Long poem by
Kelly Deschler | Details |
There are roads that seem inviting in the light of day
Only to cast its eerie shadows when the sun begins to go down
Engraving a revealing legend after the darkness has given way
To the blood curdling horror that once terrorized an innocent town
The legend says that years ago a terrible event took place
When a patient known to be psychopathic escaped the institution
The doctors notified the police who immediately gave chase
Though disappointed they became after finding no resolution
On one Halloween night, screams of murder were heard by Haunted Road
Now, no one ever dares to enter those woods where the tragedies took place
Some have sworn that they still hear the screams within suffering echoes
Still see the trail of blood stained puddles that mark his evil trace
It is here that he and his victim's spirits may forever hide
Where voices of the dead lead you to a darkened cabin in the woods
They cannot escape the horror of the way in which they died
Only the brave hearted would dare to go where this cabin stood
A few trick or treaters decided to dare themselves to enter Haunted Road
They convinced themselves that this would end up being just a thrill
Little did they know that evil was waiting for them when they chose to go
The ghost of the psychopath, eager to commit his next kill
They walked along slowly, barely breathing, and listening to the sound
Of another pair of feet behind them, dragging heavily on the pavement
All the kids stopped with their hearts pounding, only to see nothing around
Just the moonlight, a howling wind, and scattered leaves, twisted and bent
A dense fog soon began to fill the air, giving them more of an eerie feel
Still, they proceeded to walk to where they planned to be
A run down cabin slowly came into focus, reminding them that the legend is real
It was then they decided to turn back around quickly
Standing behind them was the killer's ghost, grinning from ear to ear
His red glowing eyes could not hide his psychotic, bloody thirst
The trick or treaters ran to the cabin, thinking, it's time to face our fear
As they approached the door, one said, "okay, now you go first"
One by one the trick or treaters tried quietly to lead the way with regret
Though their footsteps creaked the floor boards of the old wooden floor
It began to thunder and lightning showing the theme in silhouette
Then all of a sudden they heard the slamming of the cabin door
It was locked, there was no escape, they were trapped for certain
In this abandoned place where the victim's bodies were stored
Then near the corner something stirred like a blowing white curtain
Their eyes grew wide with terror, this occurrence couldn't be ignored
Out from the darkened shadows he came into sight
His eyes glowing red, his breath smelled of death
Suddenly, he grabbed hold of one of the trick or treaters that night
While the others tried to break free, out of breath
The cabin door was broken open, they ran through, and heard a scream
From the captured boy in evil's clutches, with his costume now torn
The others were relieved to finally find a way out of this bad dream
They were too afraid to help their friend, and a new legend was born
The two trick or treaters were shaking in their warm beds
Traumatized about the horror they faced from a dark legend
They couldn't believe that one of their friends was actually dead
Left them both wondering if this is really the end
They yawned, and tried to get up, but their hands were tied
Still in the cabin, they had not escaped this living nightmare
As the killer came closer and closer, the young kids just cried
Knowing that their lives would be ended right then and there
Written by: Gail Angel Doyle & Kelly Deschler
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Ivor Davies | Details |
A hive of activity, twenty four hours,
The centre was where they controlled,
All the technicians, in all of our vans,
Delivering the service we sold.
But in the small hours, those there at night,
Would tell a strange story to all.
About a small woman who looked very sad,
And seemed to walk right through the wall.
This came quite a problem, for staff working there
Refused to be present alone.
Although the late shift would need only one,
Nobody would work on their own.
Their manager called me, for I was her boss,
And said this needs sorting today.
She knew I had knowledge of things of this sort,
And asked me to chase it away.
Now can you imagine, the rules I would break,
If I had agreed to this task.
A senior manager leading his staff,
In a séance, is that what you ask?
But somehow this problem seemed deeper to me,
A poor soul adrift with no light.
Although staff were frightened and that was quite bad,
The woman was tied to her plight.
I gathered my team from the centre right there,
And met at my home late that night.
A manager, supervisor, controller as well.
With for some others, we’d try to do right.
Though none of the people who worked in this place,
Had walked on this pathway before.
Almost as soon as we dimmed down the lights,
The voice from my ‘manager’ swore.
She’d gone in full trance and as plain as could be,
Was the lady who shared her workplace.
But t’was me she resented, she saw me a threat,
For she thought I’d no right to her space.
