Dead Man’s Jamboree

rattle me bones and shiver me timbers
it’s a dead man’s jamboree
from dusk till dawn
around the graves
a dancing they will be
a raspy throated woodwind howls
as drums are banged with bones
and out there in the mist somewhere-
another dead man moans
with but one night, the whole year thru
this gay thread to weave
they dance the jig, and tip the jug
in gleeful toast to moon above-
‘salute!’ all hallows eve…..

This is my offering for Chelsea Ann Owen’s Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest‘s call for Halloween Poetry. Boo!

Haunted Hospital

they used to keep them here you know
the criminally insane
locked behind these very doors
thorazine coursing through their veins.

the ones that perished here, it’s said
were denied admittance to the next plane
so they walk these halls at each full moon
-much to their disdain.

they’ve been spotted of a midnight clear
feeding on the slain
at banquet tables rich with blood
which flows like cheap champagne.

so tread lightly here, if at all you must
-tho’ better to refrain
for inside these haunted halls they dwell
the ghouls of society’s bane.

This is my offering for Eugenia at the Brew-N-Spew Cafe who has requested something haunted this week.

A Good Man

I married him twice.

Both times
he promised to
love, honor, and cherish
for as long as we both shall live
and meant it-
both times..

The same man
two very different bodies
two very different places in time
but essentially-
the same man..

And I have no idea
why I did it either time.
I married him twice
the same man.
Both times
knowing, no amount of
“He’s a good man”
would ever become love
or bring me any closer
to loving myself…

Vernix

you will
never know
the scent of
baby powder
transports me back
to the first moment
i held you in my arms

(inhale)
(exhale)

in an instant
i am once again
breathing in the scent
of the waxy white vernix
that protected
your fragile foetal flesh
from the waters
of my womb..

and reminded,
that you should never
have had to protect
yourself like that
from me
again..

Posted for Chelsea Ann Owens’ Terrible Poetry Contest. This week we could the subject was open, so I found this rather absurd subject in my …why paisley?? archives and decided to go with it.

Caged Bird

nestled warmly
in between
my feather beds
and comforters
it occurred to me
that there is no place
i would rather be
than right here
right now
doing just
what i am doing.
such revelation
brought with it
a calm
a feeling of
belonging
a sense that
all is as it should be.
and the caged bird
that had been
beating furiously
in my chest-
has finally
come to rest.

Thru Violet's Lentz

My view, tho' somewhat askew…

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