Long poem by
Just That Archaic Poet | Details |
Betty was bonafide crazy. She had shot her husband after a night of drunken quarreling, and was in the state mental hospital instead of being in the slammer. She'd shot the louse in the stomach and he had lived, fortunately for her. I never tired of hearing about Betty's attempted escape and eluding of the police in the aftermath. Over the river and through the woods she ran, but not to grandmother's house, sadly; she didn't know where she was going; all she knew was that she HAD to get the hell outta there.
Down a steep embankment she had tumbled, right next to the highway. As she attempted to orient herself, a car slowed down, it's lights blinding her as she tried to pick off the brush, debris and twigs that clung like glue to her hair and muddy nightgown. The car stopped, two cops sprang forth and yelled, "FREEZE!". The jig being up, Betty did as instructed, was cuffed and read her Miranda rights. She never bothered to elaborate how she wound up in the loony bin instead of staying in the pokey, but I can only imagine it was due to her obvious derangement.
Betty was a hoot; funny as could be and an excellent card player. She had long, shaggy salt and pepper frizzy tresses that looked more like a Halloween wig than an actual coiffure. She was well into her fifties but seemed much older with her deep smoker's wrinkles and heavy, sunken eyes, like a soul that's known too much wear, tear, pain and heartache and aged prematurely. On more than one occasion I questioned her actual insanity, but on one night, when the moon was full and all the crazies were, admittedly, much more maniacal than normal, my doubts about Betty's "playing possum" dissolved. It's true, you know, what they say about a full moon and the impact it has over the mind; I've witnessed it first-hand too many times in different psych wards to discount it as "old-wives" folklore. Nurses never fail to mention when there is a full moon; they know it to be true as well.
I don't know what set her off. I was enjoying a game of rummy with Angela, a paranoid schizophrenic with a penchant for identifying supposed conspiracies within the hospital, when I heard Betty screaming furiously and cussing up a hurricane. Well, something didn't suit her, obviously, and she was having none of it. This is when I began to wonder if Betty was not part "Bionic Woman". Next thing I knew, she wailed like a banshee, took off sprinting down the hall at incredible, breakneck speed that defied her rather plump figure and stubby legs, and drop-kicked the heavy, locked steel door that barred the exit of ward "Grag". Nurses hit the panic button and made urgent phone calls which signaled the goons and heavy muscle to race toward our ward to subdue the unsubduable. Soon as Angela heard the nurses all in a frenzy, she yelled, "CONSPIRACY LEVEL UP! TOP FLOOR!" ("Top Floor" being the ward that housed the most violent or dangerous loons.) Paranoid schizophrenics are such a suspicious bunch!
As Betty raced by, Angela immediately stood up, cheering her along, chanting "GRAG STYLE, BABY; YEAH!". In total astonishment I watched this Wonder Woman drop-kick this barricade (which was most definitely designed to keep us confined) in total kung-fu, samurai, ninja style with such force that it burst wide open! Talk about jaw-dropped incredulous! By the time Betty the She-Hulk nearly drop-kicked her way to freedom, the goons (as the big orderlies were dubbed) descended upon her, but she fought with such ferocity that for just an instant I thought she might break free, given that she had picked up a nearby chair and was using it to fend them off with the skill of a lion-tamer (or so I mused). But poor Betty was helplessly and hopelessly outnumbered and the whole incident must have happened in the span of maybe two minutes, but time has a funny way of slowing down and stretching in instances such as these, when the eyes and mind are trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. She was tackled on all sides, but not before one of the stooges took a whack upside his empty head. Nurses rushed forth, syringes in hand, and gave Betty the usual knock-out serum of hefty doses of Haldol and Benadryl (don't ask me how I know this!). Then, as was the procedure in all such cases, Betty was strapped down on a gurney and wheeled away to the "Quiet Room" where she was to be closely monitored by some muscle.
As one of the orderlies passed, carting the drowsy Betty past us, Angela barked one of her customary insults of, "YOU SMELL LIKE ASS AND NACHOS!" which never failed to tickle me to no end. The excitement over, Angela and I went back to our game of rummy and she accused me of cheating when I won, flipped over the table, and stormed off (but she always did this whenever she lost.) Ah, Angela; what I'd give to play rummy with you again!
