep
Out there turbulous entities scramble and scrawl underfeet
unable to touch ground, floating in the netherpools of
spectacular eddies and oddities, for that is the zone of
No Return, the edge of a twilight gloaming unawakening brink
where Day’s End shattered heavily to scattered bits
and who can tell where it terminates or begins
where it drops off into a gulf of deplorable horrible mayhem
the dingiest fathoms that harbor unimaginable beasts
children of the Tide’s worst nightmares and lost screams
silent as the Universe without an atmospheric bubble
or breath of relief, without a coastline or limit
sharp as a blade . . . it will make your skin bleed.
24 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 49, Spring, March 2020
* * *
Firebird
I am soaked in death’s mildew,
crawling, unable to stand,
eyes and heart swollen by tears,
limbs blackened with the decay of being
lost, forgotten, somewhere beneath
where the voices of the damned
and the innocent mingle —
and cannot be heard. Except by us.
We listen to each other’s misery,
the wailing of doomed tormented souls,
arias of remorse and despair.
A dark twisted poetry. Verses
from the void. And it only adds
to our own personal suffering.
A beak tears at my neck,
searing flesh, its febrile bite
hotter than the blazes of this landscape.
Beyond lies an opposite horror,
the cutting edges of frozen knifeblades.
I have reached a threshold in my
struggle to escape, yet ice will neither dull
nor extinguish the burn of this place.
I could conjure a thousand worthless excuses
for being punished — no different than
anyone else’s habit of self-defense or abuse.
Guilt, like depression, can manifest
tangible shapes, convincing forms that
make us believe we are impaired, tainted,
afflicted, our moral or physical or mental
disease, condition, far worse
than in reality we are. Do not trust. Them.
Shadow figures. Phantoms. Illusions.
They are not actually there.
Hallucinations.
But I am afraid this bird of fire is no
mere fiction. I fear
that I am truly in the Abyss —
for no good reason!
I fear the hellbird is me.
39 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 50, Summer, June 2020
* * *
Graveyard Hours
A spook must flee the Sun’s rude shock!
The crowing Rooster’s “Ode To Peacock”.
Whether ruled by gears, a mechanical tock,
Digital clickings of hands to mock
The passage of Time in ticks or Epoch;
An endless flow round the chimes of a clock.
In Graveyard Hours do revenants flock . . .
Ere the light reclaim their stagnant breath.
Bound by the iron of bars and gate —
A pen that is stifling however ornate —
When left outside to perambulate —
A soul may tread the earth too late —
Drifting the gloom on a certain date —
Alarming those who investigate
In a vain attempt to communicate —
Or scare the living half to death!
Chained to their motives, fickle of plot.
Springing from earth like a Forget-Me-Not.
Skipping, slipping from shade to inkblot.
Restless and flimsy, haunting a house
With the stealthy scur of a secretive mouse,
Temperaments prone to moan and grouse.
Drafty and aloof, transparent or opaque,
The spirits are willing to keep you awake!
Phantomesque figures clad in heartache,
Flimsy and tattered as a paper snowflake.
Preternaturally eerie as Unbirthday Cake;
Perhaps undertaken by a dismal mistake,
Yet home they must at the crack of Daybreak.
Melting quicksilver through a closing Veil . . .
Wan traces remain; few slippers are shed.
Apparitions may travel to where they lie dead,
But back to the Nether at Dawn must head,
Drawn by the yank of paranormal thread —
Jerked from the Surface; Quantum-sped.
Though some will appear in the shining stead
To fill bright hours with a curtain of dread . . .
Ghouls are less frail in the moonlit pale.
Crackling and lucid, masters of surprise;
Traversing with a wail to terrorize . . .
A specter inhabits the blinks of our eyes,
Then pounces out and we realize
No space is empty where darkness lies!
If you listen close you can hear the cries
Of the Gloaming’s roamings and lullabies.
These Graveyard Hours are rather brusque
For wisps who have lost their physical husk —
Mere loominous sparks in each drop of Dusk.
48 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 50, Summer, June 2020
* * *
The Twilight Lady
Her realm is the frigid air when gathers
the least light, the most shadow to be found.
Edges in motion like dark sinuous flames:
tresses billow, her dresses float; they fluctuate.
Soft layers of majestic ballgown, nocturnal mane!
A satin queen, Miss Delicado Curtins presides . . .
Her skin like the finest Chocolates, the kind
wrapped in pretty colors, but she would tell you —
“I don’t melt!” Watching, royally amused; regally
aloof, aloft, alert to the foibles of subjects.
Humankind, burdened by massive shortcomings,
weighted by enormously petty or pithy concerns.
How she feels for them, roots for them; a figure
of deep compassion, viewing their struggles.
The image of a colorful spirit, a Twilight Lady
in vibrant purples, blues, golds, red trim.
Cheshire-grinning, Miss Delicado Curtins abides —
the height of fashion, a passion for vivid hues!
Yet you will only glimpse her beauty, her
bright spectacle at your rock-bottom neediest.
If the Night is long, without respite, Dawn
a distant gleam at the farthest end of a tunnel.
And your luck is nowhere in sight; your
pockets empty of hope, any glint of salvation.
Brimming with ill-fortune, desolation,
false and hollow sentiments, bleak pity.
That is when she takes your hand or pats
your cheek whispering, “Don’t fret.”
And whether you survive till Day or not,
she will lead you to the other side.
30 lines
Space & Time Magazine, Autumn Issue #138, September 29, 2020
* * *
Bitter Sweet
On an unctuous Eve would insinuate
The slither of a Cobra, the grace of a Ghost
That can drift through walls with burglarous steal
And the lingering smell of well-burnt Toast.
This punctuous duo had a flair for drama.
Their creptitude bled down a deeply carved street,
Spilling Caramel goodies in a sticky trail,
Causing kids to weep for the Bitter Sweet.
“No candy for you!” they blithely taunted.
“It’s melting away in a Chocolate Tide!
Get used to it, children, the world is that way.
One day you’ll be happy you cried!”
The dreadful pair slunk merrily along
Spreading Halloween tears, a wave of dejection —
Adolescents and Toddlers reduced to sobs;
Leaving Teens and Adults with no confection.
Passing lanterned porches of ghoulish fare,
The terrified grins on Black Cats and Skellies;
Pumpkinhead Goblins and see-through Specters
That crooned eerie notes like an opera of wails.
Reminisced the Spook in a whispery voice:
“I remember these lanes, once upon a time.
It was such a thrill. In a haunting party
We roamed the shadows until Morning’s chime!”
The Serpent lisped, “We shall have our fun,
my wissspy friend! Just wait for the punchline.
It’s coming sssoon.” They paused at a door.
The Spirit invited his companion to dine.
“Trick or Treat?” boomed the Bogey,
Expression glum. His tone rang dour.
A lady was caught in a flummoxed knot;
She tasted afraid and a little bit sour.
The Snake bulged and beamed in satisfaction.
“I believe this will be an exceptional night!”
Tapping doors or windows from house to house,
Scaring up random horrors to their delight . . .
“We must do this again! We’re so awful at it.
I think we do make a most terrible team,
And we ought to continue it year after year.
I fear I am suffering a very good dream!”
Vainly the vapor tried to pinch himself,
But the poor Apparition could not gain a grip.
Nonetheless both agreed to meet in twelve months.
Then a Viper promptly gave his pal the slip.
And a Ghost leaned back for a solitary nap,
Sinking into earth like a swooning deadbeat,
To faintly recall the best Halloween —
When he and a chum turned the Bitter Sweet.
44 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 51, Halloween/Fall, October 2020
* * *
Shudderous Qualms
All year I have waited for a single day,
yet thoughts of these hours never stray.
Immersing my head in shudderous qualms:
The Tightrope Walk of fits and calms.
A mind well-inclined toward macabreties —
Alert for certain shifts, peculiarities.
While eyeballs grown wide beneath the covers
Imagine all manner of shiverous hovers.
Alurk betwixt shades of the glims and me,
In case I should peek, what terrors to see?
I cannot foretell nor risk a mere guess,
For I am quite the coward I must confess.
And such that slithers inside my brain
Is naught compared to the true insane!
Nerve-prancing to the beat, an unsteady heart;
Lips mumble, cajoling to not fall apart.
I stumble from bed, sock-dusting the floor,
Intrigued and determined to know what-for.
These fraught furtive steps across the line
Of light and gloom do chill the spine!
That creak of the floor an unsettling house,
Or is what bestirs more soup than mouse?
Piano-Wire tension keeps me attuned.
Gothically occult; cobweb-festooned . . .
Giddily gruesome in retro attire —
Spookily clad as a Witch or Vampire . . .
I fear I have frightened a night-guest away!
And on Halloween, what can I say?
Come back, this is how I always dress!
And why no-one visits for Cards or Chess.
They won’t even knock on All Hallows’ Eve
To exchange a scare. How it makes me grieve.
32 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 51, Halloween/Fall, October 2020
* * *
Autumn’s Descent
There is no scourge like Autumn’s descent
A widow-hag who moans and staggers a bit
To claim the living in a ghastly shroud
A drab lengthy veil she trails over ground
Dragged through mire and brambled spaces
The raggedy fen where unburied remains
Enrich loam trod by a gaunt Femme Fatale
Pacing Gothic ruins of prior seasons
How crisp and dainty the tracks of colors
Tumbled in her wake as she hobbles the earth
Reminding that even beauty must wilt
And beyond her steps come frost and snow
What was green and ripe now lying withered
Dry as September bones; the remains of a crop
Wasted to naught, scattered and preserved
By November’s cold. Forget them not . . .
’Tis the moment for witches and woebegones
To rise out of spells: conjurings, enchantments
The Harvest Moon’s long gilded shadow lured
Through the reaping of souls, whispers of grain
Shivering in a cool breath of October wind
As orange and brown tones prevail. Festooned
Till December grays when raptor wings beat
Their furies aloft, toward the Twilight Sinistre
Yet this is the time most memorable to those
Residing on the edge, whose hearts beat wilder
Who see the shades darker and heed the nightcalls —
The hoots and screeches. Voices of Nocturne
We dance and delight at the tunes of a forest
Bleak ballads of a graveyard, haunted abodes
And wait three-fourths of the year for the world
To resemble us again and speak our language
Impatient for Bats, Black Cats to be honored
And Pumpkins to grin as kids demand their due!
Gloriously at home among Spiders and Cobwebs
Embraced by kindred spirits in the lachrymose Fall.
36 lines
Tales from the Moonlit Path, Halloween 2020 Issue, October 29, 2020
* * *
Mud Baby
The water of the lake mirrors an adjacent sky —
and a bleakness of emotion, this numbness
of soul that shrouds me as I drift in a Rowboat
through a gulf of stillness. It’s too quiet.
Focus on the setting. The flat glazed surface.
The fuzzy uncertain contours of trees, like
one of those inkblots they ask you to define.
I see only Death. Hear only silence.
When does it change from a tranquil scene
of mesmerizing foliage? When did the first
ripple emanate? Did a bird fly up? Did water
lap the side? Was there a creak, a slight dip?
My brain grapples for connections, leaps at
conclusions. What does it mean? I don’t know!
It’s irritating. Upsetting. I must listen. And wait.
Will there be any warning, a splash? A drop?
Something is in the lake. Nobody believed it.
Just an old legend. I was making things up,
the way I always did. Except it was true!
I didn’t push my Little Brother . . .
It was no accident either. Cory was dragged.
Snatched by pale clutches. They found him
lifeless in the muck. Drowned. Sure, I admit,
I was annoyed at him. I didn’t shove the kid!
Now I’m back — to prove my innocence.
Using myself for bait. I don’t care about
hunting ghosts, only clearing my name.
And getting even. Killing the Mud Baby.
I’m older. Stronger. Try and grab me,
you piece of slime! The memory tortures.
Grief, guilt. A day until my Twelfth Birthday,
Corny wanted a ride in Granddad’s boat.
I was supposed to be watching him,
but wound up staring at whatever yanked
my younger sibling from his seat. Coated
in algae and silt. Hair like pondweeds.
If it doesn’t go well, if the video endures,
I want everyone to know — I loved him.
More than I showed. Back when he was
small I held him, wouldn’t put him down.
Was that a face? A flash of movement.
The boat is rocking. It’s here. It’s causing
turbulence. Show yourself. Come up!
