Scary October 8

Here we are at the unholy month of October. I thought I would do a paranormal, witchy, unholy bunch of poems, some new and some old.

Don’t forget to check out Jane Dougherty and Kat Myrman‘s plans for this month!

Today’s poem is a Vampire’s Tale

In the shadows she stands alone

Jealous of those on their way home.

Fingers ripping at her neck,

Slowly her blood drips down her white skin.

Longingly, she weaves her dreams but her hopes wear thin.

Her thoughts full of sin, watching those who who walk in the light.

She wants their bodies she craves their fright

She needs their blood she wants to devour them whole.

Here eyes searching for a victim to steal their soul.

To infect her victim with that to which there is no cure.

She watches him as he walks home from work, clean and pure.

The burning ache deep within her drives her to distraction.

She aches for him, she burns for him , she must take action.

Blood lust makes her bold and brazen she steps out of the shadows to attract him.

He moves towards her beguiled by her pale skin.

Excited by what he sees. Her body barely covered by her cape

Attracted by her jet black eyes not knowing she is fake.

His juices rising from deep within …a desperate need to sate.

Come, she whispers licking her lips

He slides his hands along her hips

She acts all soft and coy

Moving her body to his, he’s suddenly filled with joy.

He thinks she likes him, that he will have his way

Unsuspecting he follows her into the alleyway.

From human hustle and lights they move.

The danger lights should be flashing , the warnings he refuses to hear.

Too busy to notice her eyes change colour and her lips flush blood red.

She lets him slip inside of her. Lights explode in his head.

She lets him reach his highest delight , as her fangs sink in his neck

She sucks him dry and leaves him for dead.

Not the A to Z April Challenge : Lupine

The  new moon  hears  the sad Lupine’s call

The  pull of  the wild fills her  all

Calling  for  her mate to come

To her aid .The hunter slay

Turn night into day

Lust makes her swoon

They Lupine

Wolves blood

Moon.

Blood on your hands.

Hot wet and sticky I ooze through your fingers

You cannot completely erase me  I am the stain that lingers.

I lay at your feet glaring up at you screaming, screaming

No amount of your tears can cleanse me no more can I be gleaming, gleaming.

 

I am your guilt  your broken pride

I am the the wrongs you cannot hide.

I am there and I will not go

I an more guilt that you will ever want to know.

 

I am red, as the setting sun, I am as black as the deepest hole

I am your festering guilt, the tightening of a thousand needles in your soul.

I am your crusade, your jihad your ‘Holy War?’

I am the lurking danger far worse than you foresaw.

 

Blood on stones, blood on the walls blood of the innocents who do no harm

Blood on races blood on their souls, blood on their heads to some  a balm.

Blood in your ears blood in your eyes  blood in your living rooms on TV screens.

Blood of  the old and of  the young , the child, the pregnant mum cover your ears to their screams.

 

Hot wet and sticky I ooze through your fingers

You cannot completely erase me  I am the stain that lingers.

I lay at your feet glaring up at you screaming, screaming

No amount of your tears can cleanse me no more can I be gleaming, gleaming.

Vampire Nights

In the shadows she stands jealously watching those who walk in the sun.

Fingers ripping at  her skin,slowly her  blood drips down her white skin.

Longingly, she weaves her dream where her hopes  are  spun.

Watching those who who walk in the light , her thoughts  full of sin!

 

She wants  their bodies  she craves their  souls

She needs  their blood she wants  to devour them whole.

Here eyes searching  for a victim to lure

To infect her victim  with that to which  there is no cure.

 

She watches him as  he walks home  from work tired and worn.

The  burning ache  deep within her drives  her to distraction.

She aches  for him, she burns for  him , through him she’ll be reborn.

Blood lust makes  her bold and brazen  she steps out of  the shadows to attract him.

 

He  moves  towards  her in the pale moonlight

Excited  by what he sees. Her body barely covered by her cape

Attracted  by her jet black eyes  and  her  skin so white

His juices rising from deep within  …a desperate need , it  to sate.

 

Come, she whispers licking her lips

He slides his hands along her hips

She acts all soft  and coy

Moving her body in to his, he’s suddenly filled with joy.

 

He thinks she likes him, that  he will have his way

Unsuspecting  he follows her into  the alley dark

From human hustle and lights  they move away

The danger lights  should  be flashing , the  warnings  he refuses  to hark.

 

Too busy to notice her  eyes change colour and her lips flush blood red.

She  lets  him slip inside of her she still likes to feel desired

She lets him reach  his highest delight , as her fangs sink in his neck

She sucks him dry and  for a second  mourns before leaving him for dead.

