For I am death, the personification of pure evil,
The grand godfather, of legions of unnumbered generations.
Behold thy disciples, baptized beneath my crimson waters,
Then reanimated as the living undead, in mine own image,
These are my forsaken children of the Night.
Kissed by the angel of death, I'm resurrections insurrection,
Spawned in hell a creature devoid of heart or soul, yet do I
Exist, biting at the exposed throat of humanity, leaving it
Drained completely dry.
Does not the white lily turn ember red, within this the
Valley of damnation.
My throne is a black coffin gilded in golden refinement,
Residing beneath the wooden lid, the beast sleeps,
Waiting to be embraced by the darkness of night.
Slowly, emerging from mine cryptic mausoleum,
I'm famished for the taste of the living essence
A gentlemen reaper of the fallen, deeply do these
Fangs penetrate into the soft flesh of humanity,
Tis a dark blessing's supernatural gift, have I been
So given, to take life then to restore it.
Raw beasts of instinct, clinging to the ethereal
Moon, that hangs above illuminating this,
Our unholy abyss.
Welcome to a shadow nation of the unseen,
Whose roots extend backwards, to an older country’s
Unconsecrated soil, called Transylvania.
On mine legacies crest, a red dragon with talons
Extended reaches out, grappling for powers control.
For I am Dracula, born of royal blood in life,
But in death I am a king, let these castle walls
Bleed on forever, and the hounds of hell,
Sing outside my rod iron gates.
But beware mortal flesh if you so enter,
For I will enjoy every trespasser,
Whom dares to venture within my
Sacred territory, with a fiendish smile
Upon my hungering face.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
The Lobotomizer honed his dark art
with an apathetic heart and patience.
First, he earned a fancy Masters degree,
a quite secretive, hush-hush diploma
in psychological advertising.
Then, covertly sponsored by Henry Ford,
the Lobotomizer flew overseas
where he became good friends with the Nazis.
Mengele offered a substantial wing --
when it came to experimentation,
the Angel of Death was the reigning king.
After the Allied Forces came on strong,
the Lobotomizer slipped further East
to become a student of the Red Beast.
The iron-curtained, cold-war Frankenstein,
taught the Lobotomizer many tricks,
including high-frequency hypnotics,
how to travel through electrical lines,
and even surf the beams of satellites.
Yet his travels were not nearly complete,
since the Lobotomizer knows no bounds
with his insatiable appetite.
He crossed the borders of every nation,
gaining more insightful experience.
He passed through many laboratories,
leaving behind countless horror stories;
leaving behind legions of empty minds.
Finally, in the fall of Sixty-Nine,
the Lobotomizer returned back home
to his motherland of the brave and free,
to commence his lobotomizing spree.
By the hundreds, thousands, millions and more,
the Lobotomizer plied his ill trade,
beaming himself via optic fiber,
satellite dish, cable, and antenna,
right between the eyes of his audience,
until the nation's vast majority
was left drooling, dull-eyed, slack-jawed and blank.
Nowadays, nearly the entire globe
can feel his dark probe in the frontal lobe.
The blue light flickers off walls, day and night,
as most people have given up the fight,
allowing their minds to be bought.
The Lobotomizer is not finished,
for he continues to push his prison
towards the remaining wisps of free thought.
2014 Subliminal Remix, July 30th, 2014
(10 syllables per line --
The original version was written on February 22nd, 2012)
Our dark founding father, of American literature,
A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way
Into the darkened abyss of mankind’s soul.
Within the galleria of madness, he is the
Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's
Written words of terror.
In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit
Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear,
A fine thin line, is drawn between reality,
And fictions illusionary world.
Life's a shunned, abandonment’s creation,
The lord's misbegotten son, embraced
The night's cloak, in it's power
His only salvation unto history's
Remembrance, is found a truth's
Justice and notability's respect.
Loves passionate compliant servant,
Dashed against the rocks of life itself,
Broken and damaged, he rose above
The waves of poverty, and the under
Current of tragedies broken
Some may say he wrote from the after
Effects that laid, at the bottom
Of the bottle.
Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling
The emotional nerves concept between
Right and wrong, the social exceptionable
But we care not what others wish to believe,
For we honor him, those of us the dark poets,
As the father whom lead the way, between
Light and dark.
Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man,
A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed
Ink at his command.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
written on time’s page
with finite syllables of dust
he spelled my heritage
from earth to sky
along an umbilical line of faith
we fluttered from the lips of fingers
fully form for purpose
written on an invisible calculus
that bring monarchs where birth mark lingers
and salmons somersaulting sluice and streams
turtles, penguins, and herons white wings
netted in design with nested tabula rasa mind
I have an argument
against the beginning begotten from a bang
before atom or element
I have an argument against force and natural laws
at work without mass or embodiment
for embryonic gravity or forces weak or strong
I have an argument
that the singularity could not become more than fragment
of energy again if a single atom explode
its forces flocking away from fusion
for energy fission to explode
flimsy as spiders web
dethroning my majesty gulped
in primeval slime unlinked history from love
minimizing the particular time of our becoming on ships
that met the stagnant eyes of swampy thoughts … shuddering
the whip cracks louder than pain -
and on our black blistered backs … crumbling
soils in desertification threw some syllables skywards for mercy
starvation winds with sickle clouds of rain
they lie again ... leaving us without inheritance
for all our labors, lost, and grievance
what bang can buck the strain
and bring us broken souls to glory again?
In the heart of the blackest abyss, down,
Down, in fathoms deep crypt, where light
Does not penetrate, and the structured protective hauls,
Of men, are crushed beneath pressures massive
Weight, of the oceans deepest depth.
This is truly inner spaces aquatic zone of the
Unknown, a realm of stilled silence frozen
In the icy currents of the barren straights.
Where prehistoric giants dwell, amongst the
Tidal flow, ambush predators, forgotten beasts,
From long ago, living krakens whom devour
All life, hidden within their dark domain.
In Poseidon's mighty anger, the waves answer,
To his fists of fury, hurricanes wrath of vengeance,
Gives birth to the perfect storms rage,
Vessels rise and than fall in the tidal surging
Nay do the sailors cry out to the Lord God on high,
For redemption's salvation, but the sacrificial altars must
Be appeased, by flesh and bloods sacred offerings.
Summons does the mighty lord of the seven seas,
To release the last of the ancient Leviathans.
Two thousand hands, of a thousand dead men,
Heave and pull at the tethering heavy chains,
To this devil of the depths cage.
From within interments vaulted keep,
Captivities living spawn from hell, is
Unshackled and released, to reek havocs
An aquatic spider, a maritime widow maker,
Flexing and in-flexing, its body’s motions,
Towards the surface, in pulsations rhythmic
Orchestrations, the gray giant is ready to strike,
With its killing arms extended wide, to grapple
At its unprotected prey, to engorge itself with
All living matter that it surveys, within its icy reach.
As bubbles shoot upwards breaking the waters
Surface, suction cups and talon claws are drawn
Outwards, aligning his eight legged tentacles of bone
Crushing death, behold the Giant Squid, instrument of
Lethal torture, a living killing machine from the fathoms
For it is the beast, the true essence of evil
Incarnate, and none survive its destructive wrath.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Dead men tell no tails, or so the winds of
On judgment hill from on high,
Voices do echo downwards, as the
Noose does sway, back and forth, on the
These gallows, of oaken branches, act as tethers,
Shackles, holding the forsaken, souls prisoner.
Ghost phantoms cling, to it's rotten limbs,
That break beneath times endless rampage.
Regrets fallen horsemen, of the old west,
Stand guard, sentinels on horse back,
Wearing a tarnished tin star.
God's law keepers, are branded, sworn,
By their honor, to protect even after death,
The gates of heaven, from this spawn of hell.
Beware evil desperadoes, no mercy will
This the lord's posses show unto you,
For these riders bare a different mark.
A silver cross of justice, given by
The Almighty’s hand himself.
Say thy prayers, all lawless men,
For on this day, does the rope tighten,
Around your neck, there is no reprieve,
No salvation for evils deceit.
Hell bound are thou, the devils breed.