Quit hiding! Here I am, come and get me.
Oh man! Behind — Crawled out —
Grotesque — I can’t — Too powerful —
Strangled, choking — My knife fell in —
Hope I’m getting this —
(A loud splash.)
49 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 52, Winter, December 2020
* * *
On Eternity’s Brink
The restless weary stalk this earth
in shadows of a black ocean tide.
Their steps will drag, carve tracks of rue,
trenches like the furrows upon faces
that have witnessed worse and brighter days.
Or the deadlight in someone’s eye
when hope has gone out like a candle,
the future a dimming flame,
tapering down to a burnt wick
afloat in wax. Regrets the burden of
limp shoulders, borne across a sea of dusten
ash; ponderous and un-redeemable
for credit, un-recyclable, un-exchangeable,
just terribly inexorably heavy.
A weight that must be carried to the tenebrous
grave and beyond — the place of origin
to which returns the mortal coil
from whence their lives, their seeds
and roots were sprung. Disappointed, spiritless,
dog-tired footprints leaving no trace,
invisible to the living ranks,
yet they trip through ruts and welter the
deep mire of tear-sodden toil, remains
of the dead passing before them . . .
unglimpsed until traversing that line —
entering the veil on the brink of Eternity.
That dark threshold some postpone
with earnest measures; by healthful caution,
exertion, a feast of plants. While others
play and teeter precarious at the steep verge
of a waiting abyss, laughing and toasting
Death. But it is the struggle for moral justice,
truth and dignity with selfless concern that
elevates, preserves, most heals the living,
thwarting the Reaper’s grasp — the cold
and lonely confines of a thankless forgotten
tomb. On the edge of Forever one can almost
touch angels. Or fall to the depths where
no glim of virtue, of hope will reach.
39 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 52, Winter, December 2020
* * *
The Beast Who Abides
An ancient napped in an overgrown cave
Invisible to the eye unless immensely riled
Feeding off the arrogance of hunter-brutes
Who lay in wait to ambush the mild
This guardian of the noble creature realm
Existed for a timeless eternal age
Through every form of pernicious calamity
An icon of Nature’s underliant rage
Abiding in a dormant state of solitude
Asleep for a breathless age of Kings
While battles fought for land and gold
Were the most important things
Till an awakening of Taliona should pass
Her crass silver orbs glare alert again
Unsheathed like swords, cold as steel
Impaling hearts of unkind men
On a feast of killers the appetite grew
So many to be had in a tangled wood
Traipsing half-loaded, trampling the wild —
Become the quarry to spare the good
For the beast had her own wicked sport
Yet offered more odds to survive
Than was granted to any of the prey
That they would callously deprive —
Of precious life, the chance to rear —
Everything dartlings held most dear
In a natural untainted atmosphere
Absent the terrors of man-made fear
The crack of guns an alarming sound
Disturbing a tranquil forest day
The presence of predacious trophy-seekers
A blight that must be warned away
Lest a sylvan call for justice ring,
Pealing across these brackenous tides
To claim the hides of two-limbed intruders . . .
A banquet of flesh for the beast who abides.
36 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 52, Winter, December 2020
* * *
Marionette
The Marionette sits with a stiff frozen smile
A tinder heart throbbing on the Toy-Store shelf
Wishing for a home like an orphan child
Or the last pup in a litter, staring from
A window at the world’s mystery
Eyes round, sad yet eager with expectation
Yearning for parents, a place to belong
To be special and cherished, embraced by
A family who was waiting to find that
Precious one-of-a-kind face beaming with
Joy, excitement, hope. Unlike the Marionette
Whose grin will never change
His expression engraved, too wooden
But his solid heart pounds with the beat
Of a Carpenter’s hammer, the same as
A child longing to be wanted, chosen —
Lifted from the shelf one miraculous day.
Who knew there would be a period when
Nobody shopped in actual stores, the world
Battened up, locked down, Closed Signs on
Every door? Tipped awkwardly, the Marionette
Sits crookedly in that uncomfortable pose
Under a coating of gray dust
Forsaken, dejected, untouched for months
It seems an eternity to a toy with a pounding
Ache, an urgent core, the need to be held
Played with, adored. Who wants to
Leave this silent cheerless tomb
Where even the Cuckoo Clock had stopped
Ticking, popping out and chirping the
Hour! Utterly alone, abandoned
A carved heart may grow harder still
That intense desire extinguished, expired
With a gust of Fate, a wind of illness.
The Plague eventually abates. Streets
Fill once more with traffic, life, activity —
Yet the Toy Shop remains unopened.
The Marionette’s last fading spark
Dies out. Unnoticed. Unattended
Uncounted among the casualties.
30 lines
Space & Time Magazine, Winter Issue #139, December 21, 2020
LONG POEMS
Leviathan
Into the bitter arms of Night
If Stardrops Fell
Borderline
Hinter Eve
Notre Dame is burning!
Night’s Whispered Breath
Inner Demon
Darkest Deeds
Passive-Aggressive
The Imperfect Storm
Real-Estate
Grim House
Unfair Trade
Poison Pie
Kaleidoscope
Flora Dooley’s Bad Day
The Miser’s Demise
Social Graces
The Sacrifice
The Infernal Caller
Infectious
The Whistle Stop
Pandemic Protest: May and June 2020
Leviathan
There are legends of kiddies robbed in their sleep
Rumors that give fodder to our fears and frights
Of wily creatures causing doubts and dreams
That stalk the depths of the darkest Twilights
Tales of woeful wrongs and tearful tribulations
Of slithering, smithering, blithering events
The terrible attempts to distract and confound us
Abysmal dismal horrors that nothing prevents!
There are moments we all might fall out of step
Or have yet to smother our druthers and rues
When surprises can beset from an inken vast
Upending our path into ground we don’t choose
Unstable footing that wobbles and warps
And constricts our muscles, our chest in a hug
Like an Anaconda’s ever-tight squeeze —
Crushing our body — a fist of snug
With a wily unsmiley sense of humor
The virulent viperent disdain of a Snake
Complete and replete with cold shoulderless bane
A dastardly film too sticky to shake
And so it was a child would wraptly disappear
In the misty must of downspringing showers
A monsoonish tempestuous storm in her town
Led to a mudbath, some roof-leaking hours
’Twas a rapid napping, a despicable crime
For the wondering eyes of kin to behold
Who blamed themselves and shamed each other
Deploring the vacancy in their fold
To a pair of parents with a burgeoning brood
The whole were precious; a family divided
They couldn’t a single sweet darling spare
And should fetch her back the lot decided
Marching off did the Hoffs trek a wendful track
Fretting their every step was too late
Mitzy may be the youngest one born
But her memory bore a pond’rous weight.
Stolen too the most obvious signs of abduction
Rain washed away a monster’s grim tread
Till at last sighting traces of the abomination
that plucked a wee child from her bed
This journey brought a close bunch nearer still
Toward faraway reaches rocky and parched
On the trail of a heinous Hornless Leviathan
Ventured the staunch as if starched
Tense over the fate of beloved Mitzy
Taken by a thirsty ravenous Whip-Kraken —
They found the girl had completely tamed
A Sealess Land Serpent’s temper to slacken
The Hoffs adopted an ungainly pet
Who hasn’t chomped or gulped them yet!
50 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 50, Summer, June 2020
* * *
Into the bitter arms of Night
Stalwart plods traverse the dark
of a solemn Twilight.
Quiet steps ring loudest
when all is calm and minds are hushed;
as clocks wind down to Nil,
and the soft still tempo of nocturne refrains
underscores each tread in notes of dread.
Tension slowly raised like crimson velvet
before an owl’s watchful stare,
under the Moon’s burlesque pearlesque hue,
the blinkless survey of an eventide’s
stark mood. A plain shadow-laced
atmosphere unfolds, misty trails inviting,
forged by an inkwell ocean
that has no beginning or end despite
what we might think.
Yet into the arms of Night go we:
intrepid, dauntless, dream-eyed voyagers
most without a moment’s apprehension
of the bitter straits and turbulence we may
encounter. Sailing toward the distant Dawn,
a Ghost Ship gliding through the haze of
murky unconscious, our hopes and
daylight reveries entwined.
Between Finale’s lowered drape
and Morrow’s early rise, the curtains
descend ever more, and I am most
tranquil drifting, floating amidst no shores,
my aims at rest and needs at bay . . .
I am simply here, rocking in Comfort’s
cradle, nothing to interrupt the current of
thoughts. A serene flow, gentle waves,
the dance of Sleep Fairies painting
a deep blissful scene.
Until the jolt of abrupt collision
tosses me awake! Alert . . .
My vessel run aground, my peace
disrupted. The embrace of bedtime withdrawn,
peeled away like the skin of a ripe Banana
laid open to the bite of monkey teeth!
My soul bared to the perils of Dusk
for those who cannot rest in a state of
ignorance; who cannot submerge to the depths
of the mind’s abyss — the plane where
bodies lie inert, abandoned, and spirits
take wing on magical flights — where the worst
terrors cannot reach, unless we allow them in.
Until the rebirth, the return to light,
before next we set sail, shut eyes and sink . . .
back to the bittersweet arms of Night.
50 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 50, Summer, June 2020
* * *
If Stardrops Fell
Beneath a Wolf Moon on a silver-laced night
when the fogs were dense roamed a girl in white.
Her eyes toward the clouds she flowed with the brush,
never snagged by a thorn, seldom caring to rush . . .
But if stardrops fell, the lass traced their descent
to the base of the heavens, her visage content.
And quick would she travel to pillage the shines
by filling an Hourglass for selfish designs.
All the luminous orbs gaily flickered on boughs
like a diamond-bush forest or candlelight vows.
In her haste to collect them she grew less relaxed,
her dress a bit torn, her veneer showing cracks.
Movements more rigid, aggressively paced,
intent on the prizes, the girl swiftly raced.
Peasant villagers knew to stay in on such Eves,
yet none of them gathered what she had up her sleeves.
The female a phantom, the subject of tales;
her rambles were legend, unlike those travails.
In the story they knew, a balance must be kept
by avoiding her mention, even while they slept.
Her names were untold and should never be spoken —
for to breathe either one, a truce would be broken . . .
Harsh storms of agony, blood-rains of turmoil,
bleak worlds of dismay down from ether could boil . . .
A tranquil mood nixed, transformed into rage.
The tantrum of a child. A virulent rampage.
Tease not a whisper. Bite your tongue clean off!
In these times of cold gloom, risk nary a cough.
Any syllable might come too close in sound.
Every clue was lost, not a shred to be found.
No record remained of what shouldn’t be said.
The guardians of lore were long ago dead.
Still she wandered the hills sprouting plants of Bane,
black of fire and sun, gray as ghost terrain . . .
Remote as a desert of shy desolate dunes,
an oasis of tufts solely fit for near-loons . . .
Swept by a sea of writhing frosts and vapors,
like a widow’s veil wafting feathery capers.
She pranced through the froth in a garden of fleece,
attracted by winks on her bounding caprice . . .
Chasing sparkles and shimmers of Fire-Flies;
a loner out wading the mist with mooneyes . . .
Reaching the shrubs flecked by spectral glow,
pausing to admire them, poised on tiptoe.
Then picking and plucking as if handfuls of berries
to stuff in a jar, or capturing Fairies . . .
She robbed Constellations from a Map Of The Stars,
till the single bright point at night would be Mars.
“Now finally I can get some quality sleep!”
Curled up on the grass, she was slumbering deep.
But the rest of the planet would plunge in despair,
overrun Dusk to Dawn, gangs and mobs everywhere . . .
Bad elements and brutes, bands of villainous knaves;
the savage, the ghoulish, the rotters from graves . . .
The corrupt and immoral, the stonehearted cruel;
only the two-faced could otherwise rule . . .
For the balance of Light versus Dark is precise,
and stealing the sky’s twinkle wasn’t that nice.
58 lines
The Ladies Of Horror Flash Project, February 2020
* * *
Borderline
The spot was cold and indistinct, uncertain,
with no remarkable qualities. It was simply there,
and not really anywhere. Which made me wonder
if it could stray, shift slightly from the previous
location, or if there were no path but this.
I hesitated . . .
Having passed the enigma blankly, unprepared.
What was that? Startled, I turned to peer behind
in puzzlement. I had felt a chill. And far more,
I experienced a weird sensation — a flash, a charge
of strangeness, all at once. Blatant. Stunning.