A very long evening, but I’ll tell you most,
Of the things that took place there that night.
This lady was wandering and bound to the earth,
After having a terrible fight.
An immigrant woman, from somewhere in the east,
Had been brought by her spouse to this land.
He’d beat her and kick her, and keep her in fear,
When his drinking was guiding his hand.
Than one day in torment, she’d suddenly snapped,
And run a steel blade through his heart.
Then buried his body in our building’s vaults,
But could then never make a fresh start.
So even when passing, she carried her guilt,
And was shackled by this to her home.
It now was our duty to help her get free,
Or eternity she’d have to roam.
But alas as I open my mouth to begin,
My brother’s face changed and ‘he’ swore.
”You murderess bitch, you’ll pay for your sin”
Then he rose up to “murder the whore”.
Now though I have travelled this pathway before,
I think you’ll agree on that night.
The last thing I wanted was two people there,
In séance beginning a fight!
Thank heaven my spirit can stand on it’s own,
For I sent this madman whence he came.
And when ‘she’ stopped shaking from meeting her man,
We finally got back to the game.
Convincing this lady, that she’d really died,
Then took up the most of the night.
But very soon after, with one of her friends,
We helped show her the way to the ‘light’.
The control room now happy, they’ve only one ghost,
And nobody wants him to go.
He’s a cheerful chappie they meet with a smile,
And he stays in the shop down below.
For three of the staff it has altered their lives,
Though they knew that her ghost they had seen.
They thought she was evil and wanted them dead,
But now know, she was walking in dream.
These three never ‘shopped me’ for playing my role,
Though at times, when alone late at night.
I’m sure they all wonder what fun there’d have been,
If I hadn’t broke up a good fight!
Ivor G Davies
Copyright © Ivor Davies | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Details |
Good Cop You're a cop. In Hitler's Fatherland, Nazi Germany, 1964. Little more than a rookie. Normally catching petty criminals and hookers in dark alleys. A call came through, a body in the woods. You the cop, first on scene. Little did you know that you, the cop, would bring everything crashing down like a house of cards. By investigating this crime, you the cop, sent fissures right to the top of the Nazi regime. Secrets spread forth like acid; burning everybody. The death of a race, the Jews. Extinct. Retired top Nazi murderer told you, 'Not a brick remains. The Jews are in the East.' You knew you had to see with your own eyes, you the cop. Where it happened. So you went to Poland and saw. There were bricks there; moss covered, dirty and half buried. What untold story did they tell? Millions of ghosts hovered around you. Crying for justice, permanent release. As the SS came for you, you knew the cost - your life. With Kennedy visiting, you got the secret out. By forsaking your life, you collapsed the most evil regime in human history. Ended Hitler's reign of terror, allowing peace to ignite.
edits look fine here. on final post after edit some text is out of line. not as bad as epub system i use tho which screws up word 2007 onwards. oddly word 03 is fine. hit enter key, text on next line. not like carppy 07 onwards. progress huh? yea right...
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Diane Lefebvre | Details |
The pale apparition swirls in on night mist.
It envelopes her body, then breathes out its kiss.
Cold to her cheek as the fog to the shore;
She utters a sigh then sleeps deeply once more.
She’s new to the house, uninformed, unaware.
But soon sleep will not come for she’ll sense it is there.
Soft scuffs on the staircase, strange sounds in the hall.
Doors opening and closing, pale face on the wall.
Something behind her: she’ll turn now aware.
The cold then surrounds her, first taste of despair.
The house knows her panic. The house knows what’s there.
What lurks in the hallways, haunts bedroom and stair.
The house is aware of the present . . the past:
Knows happiness here in its walls cannot last.
The old house remembers the lives through the years.
The pain and the sorrow; the sadness, the tears.
It creaks in the darkness recalling such woe,
Of year upon year empty lives growing old.
Of dreams never realized and youth gone awry.
Of death without warning . . spilled blood left to dry.
The house wants to warn her, “Get out while you can.
This thing that now haunts was a strange, evil man.
A man with no conscience; a man without hope,
Who murdered his family then died by the rope.”
But death could not stop him returning from hell:
Five years in the future, dead child in the well.
Then another new owner deceased on the stair.
His wife dead of fright in her soft, easy chair.
And the time added up along with the dead.