But beware, there is no escape,
From this grave site.
At dawns first light, as it spreads
Across the western horizon.
Know that yee, are one of many spirits
Doomed, to be weaved within the
Tangled limbs, called the hang
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Along the mountain pine valley did the Iron Horse roar,
A steam belching black demon, burning red hot coals
Within it's steel belly.
Speed's hell bound creation, driven by greed's insatiable hunger,
Faster, faster it moves at acceleration rush, to
Achieve manifest destiny's final arrival on time.
In the distance hear another lone whistle blow, spitting,
And spewing with brimstone's gray smoke.
This indeed is the devil's train, carrying the forsaken,
To the depot of no return.
With a half empty payload aboard, Satan makes a deadly
Judgment call, stoke up those engines boys, ramming
Speed if you please.
Made man beasts are these mechanical monsters
Of destructions, lethal death weapons, chained
Down to the steel rails, and iron pikes.
Ebony stallion's racing against the winds,
As redden sparks sizzle and bite at the crisp autumn
Air, bellowing fumes poisoning the night.
The engineer of the 10; 15 out of Tombstone,
Checked his pocket watch, speaking impatiently,
He did so yell out, come along fellow's, we have a
Schedule to keep, and we've hours behind in our dead line,
So let’s pick up the pace.
Now the devil's train came out of know where,
With hell's supernatural master at the wheel,
Heckling, and laughing, relishing in the carnage’s
Utter calamity to come.
On a lone chewed up mangled piece of track,
Lies wreckages debris blood, flesh and twisted metal,
Lain stewned for miles beside the wild wilderness.
Broken bones, and sheared off limbs, weeping mother's
Cradling limp, lifeless bodies, crying why, God almighty
But the lord and heavenly father, had nothing to do,
With this unnatural disaster, nay the devil had many
Empty spaces to fill, and his passengers list was lean.
So he leveled the crimson ground with his dark gavel,
Taking souls at high velocities supernatural speed,
For this is the devil's ghost train, and it is so
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Woke up to a new life in Egypt
I was young not more than seventeen years
Adorned with gold and precious stones
My body was in the shroud of silk and jewels in my hair
I sat on a throne as a Queen
My name was Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile
During the day I lay on the silk cushions
and dozed in the shade of palm trees
Beautiful men and women kept flitting
around me with all sorts of temptations
Fed me all sorts of fruit and cold drinks
When evening came, it was time for romance
As Queen I had many to choose
My choice was of course:
"The greatest men of Rome"
Julius Caesar and Marcus Antonius
Why choose one when I can have two?
On a long journey down the Nile with
my love Julius Caesar, I was forced to
make a choice.
But a choice one must take...and the
choice was that I gave birth to a son
and Julius Caesar was the father
My love life was not popular
my husband was killed and I
was no longer popular
It was no longer a life of happiness and joy
No, it was war and national mouming
and I would not live anymore
Many times the ocean
has saved Nippon, pearl of the sea,
an oceanic symbiosis a speck in a fecund see.
The dikes of man such miniscule plans to hold back the tide.
The throngs, each and all crawl across the thin skin of volcanic soil
or rise with in the hump-backed alps of remnant cones.
Yet, the sea rises to reclaim its own
scour the pallet of man, refine, burnish melt, reform.
With pen and sword kanji drawn, samurai born
with knife and bone entrails torn, honor tested
tested by the hand of He,
tested and found worthy.
The children of the Divine Wind
rise above the tsunami, as one, unbowed.