A few days later, after a two week stint, I was finally released and never saw or heard from Betty (or Angela) again. Whenever I see someone fly into a rage, I am often happily reminded of Betty, Super-Woman of ward "Grag". Why was I there? I'll never tell!
Long poem by
Roy Jerden | Details |
Sipping cherry limeade, driving in the car parade,
We're cruising in the Lone Star state
Didn't want a bucket seat; the thing it couldn't beat,
Was sitting up close to your date
One hand on the wheel of daddy’s Oldsmobile,
My arm around my brown-eyed girl
Feeling pretty sporty, radio on top forty,
I was cooler than the Duke of Earl
The lady of the cruise had her penny loafer shoes,
Her bobby socks were turned down twice
With a little eyeliner, she couldn't be much finer
Too much and it wouldn't be nice
There’d be no wild oats under those petticoats
She’d never go all the way
Just a perfect flip-up 'do and cute look number two
Practiced in the mirror all day
Hear those tires squeal when I make the rubber peel
For the flyboys waiting on the bus
To take them to the base where they don't feel out of place
Not cruising like the rest of us
I was the drag's head honcho as we pulled across the Concho
And we saw the lights along the riverside
We'd had quite a lark at Neff's amusement park
Playing putt-putt and going on a ride
The cheerleader squad rode a killer hot rod
With a spinner on every rim
A perfect tuck and pleat on every single seat
Courtesy of Wanda's Auto Trim
Candy apple red, it would really knock you dead
It was a drop-top Pontiac
One was there to steer and three were in the rear
Posing up on the back
Those football beauty queens in their skin-tight Levi jeans
Were followed by their biggest fan
Checking out those lasses in his Buddy Holly glasses
Was the nerdy little Aqua Velva man
In his stainless steel braces he grinned up at their faces
They iced him with a haughty air
He never would forget it; they would later on regret it
When he became a multi-millionaire
A four girl bevy in a big finned Chevy
Were riding west on Sherwood Way
Four guys right behind in a pick-up state of mind
All ready to make their play
Thought they were the smartest cruising pick-up artists
But those gals were pretty astute
When they stopped and the guys started telling all their lies
The chicks started putting on the cute
We turned the car around and headed back downtown
Cruising down the boulevard
Stay cool daddio, bear right at El Patio
And take it down Beauregard
There were lots of pleated skirts and those button-down shirts
The flattops were everywhere galore
From a Lincoln Continental, we heard an instrumental
Mister Acker Bilk's “Stranger on the Shore”
We slowly pulled through BJ’s, listening to the deejay’s
Announcement of the next hit song
Leaning on their doors with their Brylcreem pompadours
Two hoods were playing Mr. Wrong
Completing their disguise, they slouched with narrowed eyes
And did their best at looking mean
With a twist of his pelvis, one was doing Elvis
The other did a fine James Dean
Like a sweet potato vine, the bride of Frankenstein
Was entwined around the Marlboro man
With the passion of their make out, they should have gotten takeout
And opted for a bigger floor plan
With her big black beehive hair and his fancy western wear
They were putting on quite an awesome scene
I had to give a chuckle at his huge silver buckle
But those M.L. Leddy boots looked mighty keen
I pulled the Olds on through, and we bid BJ’s adieu
And I put us back onto the street
With those four whitewall tires, we made for McIntire's
To get ourselves a bite to eat
We stopped for some fuel, over near the school
In those days they came right out to you
Best place on Earth, ‘cause with a dollar’s worth
They’d check your oil and clean your window too
The drive-in, painted green, was quite the social scene
With people mingling car to car
Everyone was caring; the drinks they were for sharing
Especially when they were in a mason jar
She ate a big banana split, and then left me for a bit
To comfort an old friend not feeling right
A moment more to linger with that final steak finger
Then I took her home and called that one a night
That was many years ago, but some things you don’t outgrow
And I think back to when I was a teen
When doors were left unlocked, and children safely flocked
Unchaparoned at night on Halloween
And sometimes at night, when the stars are big and bright
And I’m deep in a Texas state of mind
I think of that lass who was in my high school class
And I wonder if she thinks of me in kind
August 10, 2012
Long poem by
Darryl Ashton | Details |
((Old misery guts, Alf Garnett jnr, is back!