Clamorous.
Like jumbled visions and sounds. Chaotic faces,
voices, forms. Frightful expressions and screams,
lunging or plunging hurdles, heavy intense emotions.
It left me gaping, a little breathless and confused.
Down the Rabbithole, lost in the woods, outside the box
afraid . . .
Starkly, deeply, internally. In terror of what
I had just been through. And it was nothing! It was
madness! Pivoting, I saw no sign that something out of
the ordinary had occurred or been present. Absurd,
unthinkable that a random stride in my journey
affected me so.
For a crazed instant I fancied it was no place
as much as a moment, and what if it could happen at
any time, anywhere, to anyone? In need of answers,
I had to test the consequence of retracing my footsteps —
the mystery too bizarre, demanding truth,
an explanation.
Despite my fear, my utter reluctance, I ventured
back. It had little to do with finding an exact minute.
I tried to reverse and duplicate the action of treading
forward, yet knew I was not that earlier me who crossed
the threshold. I had become older. Wiser. Toughened.
A changed person . . .
Who could never be as unsuspecting, untroubled,
untraumatized again. I scoffed at the preposterous jest
of a situation that I couldn’t pinpoint or define in
physical degrees! It was clearly paranormal,
some feat of magic, or I was going insane and
required help.
Life isn’t always Multiple Choice. Being a loner,
independent by nature, possibly to a fault, I chose the most
logical or acceptable conclusion: There was an uncanniness,
an eerieness about it. Preternatural, and by that I meant
peculiar. Downright odd. I must have wandered
beyond the pale . . .
That division between what is and isn’t allowed —
and this was out of the reasonable limits. Clumsily
I had stumbled over the fine or dotted line into
another zone with a loose or alien code of
principles. I did not belong, and yet the cold spot
devoured my liberty.
I can’t say whether I was in the wrong place at the
right time or the right place at the wrong time . . .
I am there and shall remain, part of the uproar,
a piece of the bedlam and babble. That appalling
burst of shock and disorder when you set foot
upon its curse.
I could have escaped. My egregious error was
in returning to do it again. For that I shriek
and shove to warn the unaware. To chase off
the oblivious. “Keep going! Do not repeat my
fate!” The words are drowned amid other shouts.
We are legion . . .
We are borderline headcases and crackpots in
a Candyland loop-de-loop follow-the-Yellow-Brick
world.
69 lines
The Horror Zine Magazine Spring 2020 Print Edition, February 2020
The Horror Zine Magazine May 2020 Issue (online)
* * *
Hinter Eve
On Hinter Eve stalk the creepiest kooks,
whether deviantly dreamt or mildly foul,
their watchful eyes as round as Tarts.
They can turn their heads like an Owl.
The goons grumblemoan and whimpersnort,
yet lack significance as they abide
alone or in stagnant transparent huddles,
shorn of substance — neither hair nor hide.
Although some are quite another case:
stout of girth and bristle-coated;
stubby-limbed and grim of purpose;
rather bumpy and grumpy-throated.
That hinterzone wherefrom they come
is a land of legend, the peculiarest tales,
and none can imagine how far it extends,
for nobody goes but mad hounds and cur-tails.
You won’t even spy a Nightingale’s throat,
or hear a note for no bird is heard singing.
The air is so still that a needle could drop
and the noise would echo like a large bell ringing.
Well-known as the bumbles on a Bee or Wasp,
the route to Nowhere is paved by misery.
Cardboard Cut-Outs of Cactus point in silence,
while the path is treacherous, no guarantee.
Visible then unseen, woven of tears and bloodshed,
a trail of torment carves through the sand,
snaking in or out of fog and dark fairydust —
a misleading serpent; a sinister band.
The usual signs for Rest Stops, Food and Gas,
billboards sparse as Phone Booths and towns.
The barrens seem wild, abandoned by daylight;
tonight they writhe with glares and frowns.
When clock gears grind to keep pace with time changes,
the ball in the sky has gone from gold to gray,
maps and calendar pages tumble like weeds,
and walls of shadow-puppets refuse to obey . . .
This blacktop shimmers with eerie delusions
and circles back to places once passed.
Every stone at the wayside hides a creature —
each stranger and spookier than the last.
Hinter Eve may dawn every once in a while.
Twice a year some claim; others aren’t as firm.
A third time when Blue Moons mess up Astrology
and The Zodiac goes haywire for a collective squirm.
A mere twitch to those in grand urban towers,
far from the outermost wasteland and moor.
We vulnerable denizens who live too near,
inhabiting the ground, the earthen floor . . .
On this desolate Eve may suffer grave tolls,
being sacrificed to a fiendish horde —
feeding the Hinterbeasts to halt a fierce tide
from reaching, overrunning the cities un-toward.
I would move were I not so terribly poor —
to avoid the lottery of eventual bad luck.
Being swift or clever leaves much to chance.
The next Hinter Night, I might be a dead duck.
56 lines
The Horror Zine Magazine Spring 2020 Print Edition, February 2020
The Horror Zine Magazine May 2020 Issue (online)
* * *
Notre Dame is burning!
Great shadows of wings expand against limestone.
There are times to defend, and moments to take flight.
Now it seems the latter as stiff bodies unfold, shaking feathers.
Rustling scales and fur. Odd shapes, horned heads arise.
“Leap to the balcony! Beware the smoke and heat!”
Not all of them, Gargoyles, Chimera, have wings.
There are creatures of many ilk, at home in high places.
Some growl and pace or huddle in fear, watchful,
A hellish gleam reflected in the orbs of crouched monsters.
Far above the city, the river. Trapped on a stone fortress.
Notre Dame is burning! Unbelievable. Unbearable.
Cries of outrage echo across the Cathedral. A city wails —
A dreadful clash of sirens and bells. The world mourns —
An icon in jeopardy, charred and broken, sections crumbling.
Sacred objects must be spared, secrets and vows preserved.
“Strength, unity, courage!” shouts the snarlish horned ogre
At my side. Baboon-faced, humpbacked, he urges retreat to
Sky or land. Confined like many to climb, flee on foot, but
Where? Crowds gather below, weeping, praying. Some with
Eyeballs peeled. Can we slip unnoticed from lofty perches?
There are witnesses. Will they see? Might they wonder
If statues are missing? A number busy themselves at the base,
Rescuing relics, aiming streams of water, battling an inferno.
Will they save us? Will they care? Bizarre, grotesque in
Design. But we are part of the structure and beauty.
A few unruly goblins launch like sullen bats, brooding,
Abandoning belfries to wheel in protest. Gliding, veiled . . .
Obscured by plumes of gray yet risking detection, attention.
They screech with pain and horror, their haven in ruins,
Expressing for the flock a shared and shattered dismay.
Greedy tongues of fire lick at the night, voracious.
The unholy maelstrom roars, consuming the heart of our
Refuge, our castle. A mighty sanctuary from Monster-Slayers.
Long a bastion against Evil, invincible we believed.
Clinging to charred edges, avoiding the blaze, heads bow.
Will it stand no more? The pride of Paris, deconstructing —
Disintegrating, a noble centerpiece in flames, in peril,
Before granite gazes. The death of a grand lady, Notre Dame!
Citadel of lonely souls, gruesome specters, gloriously
Misshapen figures! A mother’s ugly precious children . . .
Beloved, perched for ages, watching over streets, warning,
Guarding the gentle and forlorn, glaring down at the cruel,
Punishing the unjust. At times revered, feared. Repulsive yet
Cherished, almost angelic. “Come down!” summons a Chimera
Known as Stryga by humans, though he is no Vampire.
The hybrids flap to grip a balustrade and scowl, disturbed.
Seething orange flames smirch stone and iron. Wood melts to
Ash and embers. An orange-red glow lights darkness as Spire and
Rooftop burn. Cinders sail, borne on currents, the dance of
Warm and cold, an aerial Ballet; a grim concert without applause.
We must all adjust to change, as even mountains and cities
Erode. By nature I am just a bird. On Notre Dame I have
Roosted among Saints and Kings, myths and monsters. I have
Swooned to magnificent Organ songs, thrilled to the tunes of
Bells, the Rose Windows, the Buttresses jutting like a ribcage.
Carved by Mysticks, elite Stonemason-Masters; once a fierce
Line of defense, our numbers diminish — scarred by conflict.
Weathered, damaged, eventually retired. The small cadre of
Masters gone. They cannot repair us. None are left to
Separate truth from rumor, to realize the hazards.
She is vulnerable. A target of insidious trials, demonic or
Manmade. Our duty remains, to defeat sinister forces at work
Against the Lady, seeking to bring her down. Beleaguers . . .
They pose a constant threat. We can never rest, always
Vigilant. But this night we failed to prevent an attack.
“Who or what is responsible?” Emitting bass rumbles,
The Dragon settles behind in shade. “I will crack heads open,
Tear limbs, blacken bones!” An ape-like countenance blats,
Tongue protruding. Winged and horned, a Monkey-Beast
Charges to the Wyrm cloaked by fumes, hugging steep walls.
“Too late!” Vaulting, Stryga confronts the incensed Wyvern.
“Spare your hot breath for the next assault. It is in human hands
To save her now.” Peering down in sorrow and despair.
“The Spire may collapse. The core is lost. We can merely
Hope like them. Who wishes to leave? I shall stay.”
Voices reach them from every side. “I will stay!”
Only my neighbor the hunched Babewyn keeps silent,
Staring in dejection from his corner of the rail, like a statue.
“And you!” Stryga boldly steps toward him. “What are you,
A coward or sentinel?” I gasp in an ominous tone of quiet.
The last to respond utters a statement I will not forget:
“Mes amis, I share this post with all of you — and though
We were not born, we were crafted with affection, elaborate
Detail, every one unique, remarkable, yet possessed of common
Purpose and substance. In this we stand together, a family . . .
Respect for the Past is as vital as optimism for the morrow.
We cannot desert Notre Dame in her hours of need any more
Than a man or a woman should abandon the mother who
Embraced and sheltered, guided and nurtured a child
To the best of her ability, out of the purest love . . .
Let us combine our hopes. In her there is grace, history,
Art, inspiration, morals, compassion, fellowship at stake.
Reverence for symbols, for tradition has been shrugged off,
Discarded as insignificant in modern times like the sands
Of an Hourglass. But each single grain is a treasure . . .
Shining with virtue and value. Each moment we
Devote to this cause, protecting Our Lady Of Paris,
Will be our deepest brightest honor. I stand with you,
My brethren, until the final block falls. However worn.
Gruff and faded. We marvelous beasts must hold on . . .
To the end.”
101 lines
Spectral Realms, No. 13 (Summer 2020)
* * *
Night’s Whispered Breath
What lurks within the call of Night —
that elusive thrill of darkling tides,
of hidden secrets
encountered past Midnight’s toll?
Beyond the gearworks of the
clockworld Metronome,
the sun-wheeled scheme of things my heart
seems reluctant to obey.
A lifelong yearn; a daytime spurn!
Drawn to the arcane clandestine hours,
the shadow-lair of Nocturne . . .
this magnificent macabre madness that
lures me like oddness and quirks
appeal to an eccentric nature, my out-there
flair, the whirly-giggles of a creative soul.
Night’s whispered breath entices me
the same, tickling my dark side,
flirting with my sixth sense of spookiness.
The darklit flame we children of
the Night may share that refuses to
extinguish, unlike some trappings of youth.
We cannot shed or shirk
what is part of us, deeply ingrained
like black threading vines woven through fabric;
an umbral layer behind a painting’s surface;
the Universe behind the glare of a blue
sun-shiny sky. We feel that presence, that
magnetic pull. As sunrays blind and bake —
we dream of gloom, thunderclouds, Night.
Where we belong. We glow under
moonbeams, starry heavens, black and white
Chiaroscuro contrasts. We echo
the resonance of shadows and streetlamps.
Connect with uncanny eldritch depths;
the embrace of a forest,
of myriad mysteries and stirrings.
I will not regret moments spent out of
touch or sync or tune, existing apart
from the daily grind, the schedule
of normal activity.
Catching rare glimpses of
a toxic corporate-industrial atmosphere
overwhelming the planet, choking life
by massive amounts of poisons, plastic,
chemicals, nuclear waste,
exhaust fumes, concrete, war.