Wrapped in fog, in a reservoir of dreams
She has weathered each season, with a mystical scheme …
On a wind-swept shelf, silently sleeping
Where secrets are guarded and are hers for the keeping
Looking out at the tide, where the white gulls are sweeping
In her moldering courtyard, where quadrivial paths meld,
Among ancient arches of an old Spanish style
Names locked in history, many stories revealed
Etched in the headstones, where angels have dwelled
The cracked marble fountain with polished ligures,
Above the church doorway, vines are withering, bare
Aloft from the steeple, are the four watchful eyes
Looking out to the sea, and the deep crimson tide
Three vestige bells dangle from loft, overhead
Their voices are quiet, with pericopes spoken
Soft hymns of doves, fill the rafters, instead
From crumbling ruins, bricks humbly laid
There are shadows of saints...and moss covered jade
A weeping old willow, with leaves crackling dry
I drink with my ears, and listen with an eye
Of all those who prayed, for those who passed by
Unbelievable echoes, the tolling of the bells
Making sense of the senseless, I can hear what it tells
Giving voice to my feelings, and new hope to my eyes
A peace in my heart, where the holy grail lies
Are heard in the voice, in the church of blue tides
For The Contest Sponsored By Shadow Hamilton "Any Subject"
Using Words: unbelievable, mystical, ligure, pericope, reservoir, quadrivial,
This disconnected intellect of society in retrospect
Is nothing but a retro spectrum of colors.
Gold chains and disco lights,
Black, white, and grey faces, red Adidas stripes with no laces
Cardboard boxes unfolded on concrete streets
Where the founding fathers of modern culture would meet
And write our Constitution by moving their feet.
With a spectacular repertoire of flashy moves
And a deep reservoir of verbs that mingled with words in the mind’s river
That flowed from the banks of lips as the first freestyle
When style was really free.
Not compromised, chopped up, glamorized, marketed, processed, pasteurized
and then subliminally delivered as a shrink-wrapped, shiny medium of bad ideas.
Back when people actually had ideas,
Not just the regurgitation of pre-chewed vomit music.
The DJs cooked up beats in their basements
Just crack for the bass-heads
Denied treble ‘cause trouble was all they were faced with.
There was music laced with dope, and dope was good.
Darwinism of hip-hop.
You know what I mean?
Of course not ‘cause these young bucks would rather spend fifteen dollars on 50
Then spend fifty cents on a education.
Flagrant, our testimonial to a religion that’s pagan
We pray to money, pray to greed, pray to fame, pray to succeed
And denounce life when we pray that our bullet hits its target.
The Boogie Oogie became the Boogaloo
And the Electric Slide met the electric chair.
Time is money.
Money is life.
Life is a game.
I invest Monopoly money in the New World Clock Exchange
To collect interest in fate and become disinterested in buying my life back.
My soul is currency, currently spent on reverting from the current state.
Back to when sex was more taboo than a smile
Back to when freedom didn’t equal censorship
Back to when love for family didn’t negate the fact that times change.
Back to when the Big Hand spun backwards two seconds too late.
And minutes were miniscule and minute, hip-hop was rediculed
Not because it was demeaning, but because it represented Revolution.
An occurrence that has come and gone with the wind.
My name is Hip-Hop O’Hara and I am in love with Civility Wilkes.
Reverend Run preached gospel, now he rolls in his grave
If musical revelation is impossible, than who will be saved?
The essence in lyrics is kept underground in a cage.
Struggling to survive like illiterate slaves.
Reaching for freedom, which lies on the next page.
Free the music.
My father's abeng blew up my mother's womb
And I was chained there
Nine months in darkness drinking blood
Longing for my resurrection from the tomb
Longing to break the chains
Holding me before my birth to a carnal earth
Longing to stop him pounding
Pounding on the door of my bereft eternity
I carrying the weight of him already
The weight of them against the gravity
Of my life. My wings folded
Longing wield sword edge of flight against the sun
I burdened to undo what already is done
Have no finality here.
Look at me like an eagle flying in the sun
Blood dripping from my talons when the flight is done
O let me cleanse the world again
In the red flood that alters pain.
One day I was born screaming for a cause
I could not take kindly to tradition
Slapping black and blue a baby's arse ... laws
Must have been broken to beat the innocent
Unless it is a crime to come into this earth
To carry so much legacy
From maroon history to Jesus Christ, blacklisted
Like my my forebears: Shaka
Father of my grandfather's mother,
My other grandfather, Accompong warrior
Slain between the stones of Holland Estate and Mountain
Bridging the way for fleeing slaves
I come Cudjo less, Nanny less, merciless
Carrying on the war of generations
Calling no more for repatriation but reparation
Of human rights, human dignity, and racial sovereignty
Where Africa may find again its concord
Without false treaty and flimsy accord
Raping the Congo of natural resources and life
I come, the bushing through guinea grass
Tumbling kingdoms with wisdom and knife.