The Bees and the Sunday Lunch))
(Note: this script does contain some strong language. In the form of the word BLOODY!)
(Alf jnr is at the dinner table with wife Elsie)
ALF: "What's that?"
ELSIE: "A matchbox!"
ALF: "I know it's a bloody matchbox! What's in it?"
ELSIE: "Yes, bees, don't you listen?"
ALF: "Yes, I do bloody listen, what are you doing with bloody bees?"
ELSIE: "They're for my arthritis!"
ALF: "Arthritis? How do ya mean?"
ELSIE: "Well, if I can get the bees to sting my arthritis they'll kill it?"
ALF: "You bloody silly moo! They don't know where your arthritis is!
ELSIE: "No, but I do!"
ALF: "You really are going bloody senile, you are! Bloody bees! People can fill your head with all sorts of bloody nonsense!"
(Alf's son-in-law, Mike steps in)
MIKE: "Hey, Pops, don't be too hard on Mom - they're only bees! She means no harm!
ALF: "No, but the bloody bees don't know that, do they! Anyway, who rattled your bloody cage? And what's that bloody smelly pong on ya?"
MIKE: "My after shave! Why, what's wrong with it?"
ALF: "You smell like a Peruvian ponse!"
MIKE: "You're only bloody jealous, cos I've got hair - and your just a bloody baldy lookalike!"
(Alf goes to the pub/bar, and meets his pal Bert for a Sunday drink)
ALF: "Hello Bert? Thought I'd come and annoy ya! Had to get away from the bloody silly moo - keeping bloody bees, she is - going senile too! And that scouse git, who's allergic to bloody work!"
BERT: "Hey, Alf, just sniff up and tell me what that smell is?"
ALF: "Smell? What bloody smell?"
BERT: "The smell that fills the air on a Sunday!"
ALF: "What, Beer?"
BERT: "No? Don't be bloody silly! It's roast beef and chicken, with veg and sweet potatoes, and hot gravy. It's what Sunday's were made for, innit?"
ALF: "I don't bother now, Bert! Wife's too ill to cook my lunch. Mind you, I wouldn't mind a roast beef lunch!"
BERT: "I tell you what - why don't you come to my place and stay for lunch? I'm sure the wife will love ya company!"
ALF: "Thanks Bert! You're a very good charitable friend!"
BERT: "Not at all, What are friends for? So its settled!"
ALF: "God bless you Bert, now I can enjoy me beer!"
BERT: "Good! That's settled! I'll fix that one day soon!"
ALF: "Bloody marvellous, innit! I can't even get a Sunday lunch today!"
BERT: "What will you have for your Sunday lunch, Alf?"
ALF: "Beans! Bloody beans, for my Sunday lunch! I can't find the bloody tin opener!"
BERT: "Oh, that's just bad luck, innit!"
ALF: "Yeah, right, no need to bloody well go on! We lost the home help we used to have - bloody council stopped it - government cuts, so they say, Bert!"
BERT: "Well, Alf, got to make tracks - I can smell my roast beef! Come on, Alf, drink up!"
ALF: "Bloody roast beef! And I've got bloody baked beans!!!!"
BERT: "Don't be like that, Alf! It'll soon be Christmas!"
Alf: "Yeah, another bloody Christianity con! Those bloody three wise plonkers! They should be shot for what they started, Bert! Bloody Halloween first, innit!"
BERT: "Oh, I just turn off all the house lights - sod them all!"
ALF: "Ha Ha Ha Ha! Drink up, Bert, happy Sunday to ya! You'd think we were drunk!"
BERT: "I've got news for you...I am bloody drunk!