Instead of thoughtful reverent acts,
well-planned intentions to fit in, adapt
to the natural world around us better.
How I wish to see such evils vanquished
in my lifetime, animals and the environment
cherished when next I venture out in the
harsh light of Day under a wide brim,
full body coverings, a face-mask against
infectious disease . . . the hazards of foul air.
I much prefer the whispers of Night.
Line: 56
Bewildering Stories, Issue 869, August 24, 2020
* * *
Inner Demon
There are many ways to be consumed:
by desires and disease, frenzy and rage,
madness and jealousy. Not to mention
parasites, worms, insects, ravenous
man-eating beasts from the shadows of a jungle.
Then there are Headhunters, both civilized
or not. One day I awoke to find myself
being swallowed from within —
digested alive in my very own juices!
(Which I suppose makes me a lot less
Vegan than Cannibal.)
In a weird spiraling effect, akin to
taking a long tumble down a short
optical-illusion Rabbithole that appears to
have no depth yet goes on and on, it made
perfectly illogical sense in an impractical
manner of speaking. In other words,
no sense at all. I should know —
as the one being self-absorbed.
You can either stand in the rain waiting
for an umbrella, or stand under an umbrella
waiting for rain. I prefer to not miss out
on a good soaking.
Likewise, if I were to be eaten, I would
rather not forsake my principles in order
to be spared. But it seemed in this case
convincing my Inner Demon to cease
devouring my Outer Demon might be easier
said than done. Demons make terrible
negotiators. And listeners . . .
They are pretty bad at just about
everything! (In case you’re wondering,
it is possible to be repossessed, as in
taken over twice. My true nature was
sandwiched between.) The dueling devils
competed for damnation.
And domination. I was their pawn, their
host, an innocent bystander — the paltry
Firecracker Jack Prize in their grotesque
Boxing Match; the private joke in their
Punch and Judy Showdown Slugfest.
They were cruddy as a mudbath,
provocative as Crocodile Kisses . . .
I had a Middle Row Seat between the
warring factions. Or so I thought.
Until the Inner Demon won — gobbling
us both, becoming me in the process!
It will be over soon, this power struggle,
as I fade to a mere possession.
50 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 51, Halloween/Fall, October 2020
* * *
Darkest Deeds
Hush, the shadows are speaking. Can you hear?
Low and growlish as a Grizzly with a Cold.
Listening when everything’s subdued, while I stiffly try
to sleep — rigid as a body in a box awaiting the tomb —
I think I can make out bits and pieces of grumbles,
sullen murmurs. Resonant, appalling, plotting.
Conniving to overthrow my neighbors and town.
The grimmest elements; the fruitless seeds of unrest.
Frightful how badly they want it, our demise.
How much they envy us.
And what they will do if they act upon that ire!
We have been lax, failing to brighten every inch of night
with cheer, thwart their mischief or murderous
schemes, prevent their phantom pining’s spread.
Now it is too late, and the worst may come to pass.
A window shatters, from no gust of air
but a thrust of foul bleakness, an umbral stab.
Rising, huddled alone in panic, I cling to words and
frail glimmers of hope, illumination. Afraid
my lamp will be next . . .
The bulb bursts. I discern a dismal-throated snarl —
beside me — no, behind me! They surround.
And then, a piercing broken cry at another house
lining the street. Who was it? Who among
my allies on this gloom-shrouded lane was the first
to die? We are doomed I fear . . . done for.
And not by human hands. By the Supernatural.
Apprehensive, I lay pen and notebook down.
I must see what is happening out there, to friends,
acquaintances. We are one.
Differences shed. I once distrusted many.
Now I sympathize. Another scream. Cut off.
Trembling, I part drapes and peek, aware the brittle
panes might splinter, riddle me with shards.
I watch in horror as lights extinguish, snuffed in
random order. The lane belongs to a quiet dismal
atmosphere. I release curtains and retreat.
Nearly blind, back to scribbling with only a wan
moonsheen penetrating. At the mercy of
a force that engulfs, invades.
I confess, I wasn’t prepared for this.
No lock or bullet, no cash or Insurance Policy
could spare us from disasters beyond reason —
provide a decent shot at surviving till Sunrise.
No option is left, aside from insanity or prayer,
but to anticipate the darkest deeds. Already here
they pause. Keening silence and suspense
shall finish me if they don’t! May these
words be legible. Yet what good is a warning
come Nightfall . . .? We all join them soon.
50 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 52, Winter, December 2020
* * *
Passive-Aggressive
I strolled by a doorway between thoughts
of where I was going, what I needed to do,
just at the point when a mood has begun to fade,
merging into another shape and form, another
feeling still undefined. In that moment of
vulnerable lapse, a curious sound wafted to ear,
slammed me in my tracks, drew me like the
string tethering a Yo-Yo. A bird? A peculiar
exotic creature? I was hooked.
Entering, the premises held a vibe unlike any
encountered — a threshold to mysterious otherances,
the bizarrest of unworldly items beyond compare,
offered up to the stray visitor as if any of it made
sense but of course it did not, could not in
a million trillion years of deepest contemplation!
I had simply to wonder at the shelves that
wondered at me back as if I were the oddball.
Ridiculous, me in my drab overcoat and gray suit,
the working-world attire shared endlessly
from office to office in every tall building on
each block of cities that paved the globe.
Surely I represented all anybodies in a sea of
slightly unique countenances.
A Sign addressed me, squawking in a raucous
voice to behold a message, a bold invitation:
SHOOT ME FOR A DOLLAR! “Shoot me?”
I snorted. It must be a joke, some sort of prank,
the placard tied round the neck of an ordinary
Joe. A wide-eyed fellow wearing an inscrutable
blank expression as if he didn’t have a care,
not a single thing to worry about — certainly
no threat of being shot with a Revolver
conveniently resting on the table before him.
Non-aggressively I sauntered past.
“What’s wrong, don’t you have a Dollar?”
The Sign taunted me, so I turned to mutter
that I did and extract a silver coin I would
carry for luck. “Pick it up then. A Dollar
for one shot.” I protested “I don’t wish to
shoot someone!” Yet the coin (worth far more
than face value) slipped from grasp, ringing.
Wobbling an eternity until it settled. Tails up.
My head hurt. My hand clutched the weapon,
aimed it unsteadily, trembling. A digit jerked
the trigger. A bullet blasted its course —
straight through the heart. I gaped at
a bloody shirt as bells chimed. The prize?
I now find myself wearing the Sign, unable to
scream or squirm. Impassive. Please,
read my eyes. Do not raise the gun.
50 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 52, Winter, December 2020
* * *
The Imperfect Storm
Creeping out of Night’s periphery where
all forms of ill-mannered beasties lie in crouched
wait — festering, scheming nefarious little plots —
an erratic Squall leaked through netherdark crevices
to gather intensity and layers of froth. Lopsided
along the edges, filled with strange sounds and
even more tempestuous uncanny temperaments
apt to curdle one’s soul, the Weather Tantrum
swept forth with brash belligerence, loose of foot,
beholden to no Moon, seeking outrageous fortunes
and infinite amusements to ingest.
Swallowing, swirling, undecided which direction,
a revolving dervish of fits and starts, of clockwise
and counter-clockwise helixes hurling caution to
the wind and rain, this monstrous Stormnado
of spontaneous bustion and false bravado sprang
to drown the unsuspecting (oblivious over
its howling gusts of bad breath; its crackles
of clumsy broken homes, tipped wreckage,
shredded towns). Such isolated unobservant
individuals who sat alone on all Hallows Eves —
porchlight off, too out-of-touch to apprehend
the occasion or afraid to open their door.
Perhaps failing to discern branches whipping,
scraping, thrashing as if to claw inside —
an assault or escape —at the other end of flimsy
panes. Huddled with the drapes closed for privacy.
Unwilling to listen or unable to hear as voices of
gales clashed and canceled each other out.
Not everyone caught the latest News, followed
every nuance of an unpredictable force . . .
Some were simply too weary or distracted
to notice the difference between clement and
inclement. Until their den was deconstructed.
Or lifted whole and heaved to another address,
rudely transplanted without warning.
An Imperfect Storm never apologizes for
wreaking mayhem, rushing off to its subsequent
misdeed. If cursed enough to encounter this
rare event, charmed enough to survive, a person had
best invest in better Life Insurance than four walls.
Next time (because it wasn’t just Lightning and could
come back for seconds), those prepared for the worst
out of habit should be ready for anything! It may
flip the world upside-down, yank Reality inside-out,
bring the unexpected through each door.
Do not greet it with trepidation, be fearless. Tell it
you will not be pushed around! Surprise it with
kindness. Offer it a hug. Embrace its quirky nature.
It might be more like you than you think.
50 lines
The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 51, Halloween/Fall, October 2020
* * *
Real-Estate
The Handyman arrived in a snorting
hiccupping Pick-Up. He consulted a small
notepad page containing scribbles.
The job posting listed this address. It must be
the place. A For Sale Sign leaned at an angle
with SOLD plastered boldly across.
Whoever bought it got ripped off. Jobs, a nickname,
shook his head — squinting through a dusty windshield.
Creaks accompanied a shift of weight as his
left leg descended to gravel. He strolled to the rear,
lowered a tailgate, slid out a fancy portal.
It shouldn’t take long. Whistling, he lugged
his burden to the top of uncertain steps and leaned it
on the porch, against a rough peeling wall.
The grizzled Farmhouse had seen better decades,
probably centuries. It was a dump, needing a lot more
than a new door. He walked to the truck for a rusted
Toolchest that once belonged to his Gramps,
who gave it to his father, who eventually handed it
to him and bought a shinier box. It was the thought
that counted. Jobs felt proud to be carrying on
a family tradition. He reached for
a knob to open the weathered slab being
replaced. It wouldn’t yield. Did they forget to
unlock it? His knocks produced no results.
The house seemed abandoned. A chill prickled
forearms and neck. He peered at a second-floor
window. “Hello?” The man thought he
spotted movement up there. Tired eyes from
a lengthy trip he dismissed, as silence persisted.
Jobs hunkered and solemnly inspected a lock.
Should be able to jimmy it. He was here
to take the thing off and doubted they’d mind.
Whoever hired him. He couldn’t remember.
Too much static on the phone.
“Anyone around?” He waited.
“Okay.” Selecting an awl, a sturdy hammer,
he pounded the handle, driving a steel point into
the keyhole. Implements clattered. He jumped back.
Was that a scream? Wind from nowhere
stroked his flesh. The gruesome abode mocked,
rippling, wavering with rustles and squeals.
“That does it.” Slamming tools in the box,
he lifted his heirloom and turned. Maybe the house
was haunted. Maybe just a creepy relic,
nobody’s home. Needing to be torn down —
before it could collapse on the poor dayworker
sent to repair it. A plank rose and
whacked his face. He wound up flat, staring
wide of orb while spirits inhabiting the real-estate
danced on his corpse. Gusty breath fluttered a paper
that blew off, unveiling seven letters spelling
FOR SALE. There would be further accidents.
Until a jinxed, bedeviled, spooked property
went back on the Market and remained . . .
UNSOLD.
55 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020
* * *
Grim House
Sordid and austere, ill-wrought beyond compare,
A creaking morbid mass feared and loathed by name —
Grayer than the sky, a mood of withering glare,
Uprooted from her soil, on barge and wheels came.
Of timbers born afar in dirt untouched by tool;
Quenched by blood and rain, cut by foreign hand.
Constructed out of spite, with lack of lawful rule,
An act of ruthless might, the claim of stolen land.
Erected to outlast disputes of mortal lives;
A stain upon a hill, overseeing those displaced.
Inside her walls contained, as mold corruptly strives
To smear a coat of black, a noble line disgraced . . .
Fine reputations tainted. Honor sacrificed.
Integral traits allowed to rot and lie in waste.
Choices cast as if Dice; values underpriced.
Corruption bleeding into cracks, wicked-laced.
Repository of bile and uppercrust greed,
The basest morals amid blue-blooded ranks.
A despicable coffer guarding their creed —
Absorbed like smog by plaster and planks.
With a dark atmosphere of pernicious shade,
She moved to avoid the Demolition Ball —
Well past the swings of an Executioner’s blade,
Condemnation posted on her outer wall . . .
A dry document nailed. Wet crimson strokes.
Declared by ink and paint, a vengeful complaint
Voiced by villagers, a league of wrathful folks —
Her fate decreed harshly, for she was no Saint.