For this I was born, beaten at birth
Given resurrection from the night of earth.
My father sought to be civilize
Recite poems of Britannia's might and lies
And I, I was singing with the night
Reading a long history of pain to make write
Of my own proclamations, to declare
I shall not bend my knees, nor walk in fear
Where death measure us in dust
And vampires and conquistadores lust
For El Dorado buried in my disgust.
I am a man, and I will make my monument of truth
Upon the gravestone of the brute.
Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected.
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading,
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Cocooned in orange plush, obscenely safe,
in false cinematic twilight,
light leaping out of nowhere,
dizzying the frozen yet titillated onlooker.
The popcorn-crunching crowd have eaten myth.
your seaweed ropes -
drowned umbilicals -
attach you to the seabed's vast placenta.
Your rusticles drape you like a sleeping shroud.
The knife-edge of your bow; the knife plunged into mud.
A spherical light fixture sprouts a sea pen,
snaky-fingered: a poignant Medusa.
A high-button shoe rests close by.
White ocean crockery, ghost porcelain -
appurtenances of a sunken pelagian people.
Your silt bed, more than two miles below,
private even now,
refuses to yield its virgin treasure still.
A valedictory message, torn from a pocket calendar,
forced into a cold clasping hand -
a desperate flutter of paper.
Strobe, a marine rapist, raking the ocean floor;
invasion of the depths below.
Your one-way virgin voyage, inescapable.
The night was a still pool of indigo.
The berg glided silently by,
lethal as a shark's fin, with terrible finality.
The pinprick stars - flowers of light -
averted their eyes respectfully.
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
Quarried, and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal
Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities,
Stone guardians of Easter Island.
A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains
Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except
For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in
Wait for their native worshipers to return.
Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind,
Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across
The rocky and jagged surf.
It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world.
Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast
Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces
Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and
Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against
The harden ground, nature itself has heard them,
And answers their wishes with life anew.
Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by
Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed,
Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes
Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew.
Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth,
Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall
Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last.
Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of
An ancient culture lost unto time itself.
But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus
Broken and slowly these giant figures take
Their places once again, melting as if it
Never happened, yet the humming still
Lingers echoing across the ocean.
For stone God's never forget, and waiting
On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments
To a people whom disappeared without a trace.
But their deities shall call unto them until
One day they'll return, and then maybe
Giants again shall walk this earth in
Celebration, to feast amongst their people
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Pubescent class trip,
and I became enamored with impossibility
Vanishing verdigris yet cosseted
the L’Auberge de la Paix,* a work-in-progress
Floorboards slowed gawky treads with furrows.
Ten feet above, death-row cherubs
surrendered frail wings, a plaster molting
advanced by workmen too eager for the plucking
(the curse of romanticism
is to perceive the imperceptible)
Home was a bungalow with suburb secrets,
while the hostel’s curving staircase
openly tattled on former hosts
and guests who had perfumed stale conversations
while carrying dance cards.
I could almost hear each half-note baluster
and that treble clef handrail, so smooth,
orchestrating encounters by the front door,
Bonne nuit, mon amour
Once, a Grande Maison owned by une l’artiste,
then, a hostel for students in the core of Quebec City,
the building charmed with its soft dishabille,
stripped layers of faded wallpaper, pooling;
the pong of fresh paint and sanded wood
hustled the dame into the times
with ever-going modernization
Dorm rooms pouted
I was not interested in the tours
with their corpses of cannon balls,
toy soldiers arranged on miniature plains of Abraham,
narrow streets echoing with battle cries,
remnants of a lost sovereignty...
the war of 1759
those thousand phantom pleasantries,
dusty sofas and freedom halls,
air hockey and air guitar,
new parlour games
Upstairs, bunk beds awaited roommates
and creaked somewhat like nagging history
But romance was a trompe l’oile,
a fading fleur de lys,
and I can easily recall the coy throes
of noisy pipes, closet confessions,
and giggling, blameless nights
when ghosts dusted every shifting wall,
altering even moonlight
* Written Aug 24, 2014
*The Peace Hostel, Quebec City
31 rue Couillard, Latin Quarter, Quebec City
Grande Maison – estate
Une l’artiste – an artist
In the silence darkness shows his presence, a lull and then acceleration,
A disturbance that awakens with dominance, the very heart of evil,
Dwelling within the inner sanctum of the Amityville house,
The stairway banisters shake with intensity.