Alf: "Ha Ha Ha Ha, and you can stuff ya roast bloody beef too!!!!!!Ha Ha Ha Ha"
Long poem by
Mark Leeper | Details |
My Clone Got No Soul
My clone, it seems, came out with no soul,
I guess it got lost, in the petri dish bowl.
In the mirror, a face like me would come through,
But that’s where it ended,
He was more like Deep Blue.
He never did find that “happy” place,
He never belonged, to the whole human race.
I wanted to console my clone with no soul,
But which part was actually there to console?
His head, his heart, his hand or his foot,
That’s a soulless sole, with no spiritual root.
He tried yoga, and diet, and Zen meditation,
But the chakras weren’t there for his elevation,
And soon he came down with “no motivation.”
I gave him the novel, that old Frankenstein,
He was all Shelly and shell shocked,
And out of his mind.
He took to drink, his gourd to console,
He even packed up, a nice little bowl.
I guess any change of mind will do,
When you’re trapped in your ego,
All cornered and blue.
So I bought him a TV,
With a satellite dish,
But it didn’t satisfy, not one single wish.
“Too many reruns,” he said with a stare,
“Heather’s cheating on Alex, but what do I care.”
I’ve got more problems that are troubling me,
All existential and twisted, to the nth degree,
My guanine, and cytosine, none of them blessed,
My adenine, thymine, just like the rest,
All of them sequenced, in neat little clips,
Here comes the four horsemen,
Of my apocalypse.
I felt sorry for him, so sorry you see,
It was not his decision, to be all you can be,
Or not to be, that is a question, posed
with Shakespearan glee,
He couldn’t read the fine print, you see
With no eye’s you see. Oh say can you see?
My clone passed a man with a pamphlet to read,
Jesus saves my dear boy, that’s all that you need,
this contract you sign, will grant you God speed.
“I’m soulless and homeless,” said my clone with a smirk,
I haven’t had time, to be a real jerk,
I’ve been in a fog, an unfortunate haze,
I’ve been only alive for a couple of days.”
.My clone moved around on the physical earth,
With no hope of redemption, release, or rebirth,
“If love won’t release me, it’s hate I will breed,”
I‘m a terrible spawn, from a terrible seed.
In a losing game, I have to concede.”
(Now I never thought a twitch, to put him on a shelf,
But when we sat together, he was beside himself.)
My clone on his birthday sighed a terrible sigh,
That he wanted to, “just lay me down and die,”
His desire for this, was so total and blind,
His own DNA began to unwind,
I called up the Church, the Lab, and the State,
That my clone was dying at a terrible rate.
“Your call is extremely important to us”,
As long as you don’t raise, or kick up a fuss.
He died on a cold night on old Halloween,
Alone and frightened at the terrible scene.
And there, I laid my clone to rest,
But alas, he had no soul to bless.
I took a walk, to kick my heart rate,
And was grateful,
that I had a different fate.
And if your neighbor greets you,
with a blank full of stare,
I hope he’s just tired,
and someone’s in there.
But don’t call the Church the Lab or the State,
They usually arrive just a little too late.
Long poem by
Leonora Galinta | Details |
One Halloween night, I woke up screaming,
There were many zombies around me, all furiously staring;
With their burning red eyes, they were ready to smash my head;
When they pulled my arms and legs, I squirmed and jumped out of bed.
I ran to take my bike and drove it as fast as I could,
I knew they all wanted to eat me, so I thought of hiding in the wood,
While I was driving on the way, all I heard were growling sounds,
With disco music, it looked like a big celebration outside the grave grounds.
“Did they ruin the whole city?” that was a query in my mind,
How can I get back to take my shoes and see if my friends are still around?
On my way, I saw some female zombies walking with their arms stretched,
I tried to avoid them, so scared to see their faces that had been wrecked.
I’d finally arrived at the wood but with some bruises,
I got off my bike to relieve them with hoarfrosts on leaves and branches;
Suddenly, I heard strange sounds not far from the back,
I saw group of male zombies… so prepared to attack!
I stood, turned around and I could see them everywhere,
In morass, I convinced myself to stay alert… losing my poise…I didn’t care;
I ran to a long tangled vines and swung myself up to the tree,
Once I landed on a big branch, a large snake hissed at me.
