It was a difficult decision for the jury. But we had a lot of fun and want to thank all poets for their wonderful poems.
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Thank you, Raymond Walker and Sherry Perkins for their jury work and offering one of their books to the winners. I appreciate your help and support!
Now, please permit me a word on my own account:
The Halloween-Poem Contest has brought us all a lot of work and fun and many wonderful Halloween poems, showing how much talent there is around.
However, it also showed us, with this year having the lowest number of participants, that our poets have shown all their skills within the Halloween theme.
After five years of organizing the Annual Halloween-Poem Contest and hosting it on ‘Writer’s Treasure Chest,’ I think it is time for something new.
It was five years of fun and I wanted to thank everyone, all participants, and in particular all jury members from the first to the last contest, for making this a wonderful experience for me! Thanks so much for all your work, your help, your support – and the wonderful books you offered as prizes in the five years! You all are amazing, not only as authors but also as wonderful friends!
Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed 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
When willows arch their backs in reverence,
bowing toward the earth below.
When evening breezes messenger the coming of the moon’s pale glow.
When night birds telegraph their omens,
fresh from lunar heights, foretold and hearth sides showcase flames emblazoned,
burnished embers edged in gold.
From deep in silent, grassy places sodden with late-evening air.
Ambivalent to strange embraces,
lilies bring their buds to bear.
Amidst the stony tributaries built to those no sound may reach.
To evidence impermanence,
engraved with lessons, yet to teach.
Here begets the Witching Hour, slivered apex of the night.
All at once, begun and ended,
metaphor for mortal plight.
Taunts all life with fear and splendor,
dreams of flying, long since lost.
Tempts the grave with memories tender.
Glimpse the light, whatever cost.
Coiled within the misty shadow,
serpentine and poised to strike, lay the horrid reckoning
feared by both chaste and foul alike.
The cold and misty air contains a deathly musk
A stench that hovers over the graves
Stirring from the ground of depth
Lost souls looking upwards to be saved
Bony hands clutch their invitation
Tight to their skeletal chest
They hope to attract a new dead mate
One they can touch and maybe caress
Darkness is their familiar friend
As they sit beside their first date
Beauty is in the socket of the beholder
As a specialty, their head rotates
Stripped of flesh and brains
They now judge on spirit alone
They talk about previous lives
And reminisce about earthly homes
The church bell sounds its tune
Its time to swap around
The truth is they will never find new love
While they all sleep six feet underground
Pleaserespect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed 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
There is a being, you see, upon this evening’s brow;
two stories up, where the night’s extinguished candle was used to enshroud.
Over the flame she turned, over their breath she heard, their pensive dishes of gruel and meat,
their spoons clashing, bread ripping, as they spoke of things without understanding;
without understanding at all.
Notes of music spilt onto the wooden floors; clanging mouths and spit soon sealed every door.
A rush away, chains soon met.
Truth was heard whispering nevermore;
it was beckoned back through the Hall’s front doors.
Now with violence ripped and pages fell,
Darkened calendars and lighted gold,
the lady of the manor haunts her lonely, ever darkened but discreet,
Halloween Halls.
A party had gathered the night of Samhain
When a stranger arrived. “Won’t you please let me in?”
He was no acquaintance; his horse threw a shoe.
With the rain, might he stay and enjoy the fun, too?
His hair, black as pitch; his frame, mighty tall:
The ladies were swooning all over the hall.
In this golden era when Victoria was queen,
By turns they told ghost stories each Halloween.
The house master waited. He told his tale last.
His guests scarcely breathed till the story had passed.
His ancestor conquered this manor by siege
And ousted the king who had long been its liege.
But people still loved him. For full victory
The conqueror lashed the old king to a tree.
In public he severed the fingers and toes
Of the king one by one. Then he lopped off his nose.
The dying man gave his last curse to the land:
“You may prosper today. You may think your luck grand.
But I promise you this: Nuada shall return!
My torture and murder will be overturned
When I visit on you what you’ve given to me.
Not even your children will ever be free!”
The master’s eyes gleamed as he warned the hushed hall,
“One night he’ll come back here to murder us all!”
By now, all the house guests were too scared for bed.
As midnight approached, the house mistress said,
“It’s time to tell fortunes. Who wants to go first?”
They fled to the parlor from thoughts of the curse.
They each took an apple and sliced it nine ways
In front of the mirror. They’d find true love’s gaze
By eating eight pieces, then tossing the last
Over shoulder by candlelight. Inside the glass
Some claimed to see friends or that gleam in the eyes
Of the one they loved best, like young Lydia’s prize:
The stranger in darkness who stole her first kiss
While the guests, rapt with stories, saw nothing amiss.
At last her turn came, but her lover had gone:
Vanished into the night with the horse he rode on.
Young Lydia, pretty, the house’s last daughter,
Saw gilded glass ripple like midnight water.
Her love’s noseless visage grinned wide like a skull:
“King Nuada’s back! Now your family line’s null!”
Nine months, and poor Lydia brought forth a son.
Her father’s grim gaze knew whose battle was won.
In the boy shone the stranger. No fingers or toes.
The most frightening thing was his lack of a nose.
Now Lydia nurses her babe by the hour,
Guarding his life from her family’s power.
No mere mortal child will inherit the land:
One look at his face shows King Nuada’s brand.
On Samhain, the veil between worlds grows too thin.
Be wary of strangers and don’t let them in.
She appeared
out of the night.
Dark mystery arousing
curiosity,
distraction, concern.
(When will I ever learn
to let these heartbreaks
in the making
pass me by?)
Voodoo of attraction,
sacrosanct intimacy.
Impelled to submit in throes
of flagrant ecstasy.
Do what you will with me
in our secret rendezvous.
Then relinquish me to go
back to my wastrel ways.
She grabbed me with such force
I felt I could die.
And that was just her eye
pulling me close
to continue
our conversation.
Great conflagration
arose in my heart.
So adept at her art
of igniting
imagination.
Cruel fate
mocks nocturnal fantasies.
Yet, swept up in delight,
facing dualities,
the wrong and the right,
I too easily sell my immortal soul
for her eternal night.
She tastes my sin
drip laughing from my skin.
I freely forswear my life.
Fierce pierce and suck
lunge in the for kill.
There’s no greater thrill.
We descend into dark fall.
Fade into shadow before approach of light.