A spectral quake and the walls become electrified with corporal power surges.
Lights flicker on and off the inward eyes of the house open wide as old bones
Quiver with anticipation like a hungry animal awaiting its feast on delivery,
Essence chills the air with a frosty mist, and fills the house with an eerie
Rawness takes hold of the interior house, a graveyard erected on unsanctified
It has become a surge house for the supernatural.
The undead fee off the fear of men, who have been sapped of life force.
Nothing left except a dead corpse, caught between two worlds.
A vortex un-attainable by doorway or threshold.
There is a welcome mat marked by a skull n’ cross bone, it reads, “Dare not
Enter mortal flesh, or yea shall become part of this house.
Blood legacy forever.”
Voices within the walls scream with eternal fear, warning with howls, ‘Get out!”
The evil laughs are heard o’er flowery wall paper that drips of crimson plasma.
It cascades downwards from the ceiling, soaking the baseboards.
Doors to the exist retreat and slam shut.
The window locks turn inward, and drapes fall shut.
No natural light to warm the icy halls. Trapped in a maze be-known as the Amityville house.
Small fleshless hands rip as the hair rises at the nape.
A voice whispers into your ear, “I am here, with you,” in the void you stand alone.
Panic fills your inner being; you’re alone in the dark with the unknown.
A mortal clinging to the edge of reality, a rift is heard, “CRACK” beneath your feet.
You are left dangling with two single hands grapping you, it and between oblivion.
Splinters of light hit the ebony trees from a distance away; Neha the Sacred Heart Priestess refines the grounds with her finesse.
Neha has a history of Exorcism successes.
It includes haunted house clearings, demonic possessions by forcible entry.
She casts them out with her outstanding humdinger light.
Her methods are un-cosher and as sporadic a whistling winds of tinnitus brawls.
She grates on those fallen soldiers who fin out too late that they have been duped in the army of Satan.
Neya raps on a skully warped door and scarf’s the threats that groan their way have
Inside of her.
Speaking in an insolent way she lets them know they have met their match.
Guttural sounds disseminate through the attic walls, and sent maggots scurrying
At her feet.
Undefeated, she picks one up and crunches between her teeth.
She presses bellows, n’billow, make yourself scarce as a tree in the meadow’
A howling voice in the meadow’ A drum and then with one last push n’shove the spectral flees through a cracked window.
Neha re-adjusts the amulet that had been strong-held round her neck, and says in calm voice” THIS HOUSE IS CLEAN’ then she sets out North, to find her sister’s three in the heart of the Sacred Forest.
Written By: Mystic Rose & Cheryl Dunn
For contest: Halloween Co-write
October 13, 2014-10-13
It afflicts king and queen alike.
Brought to the castle
by the master of infildelity.
He moves smoothly from one to the other.
He swiftly takes them
as is his right, he believes.
Only to have his fill
from the fair maiden
to the sullied trollop.
He sees them all equally
in his adventures.
He spreads his curse
from one to the other.
It robs it's victims
of their eyes and senses.
Over the years, it slowly degrades
their intelligence and lives.
It can bring down the greatest Empires
if given enough time.
Deep beneath the busy streets of France,
Lies a hidden realm of the undead, cryptic tombs,
Of the ancient.
Dusty corridors, lined with skulls and cross bones,
An eerie tributes monument, for the once living,
Sacred hallows of the darkness left behind,
Those not forgotten, but not remembered by
In these mazes called the catacombs, beware
The screams echoing, for within spirits seek out
The living, whispering enchantments of bewitchment.
Ever so lightly do finger tips touch, at thy naps of the
Back of ones neck, giving visitors an icy chill.