“I would rather die being eaten and joined with those zombies.” I thought,
Than to be poisoned and strangled by a snake, I tried not to be caught;
I swiftly took branches to defend myself through an Arnis and Taekwondo,
Then, I jumped down back to the zombies with a messed up hairdo.
Everyone was coming towards me but I kept calm,
With my two crooked branches, I did my best not to be harmed;
Profusely perspiring… I courageously prepared myself,
When they were approaching, I wondered why a zombie behind was left.
As the darkest cloud revealed its full moon and the wolves howled,
I recognized the zombie at the back and I cried out, “It’s my Dad!”
All the zombies turned around and looked at him,
At the snap of my dad’s finger, they went away with him as one team.
“Wait for me, Dad, please wait for me!” I was then crying,
But they never looked back anymore, all their bodies started melting;
I realized that in a Halloween Night, even if it’s so scary it’s also amazing,
In the darkest of its night, an angel is still there for us--protecting.
Oct. 20, 2013 8.2o am
©2013by Leonora Galinta
• Arnis Sport/Jendo Arnis is one kind of a martial art sport similar to a karate
and taekwondo which is also called stick-fighting sport. To know more about
this sport and its origin, you can google it. ;)))) Thank you so much.
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Long poem by
Daniel McGraw | Details |
What are you hiding? We all have a little secret we keep from the world. Do you want to
know my secret? When we hide our secrets, they turn our souls into ashes. Ashes are what
monsters are made of.
It was a chilly day, in late October. I was just walking down main street, returning home
from school. I walked past a few houses, and realized, that when I came to 120 Main Street,
an old woman, was sitting out on her front yard. I kept on walking past her, but she would
not take her eyes off me. “Good evening, ma’am” I kindly said to her. She did not reply.
Finally, I was home. I opened the front door of my house, and when I entered, there were
my parents sitting on the sofa. I walked in the living room, while they just sat there and
stared at me. “Come in, Michael”, they said to me. I was confused. Was something wrong?
Did someone die? No. “Have a seat”, my mother said. My father, just sat there, looking at
me as if I had committed murder.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. And surely, as I had a seat, a police officer entered the room,
and has a seat in front of the three of us.
“Michael, do you know a child at school by the name of Simon?”, the Officer
asked. “Maybe, why?”, I said. He just stared at me. “Well, there was a murder at school, and
a boy named Simon was the victim.” I was horrified. I knew what was happening. “What?
You think I had something to do with this?” I asked confusedly. There was silence. Of course
they thought I did it. I got up off the chair, and headed for the door. My parents started after
me, but the officer stopped them. Of course I knew who Simon was. He was my best friend.
Why would they think I would kill my best friend?
When I left the house, tears were flowing from my eyes. I was scared, and I was shocked.
Who would want to kill Simon. He is a great kid, smart, nice, and jolly. I started walking back
down main street, and as I passed by house number 120, the old lady continued to stare at
me. I just kept on walking, and as I did, her eyes continued to follow.
Up ahead, was a Halloween store. Halloween was my favorite holiday. I could not resist it.
The police were on my case, my parents were after me, what would you expect me to do, go
to a lake, and kill myself. No. I am innocent.
When I entered the store, an old man greeted me. He looked as if he were dead, but
resurrected from the grave. It was weird, but what do I care? “May I help you ?” the old man
said. “Nah, just chillin”, I said to him. He looked at me, smiled, and walked away.
Long poem by
Paula Swanson | Details |
I am a pandora's box.
Let loose upon an unsuspecting society.
Once my night life begins,
Let me pen an example.
Keep in mind, it was not my fault.
well, not entirely.
I awoke in my usual good humor.
I dressed with my usual care.
I gave more than adequate time to
the choice of parties to crash.
I fed Crystal. Picked up her toys; dead mice and a human ear she had gathered from
some unsavory alleyway. Kissed her upon her flea ridden cantankerous little head.
Then I stepped outside of my crypt.
Young lads running hither and yon.