A den of grudges and doom, appalling gloom.
Lair of spurious conceits and skullduggery.
Ghost-draped antiquities crowded each room
Like dismal dusty parlours of perfidy.
Naught could prevent, neither will nor deed
Her sly transcendence, possessed by treachery;
Rolling lane to lane with torpid speed
At the peak of night, stealing toward the sea.
Thick and moonless dusk, upon a legless jaunt,
Under cloak of fog a mad-manor slipped . . .
Carting roof and floor, every wisp of haunt;
Just her basement left, from her belly ripped!
Malediction-primed, shifting stairs and nooks;
Toting joints and corners, windows and towers;
Jiggling cups and cabinets, unshelving books;
Quaking portraits and busts of frozen glowers.
The Eleventh Hour, in a grand depart
Down an unpaved road, beams and rafters jarred,
Fled a house without home and no space for heart.
She escaped on a boat from a lumberyard.
As disease will spread so her specter grew,
Turgid waves of rancor and disregard
While crossing the brine for a distant milieu,
To arrive intact, one piece and unmarred.
Yet leaning from stiffness, grunting with age,
Her eaves acquired birds bleak of feather.
Skulked a Grim House through shadow and Sage;
Scouting new berth in the teeming Nether . . .
Encountering a ghost town barren of limit,
The journey halted on a dead-end street.
Not home sweet home but an approximate,
And she groaned with delight, her aim to eat!
The menace would settle for a lofty perch
Where a malignant mansion could visually scour.
The dwelling conducted a rapacious search,
Demanding a toll, its countenance dour.
Such dire malediction exists to this day,
Inhabiting hamlets and draining their soul . . .
A tomb with an appetite, cryptic and fey,
Dining on innocents — gobbling them whole.
68 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020
* * *
Unfair Trade
We were a crew of idealists —
sailing a rustbucket mortgaged spacecraft
transporting products between planets,
a jumbo deliveryboat manned by seven —
adventurers reaching for the Stars.
The latest voyage of our merchant vessel
would lead us to a little-known planet.
The Trade Deal
was recently announced. A bit far off
beaten lanes, charted routes,
but we had nothing scheduled.
We wanted to see new worlds and faces.
Competition increased hourly. Bills overdue,
I accepted the assignment.
Halfway there, during a Wake-Up Call
for status and safety checks, my First Officer
noticed peculiar data. Our missions
were clean; we expected to be informed, aware
what was being hauled — refusing
to traffic bootleg materials, dangerous drugs
and chemicals, guns, explosive devices,
anything illicit or contributing to conflict.
This time the cargo, labeled Food,
was loaded in advance, before we boarded.
A curious item had been overlooked in
the status report. Our weight did not increase.
Solanon woke me. The two of us broke into
a locked Hold. Instead of contraband we found
air — a completely empty chamber.
Examining the manifest, a second detail
sparked concern. There were no further instructions
from the company that hired us to convey the shipment
to the party requesting it, other than coordinates,
a destination roughly translated to “Urkphistung”.
I blinked at the record in disbelief.
Not even an authorization to refuel!
Suspicious dreams plagued me the rest of the trip.
Ominous vibes prevailed when we landed.
The ramp lowered and guards entered,
rounding us up. Herding us in spacesuits.
We were escorted across a paved area
to a large dim hall by dark figures. Androids
I assumed, packing heat.
We tended to travel light, preferring dialogue
over drama. I struggled to process the deception —
our vessel breached as if they knew the codes.
Did they hack our system? Was the craft sold out
from under us? I wouldn’t put it past
the greedy creditor . . . How could we get home?
It stunned me, hindered my reaction.
The situation felt like we’d been taken prisoner!
We operate by the strictest standards of Fair Trade.
Without a shred of freight to steal,
a ship not worth the effort,
the only possible explanation: We are the cargo.
My brainchip is transmitting
images, observations.
Send to: The C.T.C. (Cosmic Trade Commission)
From: Captain Maureen Elena Cho
The structure resembles an enclosed arena.
At the opposite side a group waits for us, a council
or court to welcome “guests”. Nearing them,
distinguishing features, I strive to
establish intent. The first clue noted
is the size of their teeth.
65 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020
* * *
Poison Pie
An exotic raven-maned accomplice
with a black satin floor-length gown
glides forth in strides of diabolic grace.
I follow, my face a broken frown . . .
Ill-at-ease, my own steps clunking
in toe-crunching budget Cowboy Boots.
What I get for dressing to half-impress
from a closet of clearance-rack suits.
“Make yourself comfortable.” Onyx claws
gesture smoothly. “You’ve nothing to fear.”
(When they say that, you really should worry,
get out in a hurry — bolt like a deer!)
Admitted to an unlit private chamber,
I queasily ponder what lies ahead.
“The show is about to begin.”
She has a grin that fills me with dread.
I spare an anxious nod and a giggle,
then slump to a perpendicular chair,
designed for rigid people I imagine,
Although I’m the only one there.
So I squirm to find a compatible position,
a preposterously acrobatic feat.
The lady slipped me a set of goggles.
“I promise you’re in for a treat!”
* * *
Miss Dulcet’s vintage picturesque parlor
brimming with elegance caught my eye.
The quaintest museum exhibit,
a slice from the Past. “Piece of Rhubarb Pie?”
Jolting, I nodded and turned to examine
the curious colorless face of my host,
a tray-bearing spinster in victorian dress,
approaching quieter than a footless ghost.
She bustled to provide a pair of wedges
and pour fragile cups of mysterious brew.
The Clock on the mantel ceased its cadence
precisely a fraction of a minute till Two.
Its drone, a continuous ticking had lulled
her innocent visitor not to discern
the poison bottle on a sterling tray . . .
This would the victim belatedly learn.
Miss Dulcet offered a dainty sugarbowl
with a table-sized ladle or spoon.
“It helps the terrible taste go down.”
Her smile quite as pale as a Moon.
The timepiece’s morbid tone distracted;
the metronome’s clicking pacified . . .
Chewing and sipping, I couldn’t refuse.
In bittersweet seconds a fool had died.
* * *
I gape aghast, leaning forward alarmed,
fogging the mirror with frozen breath.
It’s not every day that one is permitted
to observe the occasion of his death!
For a Nickel I paid the asking price,
and the tragedy concluded much too quick.
Why didn’t that idiot through the glass
foresee it was all a parlor trick?
I extend another gleaming Nickel.
“I wish to go again!” I hear myself hoarse,
willing to sacrifice an entire Dime and
solve if the crime were committed by force —
Or my murder had been an arbitrary plot,
occurring tomorrow, perhaps yesterday.
I cannot predict the instant of demise,
for nothing is certain either way.
A fabric has ripped, the Hourglass tipped;
the globe hangs completely upside-down.
A lens or an eye can no longer be trusted.
The air, the water, the leaves are brown.
It’s curtains for me as I restart the scene,
watching the Final Act play out.
I know how it ends yet urge the victim,
Think twice before swallowing your doubt!
* * *
Miss Dulcet uncorked a bone-labeled bottle,
then dumped lots of Arsenic liberally . . .
into my teacup and into the Sugar;
onto the portion of Pie cut for me.
A dollop of powder from a porcelain box,
a dose of Strychnine sprinkled for topping.
Still I drank and I ate to her heart’s content
these vile refreshments, barely stopping.
For I had been raised to finish a meal,
to politely accept a generous offer.
Good manners seemed vital in a civilized world.
I could not be ungrateful, an impudent scoffer.
Invited to peek at an old-fashioned room,
I succumbed to my doom from the cup of Fate
while the Mantel Clock went out of order.
Such a pity, it being exquisitely ornate.
The classic antique had a musical chime,
an enchanting mechanical ticker as well.
Its spring unwound at the worst of moments —
and failed to signal an untimely knell.
I was gravely disappointed missing a listen
to the ringing bell of Destiny’s phone.
An opportunity hails but once in a life,
for the Future is a map that none can own.
* * *
The dark velvet drapes dramatically part
and expose me ogling a recurrent purview,
like a dream of me stepping into that lair:
a Black Widow’s parlor, sticky as glue.
Her web a sly net for collectors and fans
of before the world lost its glamorous shine —
preceding my day, whether now or back then.
Tangled in strands of a vicious deadline.
We exist by the Clock and expire if it halts
in a peeling, shabby, make-believe land
grown dimmer and drabber with each passing tock;
shocked at predictable sleights of hand.
It cannot be explained in a rational sense . . .
There are many adrift, vapid souls lacking flair
who meander a Time Zone by choice or by chance,
and wonder all over what led us there.
Ruled by the movement of fingerless digits,
the kind that will never clench in a ball,
yet batter the living and entomb the spirit.
There is no relief from its beck and call.
Merely a measure of calm and despair
that marks the heartbeat, an incessant tide.
A bass-drum echo we ache for and loathe —
a bomb counting down on the other side.
* * *
Captive to chronology must I languish
in a prison without bars or synchronicity,
suffering the waves of monotonous redux . . .
Miss Dulcet served me Poison Pie and Tea.
74 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020
* * *
Kaleidoscope
I’ve been trapped in a kid’s Kaleidoscope —
Sucked in by a girl who aimed it my way
Then cranked the tube and whoosh, I was jerked
Out of the broad light of a murky day.
Air is multi-colored in a Kaleidoscope,
Where you see every detail in myriad fragments.
The abstractest designs inhabit these confines,
And the residents speak plain Nonsense.
It’s tough to stay focused in a Kaleidoscope.
The perspective is pointless much of the time.
Things tend to change. Atmospherically strange.
I cannot find Reason to accompany Rhyme.
A Stained Window broke in the Kaleidoscope.
Remnants of Rainbows scatter about . . .
I’m obliged to duck so I won’t be struck
By views twice as sharp as the teeth of a Trout.
You can’t pick the flowers in a Kaleidoscope.
They move too fast and will flutter off,
Disperse in a flash; from a sneeze will they dash —
Quicker than Lightning at the hint of a cough.
It never rains in the belly of a Kaleidoscope.
My Polkadot Umbrella keeps gathering dust.
I remembered to bring it; there’s no need to wring it,
Yet my Rose-Colored Glasses are starting to rust.
The world is a lot like a Kaleidoscope:
Dancing mirrors of facets; reeling circles and squares.
Mosaics insightful, bright patterns delightful,
But the outlook is hazy and leads to nightmares.
I am turning to pieces of the Kaleidoscope —
Multiplicitous hues, my contours in a jumble!
Feeling warped and dissected, rearranged or inspected,
Perceptions flail in a state of tumble.
There is no escaping the Kaleidoscope,
For you can’t survive in fractions alone,
Transfigured to shards and shuffled like cards.
This toy has replaced my Comfort Zone.
Should you pop inside of a Kaleidoscope,
There is no need to rely on formality.
The rules always shift; the setting will drift,
And you won’t even miss Reality.
I’ve decided to reside in this Kaleidoscope.
Like a Jigsaw Puzzle being nothing but mixed,
Confetti that is flung, or Spring when it’s sprung.
My combobulation can never be fixed.
I am perfectly content in a Kaleidoscope,
For the scenery’s grand through the Telescope Eye.
Each vivid collage may seem a mirage.
’Tis a wonderful dream, like a Thought Butterfly!
Around me was gloom till the Kaleidoscope.
Fate, do not pinch — I am happy to stay!
You’re the Graveyard Nurse? Things could be worse?
It was only Kaleidoscope Vision you say?
I’m not really inside . . . a Kaleidoscope.
It was all a mere symptom. A colossal mistake.
How I miss being there, and I think it unfair . . .
I shall eagerly await my next brain-ache!