Gleaming eyes of crimson, seem to pierce through
The veils of night, seemingly to watch thee, the
Daring explorer, whom has traveled without
Roaming at freedoms will do these creatures of
The supernatural, hunt in this arena of the undead
Lingering and feasting on souls whom do not
Realize there is no except from this ethereal
There is no prayer or talisman charm for
Protection here, in this realm of the unknown,
Blessings virtue is lost amongst the tormented.
Stacked carcasses of human kind, decorate these
Chambers far below, beneath the city of romance
Yet in heaven angel's so do weep, for the lost
Souls never receiving salvation redemption,
Forever caught in limbo's dimension, do the
Unfortunate wander without mercy's hope.
For here God's everlasting light shall not penetrate,
Through the shrouded mists of darkness,
It thickness is to great, this vaporous mist of
Corporeal essence lingers in every shadows corner.
But I'll cry for them, a tear's grace, that maybe
One day they'll know the lord's final grace,
In these the forgotten catacombs.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
In the garden of forbidden mysticism, grows thus sorrows
Black rose bush, deeply rooted are the vines of incantations
Dark spells of discontent, drawing it's evil powers of the
Supernatural from the crimson soil.
Plucked are these ebony blossoms, by the hand of death
Himself, the Grim Reaper, and tenderly he places them upon the
Unmarked graves of the living, but only a single bloom.
Nay in Salem's orchard, did these darkened petals fall,
Blowing in the breeze of misfortune,
Castings’ leaving’s of the innocent a shunned, so unjustly
Accused and misjudged.
But strung on the blood lines of truth, do so ring
The bells of vengeance rage, echoing in the far distance,
Hear their ethereal voices of the forsaken, crying out why?
For every evergreen leaf, is the representation of inheritances
Legacy to those of the forgotten and betrayed.
Dipped in red ink is the mighty quilt pen, of the dark
Hooded Inquisitor, behold a dead man's list of names,
Burnt offerings sacrificed on the alter of a corrupt pulpit.
Written on fleshes supple parchment scroll, and sanctified by
The greed of deceit.
Oh woe to thee whom bares the witches mark, for in Salem
Thou’ art doomed, by the serpent's fork tongue of innocence,
Nay suffer the little children, but here they are the wolves set
Amongst the lambs of the innocent.
Beware their howl by day or night, for in fierceness's bite
It has no equal, and if thy name they call, your life has
Been forsaken one in all, but the lord hears you the voices of
Salem, and thus sends his servant unto thee.
Guilt's judgment is superficial, the verdict has already been so written,
Before the jury even comes within the court room, and the gavels
Heavily leaden hammer is struck.
Blown wide open are these church doors, and a hooded man
Thus so enters, cursing those within, and giving each one a single
Ebony rose, the Grim Reaper so speaks, I'll see you soon, in my kingdom
Of damnation's sorrow.
Turning from when'st he came, to the victim residing upon the stand,
Towards the heavens look child of light for thee I have no black ebony
But instead a white rose shall the angels on high, will give unto
Thee, and will you then know God's everlasting peace
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Are you educated?
Have you injured heart?
Have you purified brain?
Do you believe in truth?
Are you alone?
Do you seek problematic truth, solvable truth, real magic?
Are you a secular person?
Do you believe in democracy?
If your answers are YES...
You have poetic mind.
You are the reader of poetry.
You are the real minority in the world.
The earth is moving.
It is proved that new history is created by the minorities.
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Where did the little go, from ages of long ago?
Myth or legends stories unique, these small little creatures,
That beneath the evergreen?
Underneath the mossy sheave, tucked in pockets near
Toad stools rings, tiny shadows do so sneak quickly
Tip toeing ever lightly trying not to be seen.
But hidden deep in the Irish country side the
Locals say they still come out at night to play,
These wondrous beings from mythical lore.
In the stillness of the first breath of night,
Something ethereal stirs, it whispers in the
Darkness a quickening, a rustling, the winds
Tickling at the branches, as if coaxing.
Come out, come out, will thee not play tonight?
Low laughterious voices ring from under the thickets
Over grown hedge, at the very edge of a large boulder stone,
Be patient here we come.