Screaming! Bodily functions letting loose.
Not mine, I should add.
You see, it was all quite innocent.
Upon my stepping into the moonlight, one of the young bucks, at that exact same
time, jumped out from behind the bushes. Which flank my lair.
He had on the most ghastly costume.
Red cape. Black tie and tails. Fake fangs!
Fake blood dripping from whitened lips.
I may have over reacted....a tad.
My preternatural instincts erupted.
I saw, briefly mind you, a rival in my territory.
I went from the Gentleman of night time adventures, to my full Monstrous glory, in the
blink of an eye.
I dropped six inches of battle fang. I bulked up to three times my normal, quite
Ruining yet another splendid jacket.
Oh, what to tell my tailor?
There you have it!
Young men, out and about, on an All Hallow Eve's lark.
Running about as if the Devil himself were after them.
When it was only I.
I hope you have enjoyed our little journey with Lord Kellington. In what must be just a
snippet of his long lived life.
I grew to love his wit, his charm, his devil may care attitude and his kitten..Crystal.
But, the time has come.
I now close the cover on this dusty Tome, to place it, reverently, upon my bookshelf.
Maybe, on a stormy, wind swept night, I may take it down, to open it once again.
Or perhaps, Lord Kellington, is at this very moment searching for his lost Diaries. To
save them from prying eyes, such as ours. Wanting to kill all who now know his secret.
He could be in your home right now.
Hear that sound? It wasn't a floor board, nor the house settling. Nor the wind.
As you are now engrossed with your reading of my warning, he could be standing
behind you....right now.
Reaching out with hands like claws. Fangs, ready to rip out your throat...
Long poem by
julie dalby | Details |
I was walking down at Green-bank park
Rather frightened as it was dark
There I fell into this ditch
And came across the most gruesome witch
At first she scared me half to death
As she sat there to my left
Her nose more pointed than I had seen
Face covered with moles and eyes so green
Her jacket was torn her hair was a mess
And holes were ladders to the hem of her dress
Before I could catch my breath with time
She began to sing some words of rhyme
Rickety .. Rackety I am a friendly witch
Be my friend and I shall grant you a wish
Just don’t you listen to all they say
Look here us witches are happy and gay
Look here us witches are happy and gay.
Then she told me a story of a witches life
Condemned bad and gone was her right
Burnt at the stake long in the past
But no evil spell did she ever cast
Just helped the people of the wood
For it was not them that misunderstood
It be the greedy ones of her time
Then took the medicine and called it mine
Then took the medicine and called it mine
So the tale they tell of Halloween
Is far from the truth, from what I had seen
Just look little girl as you will see
I may be ugly but evil not me
The cats we kept took care of the mice
And the hats we wore kept our ears from ice
We cleaned our homes with shrub broom
As rosemary and lavender fragrance our room
As rosemary and lavender fragrance our room
Do tell do tell of our nurses today
Witches the same in their own kind of way
Potions and tonics from the herbs of old
Combine the mixture of modern parocetemol
These wise and gentle ladies of our past
Only took upon one the doctors task
So little ‘O’ bright girl, now do tell me your view
Of withes and nurses do tell who’s who
Of witches and nurses do tell who’s who
Oh sweet lady for judging it is I whom feel the fool
But your memory is of evilness of that you were so cruel
In a sense, innocent I now know you to be
So I shall not run, I shall not turn and flee
The wish of that I ask, to be that of your friend
Now I truly understand this message that you send
No more shall I be afraid or listen to their say
Of all you witches now I know to be so happy and gay
Of all you witches now I know to be so happy and gay
Rickety….Rackety I’m just a friendly so said witch
I possess no magic to grant you a wish
I only cared and took the sick in hand
Using the remedies produced by our land
Using the remedies produced by our
Long poem by
Kristenna Gaylord | Details |
My mind wonders back to when I was younger. Seven I think. My mom had run out of beer.
This was a time when she was getting worse at hiding from me and dad was at work all the
time. The 7-11 was just down the street so she decided to just walk. I was eager to pick
out some yummy candy. My legs pumping as I practically ran circles around her waiting for
the traffic to stop. Finally it did, speeding in front of my mom I walked onto the road.