 

 

Journal For Poetry Challenge#20/05/2012

Without Death, Bloodshed and Suffering

Without death, bloodshed and suffering wars are never won
And only hatred and grief survives when the fighting is done
And war heroes honoured in every war street parade
By war men the memories of war not allowed for to fade
The politicians the praises of the war dead do sing
Their politicizing of war for sake of power not an honourable thing
For God, Flag and Country and National Pride
Far too many good young people in wars have died
one war leads to another war as the wise one did say
And millions for patriotism in wars with their lives do pay
For the sake of war the war men create us against they
And for the love of a flag the young and brave die in wars today
And on Remembrance Day the war men parade up and down
In a show of patriotism through the streets of the town.

Francis Duggan
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Francis Duggan

(1946 – Present) I have been penning stuff since 1973 have written up to nine thousand individual pieces which can be seen on various online poetry sites, I was born and raised in Millstreet Co Cork Ireland and I have been living in Victoria Australia for the past twenty three years………. Francis Duggan.

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This modern poem is timeless it could refer to any war! It says all the things I have said in the months since January. The tears I have shed whilst researching this challenge are witness to the fact that no one wins in war. No one , no person, no country, no religion, no sect nothing and nobody wins,only the politicians and the arms makers ………….. They win hands down every time .

Politicians plot scheme and win, our young people in the armed forces are maimed and killed, sacrificed on the altar of their greed ( the politicians greed that is). Then the truth is sanitized and  the politicians brush things over! We never learn, it has been this way since the beginning of  mankind and I see no changes yet . willow.

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Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

Journal For Poetry Challenge#7 06/05/12

This week I have broken with my rule of using the war poets and have for a change used a poem written about the The First World War, what is more  it was written this week.

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The poem is hard to read, hard hitting, cruel and it cuts like a knife. The death depicted here is not the stuff of “Jonny Hero” dying bravely stiff upper lip and jovial words for his friends, his pals. No here in is the mud, guts, defecation,urine , blood, bone and tears. The gut wrenching agony of death from gas. The young man lying with his guts/ bowels hanging out or a leg or arm blown off.

Soldiers rotting from the feet up smelling of death, sweat, urine and cheap whores praying they will survive and get home to family and hearth ..hoping to get rid of the lice, fleas and what ever extra little gifts they may of picked up on their last 24hr leave.

Yes the poem below says all that and much more and in much fewer words. maggiemaeijustsaythis  I thank you for this truly beautiful War Poem. I am not sure if beautiful is the correct word for this work of art.

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The Charge

By maggiemaeijustsaythis

Hard back pages, stained with

time and aged aroma.

photo credits http://flickrhivemind.net aroma.

1915. A battle is painted.
Acid slashing,spitting.

Direct eyes leap from a tiny cliff
onto young bodies. Bloodied. Abandoned.

Somewhere, some mothers stand as sharp
as shrapnel,
bullets piercing their wombs,
their children’s supple homes.

Trembling hands
find a gun
and a buddy. A soldier. A boy.
Death has no time in
these fields. He is hurried.

Frontal attacks sweep
unprotected spots. Blurring instinct.
Blinding the Earth with a scarlet bath.

Burying dirt with
young boys, men.

1915. Hard back pages, stained with
memory and
the scent of suffering.

And this….
just the beginning.

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maggiemaeijustsaythis   wrote the poem above after reading an article for the news papers Mons  later publish in a book of short stories . written by W Douglas Newton. I can find no information on W Douglas Newton himself apart from the fact that he was a prolific writer who wrote fiction and fact about war. His books and articles painted a truer picture than any of the propaganda released at the time.  maggiemaeijustsaythis  called her poem  The Charge

maggiemaeijustsaythis  says this about herself .

Maggie Mae I On Words: “I love them as if they were children, discipline them as if they were students.” ~ Maggie MaeI write for THE INNOCENTS: the depressed, for the wicked, the sad, the pained, for the bipolar, the schizo, the anxiety ridden nail-biters, the nervous twitchers, the PTSD’s that wake up 5 times throughout the night in a shaken-paralyzed-panic. I write for the suicidal, the manic, the hyper-active, the creative, the angry, the irrational. I write for the guilty, the pleasure hunters, the hookers, the addicts. I write for you alcoholics, you misunderstood, you a/bi/homo/hetero – overly sexual beings. I write for you thinkers, you crooks, you educated, you street-laced whores. I write for you gossiping, backstabbing, ruthless, conniving bitches. I write for the part of you that wants to speak up but is too afraid of what other people will think.I write for me! I am an INNOCENT. I write for the depressed, wicked, sad, pained, bipolar, schizo, anxiety ridden, nervous, PTSD, nightmared, panicky, suicidal, manic, hyper-active, creative, angry, irrational, guilty, pleasure seeking, hooker, addict, alcoholic, misunderstood, a/bi/homo/hetero-overly sexual, thinker, crook, educated, whore parts of me! I write for the gossiping, backstabbing, ruthless, conniving bitch part of me! I write for the part of me that wants to speak up but is too afraid of what other people will think….

