3rd Halloween Poem Contest – 5th Group Of Submitted Poems —

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Picture courtesy of: http://preventioncdnndg.org/eco-quartier/eco-tips-for-halloween/

 

 

 

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Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander

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Bless Wise Old Women by Martha Sullivan

Women, it’s true, had a gift so rare

for healing with herbs and plants and flare.

Folks would visit deep in the wood

where molds and mushrooms and gardens stood.

Some women were toothless, with humps on their backs,

aged and experienced; not useless, not lax.

They were trusted and honored by women and men,

who were healed by concoctions again and again.

But something did happen, the papacy stewed:

“Paying attention to women is nothing but rude.

All eyes to the Latin, all eyes here to Rome,

all eyes to the papal reach, wherever you call home.”

The pope did order, with a stroke of his pen,

in 1320 to banish herb-knowing women.

“Going forward it is listed, heresy is witchcraft,

a religion that is evil.   Those women are daft.”

“We must persecute them, devil worship they do,

and practice black magic, using poisons – it’s true!”

“Send out my Inquisitors to capture the hags,

and drowned those old women in rock-laden bags.”

“If they sink, they are innocent; if they rise up they are not.

But use rocks of the heaviest, damn those who we’ve got.”

So began “The Great Persecution” at a feverish pitch.

Not a single hag left – not a single old witch.

But in the recess of memory these women remain,

and yearly their honored though forgotten by name.

With a conical hat and a cape that is black,

joyful children renounce the papacy’s hack.

So bless wise, old, women, whose knowledge did heal.

Let’s honor those witches whose bodies did squeal,

with pain and horror at the hands of the few,

whose hatred of women they did viciously spew.

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On the Thirty First by Pamela S. Wight

Dark is night, night is just right

As I set my broom aside

with a thought so candle bright

My glowing eyes I can’t hide.

On the date of this fall month

I’m allowed to be my self

even eating my best lunch –

can of worm warts on the shelf.

But maybe I’ll surprise them

My witch cousins and witch friend

I’ll knock on doors because I can

Pretend to be a small human.

I’ll forget my nightly haunts

For this one special fun time

Neglect my night’s sky-filled jaunts

Instead listen for door chimes.

I’ll dress up like a robot

Or maybe a movie star

Collect yummy candy – lots

Walking sidewalks near and far.

Tonight I am not a witch

I switch roles and use my feet

hoping for no surprise glitch

as trick or treaters I meet.

I hide my twelve toes with shoes

Third eye is under a hat

My high shrill voice yells Boo BOO

Kids scream and so does a cat.

My bun of black hair escapes

And my pointy ears pop out

WITCH! someone yells with fear, hate

Suddenly I’m full of doubt

Guess I can’t be who I’m not

Not tied to the ground like them

I laugh and sprint past the tot

Glad I can fly like a wren.

“Boomer!” I yell and she flies

To my hands, my pal, my broom

I screech and scream out “good bye!”

As we fly toward the full moon.

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IT’S ALIVE by Susanne Leist

 

I wake from a deep sleep.

The pounding of my heart

Cuts through the stillness.

A sound hits my ears.

A creak that does not belong.

I am not alone.

I peek across the room.

To a shelf up high.

A puppet sits there.

Eyes glowing in the darkness.

Lifelike in its wooden body.

Evil in its demonic grin.

Then it speaks.

In a deep voice.

“Time to play,” it says.

I run to the door.

No!

It’s standing before me

In the hallway.

Arms reaching for me,

A gleam in its black eyes.

It can’t be.

But it is.

It’s alive.

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Three little witches by Emily F. Seirup

 

The Sisters of The Light

Kindered souls burning bright,

with laughter and delight

and youthful grins and cheeping chirps,

nimble fingers and baby toesies,

the cutest baby burps

and the sweetest button noseies.

“Haiiiah, ay ya, ay ya, namma amma mamma”,

the little one did sing,

“Ayala, which sandwiches did you bring?”

Ayala, the oldest so calm so wise

for only eleven,

said “I brought turkey, and seven.

They’re little finger sandwiches

all three of us can share”,

as she pushed back her long blonde hair.

“What did the angels say

when you talked to the turkey my sister,

was she a she or was he a mister?”

“Halaya he was a happy little turkey

in love with a goat,

of all the silly things the turkey could dote,

he loved his life and had plenty of friends,

a beautiful bird who met his fate

at this glorious end,

to feed us and nourish us Sisters us three,

for fate has chosen our webs hand in hand,

a happy at last I’d agree!”

“Did he laugh at the goat

and have good food to eat,

because it’s important to us

when we choose our meat,

as Mommy always says, the future depends,

on healing through bonds

that love always mends,

for with love and with light

we accept each other in unity alright.”

“That’s right Taokoya, we’re here to heal,

to come together in life and love at every meal.”

“Aayyyaa, Ayala Ayala”, Halaya squealed

as they rounded the bend before the field,

“and the fruit, their records of yield unsealed?

The fruit She grows so high and mighty

from our Mother Aphrodite,

the sun the light encased so bright

and packed so tight

in fruit that bursts my bubbles

in flavor with sugars that shines in doubles

and rainbows galore,

I could eat fruit forever more and never bore.”

“The angels cry for you

Sweet Halaya sister so dear”,

Taokoya said as the field was near,

“at forests end we can’t pretend

that our food doesn’t count

so much for what to we amount

as we prepared our lunch

and our somethings to munch

for this amazing brunch,

we thank the heavens for all we have received,

as we give and are grateful to be relieved

by the universe so grand so divinely vast,

we thank the future and forgive the past

for whatever happened last,

to move on and unite in harmony and peace,

for these bodies, this lifetime,

this being is on lease.”

A moment of silence between the three witches,

as they thank the universe

for their own personal niches,

they seek out their spot for their picnic

while skipping and laughing all the way,

these wise little witches who have learned

the calm but love to run jump and play!

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‘Bout Hallow’s Eve by P.J. Enzman

 

Who? Who? Who?

The owl calls for you.

As shadows creep and flowers weep,

The frost crawls on the morning dew.

 

BOO BOO BOO

The ghost calls for you!

The doors creak and hauntings seep

Into graveyards, through and through…

 

Eek! Eek! Eek!

The trees are gray and bleak.

The bats have flown and crows condone

The Trick-or-Treat stuck in their beaks!

 

Shriek, shriek, shriek!

The witches spells are tweaked.

Beware the sight of dark at night,

And witch’s crafty sneak.

 

Moan…Moan…Moan…

Remember you’re not alone.

Ghouls and zombies lurking-

Hear their dire tone.

 

Groan, groan, groan…

It chills you to the bone.

The leave are falling and winter’s calling,

to the grave or depths unknown.

 

Shout! Shout! Shout!

Make sure there is not doubt!

Your costume shows you’re not afraid,

You know what Halloween’s about!

 

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This is the fifth group of submissions. In the meantime there won’t be any more poems accepted. The jury will decide on the winners soon. Thank you for your patience.
A. J. Alexander

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