The old house became empty, forlorn, full of dread.
Long years in the passing, house silent and grim.
No hope for the future as 'it' waited within.
But tales of the hauntings grew thin though the years.
A new owner then entered, unaware of old fears.
Threw open the curtains to let in the sun;
For the house a new chapter had surely begun.
But the house bides its time, for it knows 'he' is there,
With his festering hate and such wanton despair.
It watches and listens as the terror begins,
And it knows it must act, or he'll kill once again.
So it waits for a night when the owners not home.
Just the house and the specter are there all alone.
And comes the hard time the house faces the fact;
The hour is here to rise up . . to react.
A window slides open, as if on its own.
Then a breeze enters in, ever gently it’s blown.
And a thin gauzy curtain flutters soft like a sigh,
Nearing ever so moth like, a gas lamp nearby.
The inferno erupts climbing woodwork and pane.
It roars up the walls; this malevolent flame.
Then spreads to the hallway burning evil one's lair
And consumes all it touches, both bedroom and stair.
And the shrieks that were heard by the gathering outside,
Was the house as it withered, combusted, then died.
Of the tenants who'd perished so far in the past;
The old house had made certain, they would now be the last.
And a weed covered hillock is all that remains,
Of the house and its memories . . of the sorrow and pain.
With an evil dammed specter that lurks as before,
Guarding over an empire which is present no more.
And on that last day when the Lord calls us home;
The specter must stay and guard his old bone.
He'll not be allowed all that venom to quell.
He will never know heaven, for he’s made his own hell.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
William Masonis | Details |
In those slow, dead hours that hang attendant
Upon the birth of the dawn,
When all things pure lie safe abed,
Nested in sleep's safe oblivion,
The rituals take place, unseen, unfelt
In the woods or in the alleys
In the dry, dusty corners of the old parts of town
In any of the legion of lonesome fragments of our world
So neat, so ordered -
The rituals go on;
The rituals of rage and fear go on
Wherein the innocent are sacrificed
To the furies that howl in derelict souls.
When they had done with her,
As she lay used, broken and spent -
Their savagery hung briefly satisfied,
But their need for power still surged within their veins
Abating slowly in the cold air's caress
And they thought then of the possible payment,
Of the cost that might be exacted
As the price of the evening's dark fun.
The thought crept into them,
And quietly whispered
That she might someday return
From the deep mist of pain she was floundering in,
And rise with a strength they dared not imagine,
To point them out to the daylit world,
That world that would turn its eyes
Away from the sight of what their leprous spirits had wrought
And send them away
To fester out their lives
Snarling in cages with others of their kind
In some barren fortress of stone and steel.
The thought arose that there might after all be some God,
That perhaps, just perhaps, there might be a chance
That the hands of Justice,
However stiffened by the cold of the distancing world,
Had not yet retired, worn and crippled.
These things they considered in their primitive way,
So they chose what seemed the sensible course,
And killed her.
As she lay a still form in the black roadside grit
One of them thought of the tire iron.
He took it up, heavy in hand, and poised it
High above her like some frozen snake,
Then brought it down with a slicing whoosh
That bit through the clear air
Seeking to crush out the life in her soft yielding flesh
As it lay quivering below the star-jewelled Winter blackness.
Deep inside there went on the splintering of bone
Blood spattered the roadside and ran pink into dew
Pain bloomed riot in outraged nerves
As it ran in soaring, tidal flows
Through the infinite pathways towards her staggered brain
Blaring a symphony of misery,
Raising flaring monuments to agony.
The small sounds she made and lost in the mist
Soon settled to silence,
As the last threads of her life came undone
And the waves of pain ebbed away,
More and more distant.
She glimpsed that other far shore and, shipwrecked soul she was,
Struck out for it -
Passing beyond the last borders of our little thoughts
Leaving the tragedy of her ending far behind
Free at last, into whatever light there may be.