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Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

Journal For Poetry Challenge#7 29/04/2012

The poem below makes me weep because with all the scorn and sarcasm he often used. He said the soldiers died with honour and did so with decorum ! He says they did not weep or groan. 

I am afraid to say they died in dirt and mud and agony they groaned and screamed with their innards hanging out, they cried for their mothers and their sweethearts.Poor souls they died in dirt and agony.  

Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
“How to Die”
Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.

The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;
He lifts his fingers toward the skies
Where holy brightness breaks in flame;
Radiance reflected in his eyes,
And on his lips a whispered name.

You’d think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses,
And sullen faces white as chalk,
Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.
But they’ve been taught the way to do it
Like Christian soldiers; not with haste
And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste.

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Siegfried Sassoon was decorated for bravery on the Western Front. He became one of the leading poets of the First World War.He was a key figure in the study of the poetry of the Great War: he influenced and mentored the then unknown Wilfred Owen; he spent thirty years reflecting on the war through his memoirs; and at last he found peace in his religious faith. Some critics found his later poetry lacking in comparison to his war poems. Sassoon, identifying with Herbert and Vaughan, recognized and understood this: “my development has been entirely consistent and in character” he answered, “almost all of them have ignored the fact that I am a religious poet.”            ….. http://www.poemhunter.com/siegfried-sassoon/biography/

Lest we forget.

Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

 

Journal For Poetry Challenge#7 25/03/2012

Death a poem
by William Butler Yeats

 

Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Suppression of breath;
He knows death to the bone
Man has created death.

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In this poem I see “Death” stalking the battle fields and war torn villages and towns. Eagerly reaping up the dead. No respect for age or sex he just collects them all. Not even the animals are safe from him.

In fact the beginning  lines of the poem suggest that there is no hope for man nor beast . There is no hope, for man created war and in doing so they opened the gates of hell to let an unstoppable killing machine/ monster into our world.

Sadly I agree ever since the first tribes picked up stones or branches against each other war has been around in one guise or an other ‘hot’ or ‘cold’ modern or ancient…………………..

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William Butler Yeats 13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939) was an Irish poet and playwright, and one of the foremost figures of 20th century literature. A pillar of both the Irish and British literary society.Yeats had a life-long interest in mysticism, spiritualism, occultism and astrology. He read extensively on the subjects throughout his life, became a member of the paranormal research organisation.

He  was born and educated in Dublin but spent his childhood in County Sligo. He studied poetry in his youth and from an early age was fascinated by both Irish legends and the occult.

Yeats proposed to 25-year-old Georgie Hyde-Lees (1892–1968), whom he had met through Olivia Shakespear. Despite warning from her friends—”George … you can’t. He must be dead”( he was 51yrs she  accepted,)  and the two were married on 20 October. Their marriage was a success, in spite of the age difference, and in spite of Yeats’ feelings of remorse and regret during their honeymoon. The couple went on to have two children, Anne and Michael. Although in later years he had romantic relationships with other women and possibly affairs, George herself wrote to her husband “When you are dead, people will talk about your love affairs, but I shall say nothing, for I will remember how proud you were.”

Yeats may of had affairs after his marriage but had only had two before firstly with Maud Gonne and secondly with Olivia Shakespear.

More information on W.B Yeats can be found at  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._B._Yeats

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Poetry Challenge #7 is to create a journal of links and your reactions to poems by established (living or dead poets.) Details are here.  Example response is here. Mr. Linky for Challenge #7 is directly below:

War

War

Death, Desolation, Destruction! Men taught hate men taught to wait til death comes to claim them.

Stink, Stench Smell of bodies sinking in the mud tell their own story. Is this man’s best glory.

Drench, Damp Dripping their guns are filthy,bullets all spent . They all gave up hoping.

Boom,Bang Whistle,  they no longer hear they no longer fear the hair on their necks no longer bristle.

Dead all dead and left to rot . This was the war to end all wars ……….. How soon we all forgot.

War

Sear, Smear Singe . Nothing has changed in the theatre of war they are battling still on the fringe they know the score.

Shout , Scream Squeal they will still advance they have lost the ability to feel. No longer human their souls are worn out and why are they out there? Can you answer beyond any doubt.

Sun ,Sand Storms fight for your life, fight for your sight fight freedom for all ..as if that day will ever dawn wait to hear the cock call!

Death, Desolation, Destruction! Men taught hate men taught to wait til death comes to claim them.

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