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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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Let’s Shine – by Melody J. Fisher
Four fat hollow pumpkins
Gutted, carved, and lit
Staring from the steps
Of the porch where they sit
One is very frightful
Another dons a hat
The biggest one is smiling
One resembles a cat
They just sit and watch
As the world passes them by
Making observations
Before they shrivel up and dry
They sit in silent judgement
As a couple bicker and complain
Listen in discomfort
As they cause each other pain
They see a little girl
Talking to a strange old man
They watch in quiet horror
As he pulls her into a van
An old lady hobbled past them
Hungry, lonely, and afraid
Her own children abandoned her
When her mind began to fade
“It sure is ugly out there”
The first one says out loud
“Yes,” agrees the scary one
“It must make the devil proud.”
The smiling pumpkin frowned
“Well, his joy will soon end,
I saw a cop rescue the little girl,
And that old lady found a friend.”
“Great!” exclaimed the cat
“The couple made up, too.
I saw him give her flowers…
They were kissing like lovers do.”
“I’ve seen some good things, too,”
Bragged the pumpkin with the hat
“But there’s much work to be done,
I think we all agree on that.”
They sat in awkward silence
As their candles were lit for the night
“As long as we’re here, let’s shine….
This world could use the light.”
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The First Halloween – by Chris Graham, The Story Reading Ape
As long nights drew nigh
and fears grew high,
of things not yet seen,
that should never have been.
The Villagers met,
all feeling upset.
With one voice, they declared,
their fears fully bared.
“Who will face
the demonic race
that haunt the living
with no forgiving.”
“Where is the brave one
who will face them alone,
to challenge their power
and before them, not cower?”
“Who will hold fast to the treasure
they seek in good measure?”
“Who has strong enough heart
to make them depart?”
“Who will cast them,
before they cause mayhem,
back to their lairs?”
“It’s no good using prayers.”
“Not I” boomed the Preacher.
“Nor I” proclaimed the Teacher.
“Not I” gulped the Dentist.
”N-n-nor I” stammered the Ventriloquist.
”I will” answered the child
its voice soft and mild.
”YOU will?” scoffed the congregation,
full of indignation.
”Then go, do the deed”
”But you’ll never succeed”
cried the voices of grownups,
some of whom got hiccups.
Thus, so it was, as foretold
by Sages of old.
The Demons will be defeated
and their evil depleted.
By a child, not yet a Teen,
who will take over Halloween.
And drive the demons all mad
by making it FUN Time – not bad.
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Grave Choice by Cynthia Morgan
Weariness overcame me. Darkness spiraled up from the pit of my stomach, engulfing me, pulling me under, surrounding me. I struggled against it, trying to breath in the suffocating murk, but, like a hypnotic spell, I could not resist the tugging blackness encroaching on my thoughts. Sleep leapt upon me, like a tigress with claws bared, sinking them into my flesh, penetrating deeply, inescapable.
Quiet. Blackness. Sinking. Strange sensations scathed over me. Heaviness. Lightness. Breaking through. Crashing in. Calm tranquility mixed with ethereal panic that left me searching the dimness frantically, but for what I did not know. Light? Breath? Heartbeat?
All was silent. All was Dim.
Fear crashed in on me; a thousand boulders tumbling on my body from out of the dingy night sticking to me, pounding over me without mercy and without ceasing, yet I did not fall. There was no pain, only fear devouring me in the darkness. Echoes of thought whispered from the ebon vastness around me; voices once so bright, filled with life, now empty, hollow, soundless.
What happened to the life that was inside me? Where did my vibrancy go? Try as I might, I could not draw a single breath and the sensation of existing without it was terrifying. Brackish water sloshed around my feet, pouring in from the edges of the darkness, splashing upwards in a slow, inescapable progression; yet my feet felt nailed to the place where I stood. Unable to run, I searched the emptiness around me, horrified to watch the slogging water sucking upward around me, encasing me in icy coldness.
Where was the Light? Wasn’t there a Tunnel of Light? What happened to all the preaching and teaching and reaching from Heaven? Shadows began to move in the deep darkness, slinking towards me in a haze that filled me with dread. Sounds like ravenous animals gnawing bones began to filter through to me. Screeches and cackles more horrendous in sound than any tale from the crypt I had ever heard. Insidious laughter mocked my struggles as I fought to escape the unrelenting icy embalmment closing around me.
Then all went silent as a single voice spoke from the darkness staining itself crimson over my head. I listened, aghast at the familiarity of the tone and inflection. It was my own voice. It was me, speaking out of the past to haunt my own soul and as I listened, bitter tears slipped down my pallid cheeks, falling into the freezing water encircling my chest, my neck, sloshing upward over my chin, my nose, consuming me.
“I have everything I could ever want or need. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, more influence than I know how to use, and more friends than I can count. ……………
What do I need God for?”
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MOUNTAIN CASTLE by Frank Hubeny
In my mountainous castle well hidden away
There’s my beast getting restless for lightness of day
And the blood that I seek must be innocent, sweet,
So delight feeds the brain and my rapture’s complete.
How I long that the travelers wandering by
Be so true that they capture my sensitive eye.
How I long that they tarry so I’ll have a bite
Of the glory of goodness lost deep in the night.
Ah, look! There’s a traveler coming toward me,
To my mountainous castle all lost by the sea,
To the doom that awaits him. His way seems so sure
With a heart pumping love and deliciously pure.
He is knocking. I’ll open the door to his death.
He is breathing but soon he will not take a breath.
Then at the table aged wine I may taste
With his flesh, raw and bloody–there’s no time to waste.
But wait! My hand moves but it can’t free the door.
The traveler turns. He won’t knock anymore.
Have I grown out so ghostly my body has gone?
Have I nothing but fantasies I can put on?
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This is only the first group of submissions. Please, keep them coming and make it really hard for the jury to decide on the winners!
A. J. Alexander