The ground thus shakes at that instant, rumbling the
Very earth groans with amazement, what ancient enchantments
Mystical spell unravels expelling a magical incantation of old,
As the fairy mount rises upwardly, voices ring through
The forest pines.
Here tiny trumpets announcing the Fairy Queens arrival,
Dressed in Golden gown, with dragon fly wings of grace,
A sparkling crown adorns her majesty, as she takes her
Throne of ivory white.
Gnome footman dressed in red and green vestments,
Open wide the doors at the fairy mount entrance,
Allowing the supernatural beings living within to go forth,
Beautiful Fairies, mischievous pixies, and yes even Leprecons.
Singing and dancing until the first light of dawn,
Did the residents of the fairy mount play, drinking, celebrating
Until not a drop of honey wine was left to be drunk, or mead
Then the Queen grew tired, and order the retreat to the
Trumpeters to play, down below they all marched, until
All were safely within their fortress of hidden secrets,
Then down did the fairy mount vanish, as if just a sweet
But maybe some night you’ll stumble by accident,
Upon them again, and they’ll let you play along,
Mortal outlander until then all we poets can do is dream.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Softly the desert winds do whisper, her name
Scheherazade, in swirling words of eloquence, she recites
Enchantments tails, a mystical infusion of mysticism,
And mystique, is weaved by this storyteller of
Myths and legend.
In the bards imagination of thought, lies inspiration
Onassis, a fantasy realm of illusions, materializing as
A beautiful mirage, before the beguiling eyes of the
Draped beneath the canvas tents, in far off Arabia,
Seduction's mistress spins her loom, with intricate
Precisions perfection, illuminating intrigues tantalizing
Pleasures, as the canopies flaps blow freely, in
The breath of the night winds breeze.
A thousand and one, veils fall unto the sands
Of time, as loves mystic weaver, fashions silken
Robes of desire, written within every line spoken,
Forbidden erotica, dared shared between mortals.
Provocative enchantress, dancing with graphic
Designs decadence, wetting the appetite of
Royalties palate, leaving his majesty hungry
For a larger portion, of embellishments
Mysterious, exotic flavors offered unto him,
By his temptress of a thousand verses.
Flowing visions of motion, left floating in the
Air as if crystal castles built of smokes illusion,
Than evaporating, melting beneath the horizons
Setting sun, softly are crushed by the dawns rising,
Vanish at the first rays of light.
Queen Scheherazade, beloved wife of a tyrant king
Whom lost his heart, to a poetic charmers soothing,
Voice, a snakes flute played to calm the heated
Heart of lusts passion, never satisfied.
A single desert rose grows in the harsh land
Of the middle east, and it's name is beauty
Personified called by historical legend
As she known as Scheherazade.
Rarities precious petals are cast aside by
Times intervention, yet the sands remember,
And whisper her name, beckoning one last
Tender splendor's tail, but all is silent in the
Realm of this mystical enchantress, alias now
Scheherazade belongs to the ages themselves.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Telepathic messages dancing in front of me
Energies left by thousands of freed souls
Their train stopped at Birkenau,Auschwitz
Sickening stench of burnt human flesh..
..lays heavy over the consentration camp
recognized even when the wind blew away from it
Like some new mountain range
They rise themself up from the ashes
Shaking the dust off..
The once deadly gaz has gone out
Cremation ashes has turned to cold leftovers
Nevertheless their spirits lives on
They`ll find their own way out
Out of the relentless Nazi camp
Into a world with pure freedom
No greed,hunger or merciless regimes
Nor any blasphemous,persecuting religions
All humans raised above hate and inequality
2 million humans met their fates in Birkenau,Auschwitz
6 000 per day..some days twice as many
From the ashes of Auschwitz..
..comes a cry for us to learn from history
November 30th 2012
In memory of those arrested and sent to the Nazi consentration camps 70 years ago.
November 26th 1942, 530 Men,Women and Children were chased onboard the German
ship "Donau",to meet their fate in Auschwitz,Birkenau.By the end of WWII a total of 759
Jews had been deported from Norway to Nazi concentration camps.Only 25 survived...