56 lines
Impspired, Issue 6, August 2020
Impspired Magazine Volume Three, Print Anthology, September 29, 2020
* * *
Flora Dooley’s Bad Day
Wipers scrubbed in knife slashes side to side
A sheet of thick rain helping tears to hide
The world had crushed Flora’s soul again
Reminding her at midlife she couldn’t win
Heavy tires of Semis kept rolling over
The fragile stem of her Four-Leaf Clover
Bit by bit, a brittle leaf-crackling spirit
Was crying, a dying scream; none could hear it
The tyrant had stolen her last gentle dream
Like tossing a sack of kittens into a stream
Hoping to submerge her with a depth of sorrow
Always she clung to a branch of the morrow
Strangling, stumbling out to tremble, suffer alone
Confront the naked feelings of failure on her own
This cataract, an unfought battle’s watery aftermath
Like a frigid Baptism, an emotional bath
No refuge was left for someone damaged as she
Her sobs escaped, then she set them free
A kitten abused for a canine’s chew-toy
Trauma and fear kept her latched to the killjoy
Though never had he slugged her, or even yelled
She was battered inside, tethered and belled
John had claimed her, a piece of soft property—
Too young to know what else she could be
Now driving tear-stained and slightly reckless
Wounded and bitter, a little mad and feckless
Flora yearned to go anywhere except in that house
Where she lived without love, hitched to a louse
Picking up the pieces endlessly knocked down
This time she vowed she would rather drown
Than return to a cage, that eternity of walls
Both invisible and plain, the unhallowed halls
Of a man without regard for consideration
Flora lacked the least control, bound by frustration
Childless, at his mercy, with only a Library Card
To save her from an early grave, but it was hard
Not to give up . . . She met her eyes in the mirror
Red-rimmed they wept; lids flapped to see clearer
As the road wavered, its vanishing point indistinct
From rain and teardrops that couldn’t be blinked
Flora’s heart was kind, yet today it seemed cold . . .
It cut like chunks of glass, no edges to hold
Empty of forgiveness, abandoning all hope
She was at the end of a very long rope
He wasn’t going to change; things wouldn’t improve
Sick of his Merry-Go-Round, this needle in a groove
Twisted fantasies played out, murder plots to rectify
Flora swore if she remained, someone had to die!
An Only Child, a lonely woman, nowhere to turn
Raised in a home with an absent father, an ugly burn
Marking her chest from the end of a cigarette —
The reminder of another bad day at a Launderette
Mommy said she was to blame, an unlucky charm
A second scar itched where a blade nicked her arm
Mom got angry in the kitchen for being a smarty
What else could she expect? Life was no party
John told her at lunch when she lifted her fork
He didn’t like fat girls; “Are you expecting the Stork?
You should go on a diet. You need to lose weight.”
Then, humming, complacently finished his plate.
“It was your fault for letting yourself be bruised!
For having a weakness!” Flora self-accused . . .
Cheeks burned, and her throat was so tight it stung
Fists in a deathgrip, the steering-wheel wrung
A puffy parched face guarding stifled emotion
Filled her view of the rear, channeling a notion
She didn’t have to go back; she could leave this town
Having thought it so often wore a very deep frown
On a visage that tension had weathered too soon
Impossible. It took confidence to change one’s tune
Flora realized, quite stunned, she was braver to stay
Than the courage required for running away!
“I have nothing,” she whimpered. He paid for it all
The vehicle, this clothing. A shiverous pall
Squirmed between shoulders, a chilling reflection
How completely dependent upon his protection
A woman could become, as if she were owned
The enslavement of females historically condoned
Like a slug, Time crept when you weren’t looking
Altering perspective. Her rage a pot left overcooking
Temper and despair had boiled past the rim
Until Flora couldn’t imagine a future with him
Her foot accelerated while the opposite braked —
At a Stop Sign, the gold Sedan jolted and quaked
An auto behind slammed against her trunk
Mildly denting the boot in a metallic thunk
A minor accident, a simple fender-bender
Flora panicked the Police might apprehend her
Stepping to the pavement, she approached a man
Who emerged dragging a child from his Van
Flora experienced a strong flash of recognition
Peering at the girl, a sharp twinge or premonition
She knew the child’s torment, her silent anguish
And could not permit an angel to languish
In the presence of filth, an obvious thief
Gazes met; she must act to end the girl’s grief
“Are you out of your mind?” a surly goon brayed
His tone belligerent, he vented and sprayed
That women shouldn’t be allowed to drive
He had the mentality of a disgruntled Beehive
And reminded her of an insulting similar jerk
Who liked to tell her she was too dumb to work
Destiny summoned. Lips formed a pout
The child needed help, there could be no doubt
A victim glared; her vast well of wrath ignited
Long suppressed, now a wrong would be righted
As if training for combat in the armor of pain
A champion blared “Run!” and charged quite insane
Astonished, the guy toppled releasing the child
Whose defender grabbed her hand then smiled
They darted to Flora’s car. She locked the doors
A creep regained his footing amidst furious roars
He yanked at a handle and pounded the glass
Flora bumped him peeling tires to rescue the lass
She sped with the girl, checking the street behind
A Van came into sight, its driver Hell-inclined
The engine growled; a monster ate the distance
Flora swerved, putting up valiant resistance
She had never felt so alive, adrenaline racing
As two vehicles rumbled forth, the latter chasing
Flora screeched to a skidding halt before a Station
Blasting the horn, she dashed with trepidation —
The girl in her arms. They reached a Front Desk
Breathless, she described their pursuer as grotesque
Officers investigated the hysterical report
An abductor was never captured or taken to Court
The family of the girl would be traced and notified
A happy reunion, but the hero lied
Giving a false name, she had quietly slipped away
The Newspaper called it a mystery the next day
Flora Dooley read the story then caught a lift
With a Trucker down the highway. Life was a gift.
132 lines
Impspired, Issue 6, August 2020
Impspired Magazine Volume Three, Print Anthology, September 29, 2020
* * *
The Miser’s Demise
Death arrived in old flesh and fine cloth, partially clad,
The arrow of pain or love clenched tight, a bleak visage sad.
Rigid of purpose, showing no sign of pleasure.
Around the chamber competing sprites took measure.
Rascally or hallowed, demons and angels flocked
In a candle’s waning, a dim fate to be unlocked.
The mortal path divided, the end of road unsure.
Amidst a fog of vices, despite a grim humor.
The decline of a tight-fisted fellow at hand,
Congested shadows breached; unsavories swept in a band.
Out of concealment, a swarm of night-goblins crept.
Infesting the chamber, a fey congregation leapt.
With Heaven to wrangle over a spirit long dripping
Of impurities and stain — defective morals slipping.
Prosperous, an example of covetous ambition;
A lapsed heart, an errant being, tumbled toward Perdition.
Beside the man’s bed, gripping a sack of wealth,
Did a creature tempt, offer gold exchanged for health?
Perchance a fading churl sought to bribe the Devil,
His back to an angel; a bare soul in dishevel . . .
Naked as a babe, or a pauper who lost his shirt,
Robbed of the Five Wits by horrors covert.
Indulgent, unrepentant, attempting to redeem
By purchasing more life, as if it were a dream!
A gentleman’s condition might seem less than hale
On devout contemplation, well-nigh the ghastly veil.
How he blanched from proximity and wizened for fear,
While the vermin of Darkness gnawed at an ear.
Yet was more behind the story of his shameful revenue?
Could a motive lurk behind this macabre retinue?
For a thrifty type, the payment of bills induces woe,
Thus a painter depicting his life the Miser did owe,
Since the Maestro balked at laboring on portraits for free,
And what use to a man in his grave would it be?
Glad company brought rent above modest regards
For one with fortunes in land, not a game of cards.
Whose properties stretched from bakery to pious steeple;
An accumulation of tenants, scores of indebted people.
Merchant or cleric, brother or nephew bearing gold
To fill the coffer within an unadorned household.
A pinchpenny’s hearth, no visitors welcome to tarry;
For this reason would a delinquent never marry.
Enter the Master, himself prone to comfort and ease,
But he balanced his religion like the sword of Damocles.
Paint flowed in his blood. In the Arts, succeeding
Through toil and devotion, his effort far exceeding.
Guided by lofty missive, the premonition of alarm.
Striving to make examples, shield the ignorant from harm.
Simple folk lacking time to ponder, easily stirred
As a kettle of pottage; the flights of gnat or bird.
Commissioned to honor a sinner’s diminished days —
No deathbed confession — a tale of prosperous ways.
Presenting instead the warning of a knight’s fall.
His last struggle for glory. The vain corruption of it all.
Brushstrokes conveyed a less-than-humble man’s greed,
Unable to part with his possessions and need.
Through disgust or amusement, portraying the surplus
In a recreant’s chest; a knave’s overladen truss . . .
Like a bony fool bound for the ferry on Acheron!
Without insight, examination, no work of art is done.
Whether a keen eye recorded the hoarder’s gilt gleam,
Or repeated a lesson, a vision, the cause of a scream;
Perhaps the device by which to punish or mock,
Reducing a patron to a laughingstock.
The public can merely conjecture, historians surmise
Any dab, every texture’s meaning, what they symbolize.
Fantasy or a glimpse of truth? Parable or belief?
Ars Moriendi, Memento Mori. A moment of human grief.
A painting may not look the same for each set of eyes,
The cleverest linesmith leaving points to analyze:
Pieces of puzzle to define and arrange, many minds construe.
No interpretation identical; no perspective the same view.
Upon final inspection, what advisements to conclude?
Was the scene a mere caution, or something more rude?
A chastisement of fault. A scolding or bewares.
The reprobate’s trance. Representing foul mares.
A perishing breath while asking Death why.
His last thoughts may be of rats — how large and sly
From feeding too well in his pantry and cellar —
As he aims to steal riches past the gaunt doom-kneller.
(Inspired by the Fifteenth Century painting DEATH AND THE MISER by Hiernonymus Bosch)
80 lines
Impspired, Issue 6, August 2020
Impspired Magazine Volume Three, Print Anthology, September 29, 2020
* * *
Social Graces
The corner appeared to consume
Whatever strayed or stumbled within
Reach. A blackhole at the far end of the
Room, sucking every ray or speck of
Positive energy, absorbing the dark out of
Shadows and souls
The pigment and dirt; the essence
From anything it could lure, touch, trap
As I stepped inside the dim lair, fanning smoke
Eyes adjusting day to night at a blink
Waves of heat billowed off. Liquid fire
Boiled in my blood, and I sensed it — almost
Smelled its presence, the raw sinister
Stench of things decayed. Nerves and muscles
Tightened. Not that they were loose
I was tough for my age, slim but wiry
I cringed and considered departing before
The door sealed, the crack of light vanished
Retreat was not my habit; thirst was . . .
And an occasional need to rub elbows
Cursing my luck, anticipating trouble and
Not in the mood, I barged to a counter, muscled
My way between bodies of Drinkers and the
Drugged, a few Diners choking down revolting
Meals. The void beckoned, wordless —
Yawning in welcome, the depths of which
Endured beyond sight or reckoning, an oasis of ink
A multitude of Black Roses sprouting in my
Field of thoughts that I could do without
Thorns and all. A flash of childhood memory
Distant as the Stars, when I was very small
My head ached as if sun-logged
From the glare of a too-bright morning
After being lost in a wilderness of Dusk, yet
This was the opposite, for I had come in
To escape the relentless stark shine of
Solitude . . . on a journey that led nowhere fast
And gave me a very bad taste. A scowl
No booze or narcotic could erase
My social graces were lacking
As well as an appetite for Bugs
I hauled out a flask, my own supply
Of Cactus Juice — the only plant to grow
Wild in a hostile climate: my single
Form of sustenance. Gesturing for an empty
Vessel, I poured and gulped in three swallows
Then slammed the dented metal cup down
Accompanied by a thin coin. Paying to feel
Less alone, I turned to escape an unhealthy
Atmosphere. The vibe increased, magnetic
The corner hummed in my ears. “What the heck.
I’ll bite.” A curious stride. Drawn closer —
Squinting at obscurity, I started to distinguish
Shapes from gloom and realized I had entered the
Carapace of a giant insect. “Holy Mothra!”
It was closer to a Cockroach I guessed
Most species on the planet either perished or
Evolved. Few remained, with limited diversity
Except mutations. The Apocalypse
Wasn’t an epic bomb or virus
The civilized world’s collapse arose
From neglect, mindless and deliberate. From
Greed. Somehow this Roach Motel put humans
In a trance. Manipulated us to see what we
Wanted, expected, catering to hungers
Rendering us docile. The thing engulfed —
Absorbed — fed upon people. A disgusting
Revelation. It had no corners, just a deep
Insatiable gut. My motto Do No Harm seemed
Inconvenient, for I couldn’t hurl a chair
Through a window that wasn’t there. Maybe
I could stir up indigestion, an upset stomach
Or cause a stampede! Persuading the others in
That belly of the beast to believe
Where they were required powers of persuasion
I didn’t have. Instead I yelled “Fire!”