Suddenly I felt a tight pain around my neck as my body jerks back off the ground and my
mom’s hand gripped me. I saw a car as it jumped up onto the curve were I was just seconds
before. In a flash they were gone down the road. My mom’s protective hand still holding.
Her mouth spewing out harsh and ugly words that dad had told me was a “no, no”. This
memory pains me to think about. I loved my mom, I really did, but after she snapped I’ll
always feel a burning distrust towards her. I was nine and it was Halloween. Mom was at
my aunt’s. I actually have no idea what I was maybe a vampire. I had the fangs but
glittery white wings and a white wedding gown. My long blonde hair flying wild and high.We
pulled up into my aunt’s drive way. The atmosphere around the house was dark. I felt
uneasy when we knocked on the door. My mom answered, looking demonic. Alcohol rolled off
her in pungent fumes. I hid behind my dad afraid. In a flash of screaming and action my
mom attacked my dad. Pinning him to the ground. Punching him in the face over and over
again. Screaming at him to give her more money. My dad yelled at me to call 9-11. I ran
inside tears blurring my path as I got the phone. I was going to call 9-11 but I didn’t
know how. I was afraid they wouldn’t help.I went to my aunt but she was asleep or in other
words ignoring me. At that point I was desperate so with all my nine year old anger I ran
back out side, the phone still gripped in my tiny hands.I yelled and screamed with all my
might at my mom to get off my dad or I would bash her head in with the phone. That I would
kill her if she didn’t stop. Now it makes me sick that I was so violent and angry at such
a young age. That provoked I was willing to kill my own mother.Luckily I did not resort to
that because dad pushed her. We took off. That was the last time I ever saw her, screaming
at us with such rage and hatred, the mom who saved my life held me close and told me she
loved me, that I vowed never to drink or be around alcoholics again. Go hard or go home...
Long poem by
Jean Porter | Details |
A few years ago
As dusk fell
It was blowing with snow
Billy Burke a young boy aged eight
Stayed after school until it was late
Helping teacher clear the party debris
When they left school they could hardly see
Teacher wanted to give Billy a ride
But brave little Billy politely declined
I'm taking the short cut thru the woods
And as he set out he drew up his hood
The wind howled and the air cold
As Billy struggled up another knoll
The trees were bare glistening with frost
Then Billy realized he was hopelessly lost
He should have seen his home by now
But all he saw was a broken down plow
Left in a clearing by a farmer years ago
Rusty and useless now covered with snow
Billy trudged on with beginnings of fright
But as he topped a rise a welcoming sight
The old Colby mansion but what was that din
Music and laughter he heard from within
The mansion had been abandoned for years
But not empty now he could tell by his ears
Billy drew closer light spilled on the snow
Thru the open door he stepped out of the cold
A Halloween costume party he saw at a glance
And by a blazing fireplace took up a stance
Carved out pumpkins had candles inside
These lit the room and the hallway besides
Billy saw monsters and a witch on a broom
His eyes opened wide as she flew about the room
How did she do that he wanted to know
But the guests only laughed in the fire's glow
They played games and ate party food
Then Billy hid a yawn he didn't want to be rude
He was bundled in his coat and sent on his way
But Billy protested he wanted to stay
However in a flash he was on the outside
The witch guest acting as guide
She led him back through the trees
Took him up on her broom when he said please
Billy looked down on the houses below
As they flew around town high above the snow
The storm had passed and they saw the moon
He was set down by his home and she flew off in the gloom
Billy went back to the mansion the next day at dawn
Imagine his surprise everything was gone
Dust thickly covered the furniture in the room
But in a cobwebbed corner he found the witch's broom
He remembered the witch goblins and ghosts
And the Count Dracula who acted as host
The dust in the mansion lay undisturbed on the wood
Except by the fireplace where Billy had stood
No one believed the story he told
Of Halloween night being lost in the cold
He stuck by his story they didn't know why
But you and I both know Billy wouldn't lie