A guaranteed crowd-mover. And trailed the
Charge to an exit. They had to create one —
Bursting, rampaging free, a panicked mob!
I left the Bug Cantina eating my dust . . .
And would strive to be more observant.
81 lines
Bewildering Stories, Issue 871, September 7, 2020
* * *
The Sacrifice
Digits of dread, cold as the chill of a grave
Fingerwalk the bones of my back in ghoulish strides
Up and down the column of a crooked spine
Wending like a road through the night. Woe is me,
Plodding such a route, silent as a charnel resting-place —
A pasture of tombs; a network of catacombs, the bodies
Buried deep to slumber undisturbed. Lucky stiffs.
I envy their repose, their peace.
Cloaked in exquisite solitude I roam, unable to nap
Or catch a wink. Solemn as a wraith, a specterless spirit.
Hunched in reverie without words, my phantom thoughts
Dark and elusive. Troubles submerged, unseen but sensed,
Like a fanged bloodfiend in the mirror, for that is
Surely the worst and the most free, to be glimpsed not —
Even by one’s self. I’ve read the tales, the folklore.
I comprehend their pain and misery.
Yet I am more alone, and spend my days wishing
I were blind, to not view these scars, the mounds of
Brute force, an ogre’s shadow! Wishing not to be aware.
On fleeting respites I carve a trail of un-speculation through
Shadow and street. Then return to my fate, and none the
Wiser. Me or the masses. For my calling is no clearer
To the eye of the ignorant. No more obvious than scratches
Under a coffin’s lid.
How comforting that could seem at my lowest point.
A bed without disruption, minus the echoes from end to end
Of these infernal waking minutes. The drudgery of days
Wretched beyond measure, crossing any limit of sanity,
While the late and early hours flit away in a moth’s aerial
Fairydance — too swift, too intangible. A mere blink,
And then I am risen from the Keeper’s hut above
The beldam’s abyss.
Someone has to bear it, the weight and monotony . . .
The blistering ache and dire lamentous torment of my tasks.
In complete oblivion, anonymous, thankless, friendless
I labor . . . to fulfill an oath, a purpose that few in reality
Would believe or appreciate. It must be carried out, so that
Everyone like you will have a chance to lead a happier life.
Isn’t that how the story goes? How it’s supposed to end?
I perform this sacrifice . . .
There is a larger good, I need to believe that.
It is all I’ve got left to remember you. Eight years ago
I made a vow, accepted the destiny of fathers and sons in our
Bloodline. I was a daughter. No man-child remained of age.
And I did not inherit size or strength, but had to be adapted —
Flesh rebuilt from daintier, warped from beauty into beast,
Transformed like a monster by gruesome procedures and
Parts. Ripped from the arms of my young . . .
Who I may nevermore visit, hold, or speak with.
I miss you both. And fear for you. The patchwork creature
Of bulk and brawn a kind lass became has no resemblance,
No claim to such foolish daydreams. Wistful reflections.
A faraway existence. Only this. My duty and ordeal.
You were too small. If I might talk to you again, sweet children;
If I could share a last Bedtime Story, I would explain that
Once upon a time . . .
There were four Great Witches. Lazy. Selfish.
Rancorous old women. A family of very huge, very hungry
Sisters. And sometimes families cannot get along. These
Siblings fought over everything! To protect the world,
They had to be kept apart . . . These hags are vital for they
Control the Seasons and Elements. Without them,
A fragile balance could be destroyed. Their mother —
Nature — the Planet — would be in chaos.
I and male cousins toil as Witchkeepers. The Cavewitch
Locked in a mountain. The Woodwitch confined to a towering
Treehouse. The Pondwitch inhabiting a cage submerged,
The mudpool her kettle. Each stirs a cauldron, maintains a Spell.
The Wellwitch I tend, chained at the base of a dry stone pit.
At Dawn I must drag her out of bed, lug the enormous crone
To her pot, then collect sackfuls of ingredients. Fat Pumpkins.
Thick Toadstools. Fresh-picked Banewort and Witchgrass.
Devil’s Hand. Goat’s Rue. Bee Orchids. Witch Hazel.
Snapdragon Seed Pods. The Root of Mandrake. Flame and
Voodoo Lilies. The shed Skin of Poisonous Spiders and Serpents.
The Spit of Wildcats. Stray Owl Feathers and Bear Fur.
Whiskers fallen from Vampire Bats. A broken Bigfoot Toenail.
Laughing Hyena Tears. Lost Milkteeth from below the pillows
Of ornery sleeping Tots. A demanding list of foraged items to
Feed the Witch and fuel her Potion.
Vapors of enchantment ascend the steep rounded shaft,
Wafting, blending, merging with magick from her siblings
To form a purple layer of gases, embracing, shielding
Earth. Colorless to mortal gazes, undetected. Keeping you
Safe. Tomorrow I repeat the routine, climbing to the floor.
Moving the Witch. Scaling the Well. Gathering the List.
Hauling it to the cauldron. This time I will have slipped inside,
Instead of lingering at the window.
I may look like a beast; my heart is the same that
Always loved you. When you read this note, my darlings,
Picture me as I was. Tell your father to take you far.
I will not endure forever. This burden grinds one down,
And I do not want it to be yours. The world might not
Be as secure, as stable in the future. You will need to
Watch out for each other. Do not be afraid to live.
Do not despair over me.
I must stay alert or am haunted by grim concerns.
I cannot allow myself to think: What if I refused?
What if I tricked the Witch to do my bidding, rather than
Permit these changes? What if I were the mother you
Knew and could run off with you . . . It’s too late now,
My dears. A surgeon and your grandma contrived this
Ruin. I thought there was no choice. When I think,
I see the truth — that I was deceived.
104 lines
Women In Horror Interview, February 2020
* * *
The Infernal Caller
Miz Heckate according to the card she
gave me, a door-to-door Saleswoman, claimed
to be from a long line of Peddlers. Generations,
back to Ancient Times. I watched with a faceful of
doubt, distrusting anyone who knocked these days.
She set up a vintage case — of Curious Wares
(it said so on the outside) — shoving the clutter off
my coffee table. There were muffled pounds I found
alarming. “I brought you what you were never aware
you can’t live without.” She winked. Her visage
crumpled oddly, puckered like a rotten piece of fruit.
I sensed an eeriness about her, then reminded myself
it isn’t polite to stare, yet couldn’t help it. Her skin
had a ghastly hue, a lurid pallor, as if deprived
of sun or ill. She was a definite kook.
A little moribund really. An infernal caller . . .
With an attitude I generally felt uncharming:
the irritating, tooth-clenching, tightfisted effect
of seeing straight through a pretense, a clever disguise.
Was it too late to reconsider? Would it be rude
if I herded her out the door? Too late,
she was opening the case. Is that a tentacle?
I blinked. Nothing there. Must be something
in my eye. One of those swimmers. Common civility
kicked in. Hosting-instinct. I made excuses. It couldn’t
hurt to have a look. It was actually kind of
convenient. And quaint. Old-fashioned. I had been
disturbed how fast my environment was changing —
people devolving into privacy-mongers, less social;
Shopping Malls abandoned, stores automated.
Flying robots delivered packages!
The world was becoming unrecognizable.
Almost unlivable. I waited for the strange lady
to produce a sample. Instead she hoisted what may only
be described as one of a kind — a fey unfriendly bush-head.
A giant cootie. The sight made my jaw go slack.
Monster cusps grinned between bulging lips the shade of
Witch Finger Grapes. “A Crumb-Cleaner!” she fondly
called her creep. “It gobbles everything in sight,
and doesn’t require a battery or plug. Your home will be
spotless!” Dire suspicions grew like mold on bread,
for it wasn’t what I expected. Far from a new Vacuum,
this was no handy-dandy modern household miracle,
no overpriced time-saver. This was a depravity,
a paranormity, and it was loose in my living-room!
I wanted to protest, wanted to escape, wanted to
stop being so excessively polite!
I couldn’t. It was as simple as that. Too late.
I did shriek when Miz Heckate released the terror —
and believe I passed out, posture rigid, eyes covered.
Anticipating bites. Ravenous grunts and growling drew
my gaze. Popping alert, I glimpsed pandemonium
as potted plants, knickknacks, a bowl of fruit disappeared.
My favorite chair, an oil painting, a mantel clock.
The beast was nothing but a furry cavernous maw,
with the personality of a Trash-Compacter.
I wish I could say Mouthzilla was the worst part
of a deplorable day. The madwoman unveiled
her next daunting surprise. Orbs wide, I discerned
a transparent blob. She hurled it to stick on the wall
near my noggin. Bam. Sucking and snorting,
contorting, it turned to a bulbous countenance . . .
I saw myself in the horrid aspect.
I didn’t seem well. I resembled my demise.
“A Looking-Glass that mimics and looks back!”
The vendor of devilry bared a wry smirk. Queasily,
I wondered if I needed to feed it. I was afraid to ask.
A crude mask crossly mugged below my shocked
expression. Attempting to ignore the mirror, I peered
with dread at an unwelcome guest — afraid she had
more to pull out of that coffer of evil concoctions,
that Pandora’s Mother’s Box (if Pandora had a mother).
“Which company are you with?” A timorous inquiry.
A distraction, before darting to the kitchen for
a frying pan. Lingering foolishly, awaiting the reply.
Leaning toward her, impatient, slightly unhinged.
She fished in the case. Rummaging. For what???
Nervousness caused me to sweat, till I looked
like I could use an umbrella.
She offered me one. Bright red. I refused.
An umbrella? What good would it do? Pretty feeble
as a defense. Wait. “Does it have any special features?
Like a sword inside? Or a Rocket Launcher?”
Flashing an iniquitous smile, she opened the meager thing.
A sample of all You-Know-What broke loose, leaping,
springing, ejecting. Literally. I had a house full of the most
abysmal abominations from the nether reaches!
I was a mouse, a bespectacled number-cruncher who
cowered beneath the covers at night, afraid of the dark.
Who didn’t view scary movies, read horror stories.
Didn’t even read frightful poems, or open the door on
Halloween, and now this! Too late to banish her, boot
the entire maddeningly furious, horrendously fiendish,
irately foul, obnoxiously fell, grotesquely formidable
pack of freaks and felons . . .
Out the door — to the curb — down the street!
Huffing, anxious, deficient in valor, faint-hearted,
Lily-livered, a Shrinking Violet, gandering the chaos with
speculative panic, I fought inner demons to a coward’s
conclusion: escaping my Hell House, abandoning ship the best
option. Gloom a palpable shroud, fire and brimstone a theme;
I coughed on sulfurous fumes, abject. Through the haze
my mirror-image leered. The Saleslady cackled.
The room tilted and whirled, a Merry-Go-Round of
ear-ringing unmirthful amusement. I surfed my
living-room floor until the wheeling-tipping Vertigo
halted. Then made a dash, akin to plowing a Football Field:
dodging bruisers, bumping, swerving, fleeing for the
End Zone. My front door was sealed; I clung to the knob
hyperventilating. A bell chimed. A shadow lurked
on the other side wearing a hat . . .
Was that colorful Stained Glass stained before?
A buzzer went off. Someone knocked. The pressure
plunged me in a lousy mood. I couldn’t bear another visit!
Normally I wouldn’t answer. Today I was doing the
unconventional, the unexpected, and wrenched the door
wide, stronger than I knew — gaping at an Exorcist.
I could tell from the priestly attire under an overcoat.
He clutched a bag, the type loaded like a gun with
sacred weapons such as a Crucifix, vial of Holy Water,
string of Rosary Beads; a Saint’s withered toe.
“I’ve got this,” he dramatically intoned. I prayed he did.
Removing a flat purple stole to drape round his neck,
clad in a bleak robe, the Padre inquired if I was cursed.
I shrugged. Probably. “Where is the Infestation?”
Vaguely I gestured, frowning. Wasn’t it obvious? I began
to question his authenticity.
The guy presented a contract that seemed official.
I was told to sign a dotted line. Squinting at pages,
I couldn’t find one. The blanks were solid. He provided
an alternative, to lay my hand on The Bible and swear I had
faith. He did appear professional but, it was going a bit far.
Where was the Liability Clause? He scowled eye to eye.
“What’s the problem? You’re not a Non-Believer are you?”
Technically Agnostic — I couldn’t make up my mind about
anything. Hesitation caused an awkward silence. The scratchings,
tappings, bangs, screams, howls, whispers and whimpers abruptly
ceased. The Father grilled, “Are you confessing you have no
creed? You lack conviction?” Put that way it sounded bad.
A shameful nod. The Exorcist tipped his hat and took his leave.
I missed him. Casting a disappointed grimace and glower,
extracting a snazzy heavy-duty device, a cutting-edge
gadget, Miz Heckate vacuumed up . . .
Demons, creatures, mayhem, vapors, the mirror . . .
Swallowed by an enormous hose. Mouthzilla still
bounced and rolled and roamed elusive, the last to be
siphoned into the case. Locks were snapped shut.
The deathly-wan Hellseller lifted her vile repository.
A final snarl as she swiveled at the exit: “This was clearly
the wrong address!” She leveled a venomous glare and
marched out. I was glad to see her go. Waggling digits in
farewell, I expelled a sigh and slammed the door,
then leaned on it. The wildest party ever had been thrown
at my house! Slowly, gratefully, I started gathering debris.
I would need new furniture. And rugs. Many coats of
fresh paint. Disinfectant. Repairs. Maybe I should move.
A jolt of fear. No! They could show up again!
This was the safest place on Earth. Nonetheless,
I fastened four bolts.
Then barricaded the entrance with a pile of wreckage.
And a hastily-hammered cross.
211 lines
(WIHM 11) Final Girls With 2020 Vision, February 2020
* * *
Infectious
Please hold this poem at arm’s length,
if your arms are six feet that is,
for it may be infectious
and should be handled with care
because you never know what might
be going around, even if not
a Pandemic or Apocalyptic Virus
to transform Society, Civilization, people
in general — the vast majority or minority of us
who haven’t already been too warped
to tell the difference — into an unrecognizable
condition, whether temporary or as they say
for good — which isn’t necessarily great
unless you like that sort of thing, whereas
I personally am not so crazy
about Change.
What I am trying to get across isn’t
an actual warning that you should run away
this very instant because it would
defeat the entire purpose of writing a poem,
which is to be read, whether softly
or silently or loudly at the top of your lungs . . .
possibly at the bottom if you’re
inclined to draw deeper breaths than
the rest of us, while I tend to
inhale and exhale shallower than
the average bear (not that I’m a bear; it’s
a figure of speech), as if I am half-alive
or less, like a mutant oxygen-deprived
semi-corpse-state, but that’s beside
the point . . . which isn’t quite as clear
to me now.
Pinching myself to determine whether
I am human, or alive, or whatever —
it isn’t the most scientific of tests to begin with
keep in mind — I know what you must be
thinking, that I have the infection,
that it could be contagious and reading this
poem will spread it to you, if only by
virtue of thought (yes, a notion or suggestion
can be infectious like a grin or a mood),
yet I beg not to leap or spring to such
conclusions, for it is fouler by far
the spurning of literature than to catch a bug
(virtually, virally) or mental illness
(in your head) since we all have some form
or other of those, at least part of the time
(in my case I have many and have named
each one, for I consider them family).
I will attempt once more to transmit —
correction, convey to sound less
disease-carrying — the meaning of my
verse that I first sought to share
in a non-physical sense, maintaining a safe
distance, heeding guidelines imposed by
health experts (more arbitrarily, inconsistently
by governments), purely through
the hypnotic power of poetic lines without
a need for direct contact, for sharp hypodermics
to be involved, as the written word is a much
pleasanter pill to swallow . . . an oft-proven cure
for sicknesses of heart, mind, soul . . .
and I, under extraordinary circumstances
or not, just wanted to wish you well in the
best or worst of days.
Whichever it is — you be the judge —
and wash your hands after reading this
whatever you decide, for it’s usually a pretty
good policy, even if you aren’t a Germaphobe like
me — not that this poem is crawling with
Cooties, but it might be, you never know —
why take a chance? — and I guess that was all
I had to say really, so it’s okay to ignore
the remainder as it will primarily be a rambling
piece of unnecessary closure running on and on
with another sentence, another statement,
a clear case of nonsense and who needs that I ask
(along with “Are we done yet?”), as if we’re not
terribly busy to be reading lengthy poems anymore
anyway (it seems to be a consensus, not a contagion),
in which case you should probably stop —
two stanzas ago.
Too late!
81 lines
Impspired Magazine, Issue 8, December 1, 2020, September 29, 2020
* * *
The Whistle Stop
Before everything went to Hell,
some believed in Guns. Some of them
still do. I put my faith in Whistles —
stockpiling a broad assortment,
accumulating an array of noisemakers.
I called it a collection instead of
an arsenal, yet it served the same purpose.
Who could menace you to the tune
of a Calliope, a note from a Fife
or Piccolo? What villain possessed
the heart, or lack of one, to bash a face
tooting a merry melody through a hollow
tube? It worked in theory, though I never
found it necessary to put my plan
to the test, until the aforementioned
Apocalypse.
I dreamed it up as a little kid, back in the day
when Train after Train of polished Politicians
might show up to compete like stray dogs over
a vote, shaking fists full of empty promises.
Born in a town that squatted squarely
on their route of Middle American
Whistle-Stops . . . an impulse, a whim crept
into my brain to be as loud and raucous,
as grating. Blow as much hot air as they did,
but through a Whistle! It might drown their
drivel, whet their appetites for quiet and
drive them away. The scheme had proven
pointless once riding the Rails was replaced by
branded deluxe Coaches on paved highways;
emblazoned Buses that could go anywhere
directly.
Gas was cheap, and the pungent pundits
started skipping my town. Which led to
a general slipping of loyalties, concerns, values,
appearances. I aimed my bleats and blats at
common hoodlums; bullies; the stagnant,
now in abundance. And disaffected youths,
never in short supply, to wake them up!
Armed to the teeth with each manner
of Whistle: Penny, Pea, Police. Bobby,
Bosun, Band. Drill-Sergeant, Dog, Distress.
Sport, Scout, Slide. Cuckoo, Crow, Canary.
Pigeon, Predator, Panpipes. Nickel, Brass, Tin.
Wood, Bamboo, Cane. Varying degrees of
Plastic. Expelling, expending my breath on
bleeps and trumpet blasts. Did it do any good?
Actually . . .
I can’t say that it did. Looking back,
I had grown a tad older and wiser. By the
time Society collapsed, I all but abandoned
my fanciful notions on Whistles saving
the world. But then a curious thing occurred.
It turned out, Zombies do have a distinct
aversion to shrill noises — high pitches;
frequent loud tones. Yet are, simultaneously,
attracted by the sounds — drawn in scurrilous
shuffling hordes toward such audible becks
and beacons that might be food, akin to
ringing a Dinner Bell. They couldn’t resist.
I discovered this fact while pinned in a corner
by an undead graveyard-shift Waitress after
The Turning. I whistled like a Teapot in
trouble . . .
I chirped and warbled, blared my brains out.
A single Zombie became an infestation.
Swarming, bumping, snarling. Listening too.
When I ceased blowing my horn, they stopped
arriving. Deem it instinct or habit, sensing my
doom whether by one or a hundred, I played
that Emergency Whistle with heightened steam . . .
A multitude of Biters grimaced and groped at
their heads, clawed their ears. An audience of
corpses reeled in disgust, and the lethal ragtag
mob retreated! My unexpected survival
defied logic. Peering in wonder at an instrument
both of peril and of rescue, I vowed to use the
miracle, my contradictory conclusion for a greater
good — rather than merely to salvage my own
skin.
Many a close scrape would be had with gross
blighters in my wake, staggering, lurching,
stumbling toward a Pied Piper’s siren call.
Chased by an increasing herd, a vicious cycle
of shriek and wail as I lured the oafs but
repelled them with my subsequent breath.
Striving to control the tweets and lead a crowd
of unburied human remains in my footsteps
as if I were John, Paul, George or Ringo.
It would be my legacy, my contribution . . .
Enticing Zombies to a trap. Saving lives.
Passing out piffles and twiffles to everyone
I met. We took back our town. Then boarded
Buses and Trains and traveled city by city to
protect against an endless legion of expired
cannibals.
Monsters. Sometimes family or friends.
Guiding, guarding, moving on. There was
always another town. Like candidates on the
most ferocious campaign trail. Word spread
far too slow. This dire infection communicated
faster. Until a Dog Whistle caused the biggest
uproar. And not in the form of innuendo,
a hidden message. Not political. Accidentally
I chose a rejected silent tube — carried by error
as a back-up. I had dropped my Boat Flute
and wildly fished for a replacement. Discerning
no refrain, no cosmic deliverance out of the
burnished stem; in panic I realized the mistake
and puckered dryly, my lips unable to make
a peep without a pipe. Feeling lost, needing
luck . . .
I beheld, wide of orb, the useless Whistle
had produced a brain-splitting current of stark
agony — wrenching throes and spasms —
the cretins dropping onto knees or writhing
upon pavement. Shuddering, screeching before
a throng of hideous gourds exploded in gruesome
Technicolor. Emboldened, we identified the
exact level that would harm only Zombies,
then transmitted a shocking inaudible signal via
radio crystals, channels, airwaves, across
land and sea, connecting every possible method,
through wires and batteries, beams and high
towers, antenna to antenna. It wasn’t a cure.
We couldn’t return to the Past, reset to Normal.
Pandora’s Jar had spilled an ugly undeniable
truth . . .
Zombies were the Future, not machines,
corporations, dystopian societies. They were
us. Our next stage in Evolution. Beyond
Death. Bodies would still decay — ere they
festered, lingered, lumbered, undying. A warped
version of Eternal Life. What Mankind had sought
for countless generations. Oddly gaining sharper
senses: Vision, Smell, Hearing. Even as
intelligence, health, vitality waned. To halt it
we had one resort, just one defense, The Whistle Stop.
Where it failed to reach, a regular Whistle was
favored over bullets, blades or clubs that sprayed
blood, promoted violence. Doctors quit battling
the Pandemic, resources spent. My brainchild
was the final hope — Humanity’s best and last
stand.
144 lines
Impspired Magazine, Issue 8, December 1, 2020, September 29, 2020
* * *
Pandemic Protest: May and June 2020
In spite of perils and escalations —
rampant Cases; Patients dying —
numbers spiking in most Nations,
we hear the crazy voices lying.
“Reopen!” their manic bid,
“and live like no tomorrow!
Keep the worst statistics hid.
Suppress all breath of sorrow!”
For the greediest to win,
gates of cities fling aside;
people charge outdoors again
like a maskless fevered tide . . .
Abandoning their sense,
freeing caution to the breeze,
as we gape in cold suspense
at the spreading of disease.
Then, as if by wicked plan
there repeats a well-worn bane
with the killing of a Black Man
by a White Guy’s bold disdain.
Yet it isn’t one, the names abound,
slain by Cops and ruthless Killers;
on streets or tree branch found
the brutal crimes of fear-instillers.
Grim parallels to horrors past,
an unrelenting stream of years.
Cries for Justice, Reform at last
during weeks of Protest and tears.
The present firestorm unduly lit
at the heart of a viral scourge,
endangering some of the hardest hit;
provoking a bond to forge . . .
Marching as the Human Race,
united more than ever
to fight Oppression’s harmful trace
as perhaps the world has never.
Declaring in a single voice
Black Lives Matter.
Making a courageous choice
to join instead of scatter.
So obvious and true a notion . . .
how did it come to this?
Basic as the tides and ocean,
this wave has been remiss.
There is no other side to take
for the color of our skin.
What difference does it make
which body we live in?
I hope for light, I hope for health
throughout the planet at this hour.
I wish for all of us the wealth
to survive with people-power
against the height of epidemic.
We are stronger as a whole,
and much kinder than systemic,
without a lethal rising toll.
It is time to stop and think.
Time for all to quit denying,
raise the blinds and see the truth,
too many have been dying!
Houston, we’ve got a problem —
and it’s right back here on Earth
till Society accepts that
each life, each heart has worth.
Even now a glimpse of beauty —
a chance to better understand.
Respect is a common duty,
to give without demand . . .
This is History’s path unfolding
toward a Future none have known.
Generations we were molding
may repeat what they’ve been shown.
Generations we are holding
will inherit how we’ve grown.
74 lines
Oddball Magazine, June 29, 2020
(excerpt from “Denying The Obvious”)
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