Copyright © William Masonis | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Cmack Estevez | Details |
November 2, 2015 11:42 am
The eyes of Stanley Tookie Williams
What I visualized is a man
A man that committed crimes
Stanley Tookie Williams was the name
His tragic game in the fallen streets was being a gang banger a Crip leader when he is the one that was responsible and the creator of the Crips. Stanley’s life became a deep dark sadness struggle his father was murder and his mama couldn’t take care of him anymore. Stanley witness everything negative in the poverty of the streets. Stanley created an organization called the Crips to protect the fallen streets everything went so wrong. His life was on the line , Stanley became a heartless killer he killed lots of innocent victims and got caught with the case of murder. When Stanley was put on death row his heart realized that he made lots of mistakes when he was in prison . Stanley seek redemption by reading a lot and writing a lot in his cell and making peace with other gangs. He knew that when he was caught for murder his life was completely over so he called on the gang bangers in the ghetto and sent a message to them by saying that he’s responsible and what he wanted for them is to stop killing each other ,because it’s not worth it at all. Killing somebody isn’t the way as a man you always have to think and know logically when you do those things. Increasing the peace is always the answer , decreasing the peace isn’t the way , but just plain ignorant not only he called upon the gangs , but he spoke to the kids by saying in prison about don’t be involved with the gang lifestyle , because it won’t help your future , but prison or death. Education is always the key of success and passion. The gang lifestyle is a dark journey of lost touch of good reality and happiness. So promise me that you will always be positive and be above the gang lifestyle. Stanley was a change man when he was in prison, but did he make mistakes indeed he did. Stanley wanted to redeem his flaws mistakes when he was in prison. He didn’t want to die as a monster of a Crip leader. He didn’t want to be remembered as that. Stanley wanted to die as a turned peaceful former gangbanger person by writing a children’s book as his legacy and ending the Bloods and Crips killing spree. Stanley wasn’t just a killer, Stanley was a kindhearted man deep down inside.
Stanley was a zero in the beginning
Stanley was a hero in the end
Stanley was strong
Stanley did wrong
Stanley ended the Crips and Bloods madness
He was scared
He did cared
He did cold blooded things
He became bold
He was peaceful in the end
He felt sorrow
Stanley never saw tomorrow again when he died.
It’s never too late to change your lost broken heart. We always have a choice in the world to turn it around into positivity always increase the peace of yourself and most of all your mind.
Christopher Carson Burton aka Cmack Estevez
Copyright © Cmack Estevez | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Jesse James Forster | Details |
I remember that day and never looking back
I said goodbye to my family and grabbed my duffel bag
Im off to be a hero just like my grandfather and my dad
Im going to fight for America Im going to become a man
I will make you all proud by protecting all your dreams
Generations of battles war nerve pumping throughout my veins
Familiar echoing war drum beating inside from my angry heart
No sooner than I am deployed the blood shed and death will start
Nothing could prepare me for the violence I would see
I met death with my first kill, and made a deal with inhumanity
My first experience of occupation I fired at every moving car
The rules of engagement were simple kill everything both near and far
Giving candy to little kids all named Michel Jackson, but not to win hearts
But to use them as human shields against the enemy insurgent charge
Women and child seperated from their husbands and father
We were lethal shepherds in armor hurding the lambs into the slaughter
Still to this day when I close my eyes their screams become my ghost
Eight months inside the hole, I lost myself, I lost all of my hope
My dreams become a horror for my nightmares have now over filled
And from my cup and my eyes their blood will be poured and spilled
I look at a tattered picture of my own family back at home
But can not smile or remember or I too will come undone
Numb by design, programmed in fear, and not to feel
Compassion has left me alone, I am cold organic steel
Casualties of war are corpses I ran over in the valleys and the fields
Im a killing machine a 1014 an M16 are the swords that I weild
A modern day holocaust ordered to kill anything posing a threat
But when getting fired upon from a crowd its hard to identify a target
Lock and load Little Elvis once again it's time to kill
Weapons forged against us lay in the terrain and hides in the hills
RPG fires into defending walls as bullets fire screaming past my head
Machine gunners leveled that f@@#ing building while my comrades are laying dead
Adrenalin pumping fuels the plans for my next attack
Hot flashes of steel pierces my skin as shrapnel shreds through my flak
People who were in prayer were no safer from their deaths
Bodies still burning, in pieces, or taking their final breath
Children run through my site with tears inside their innocent stripped eyes
She was no older than ten as she watched her little brother die
Deafened ears fall upon me, blood now is my fate
Hell is abroad in this desolate God forsaken place
Soldiers took trophy pictures of their faces with the dead
Who is the enemy I wonder, this doesn't make any sense
The boy who left home to become a man he never did come back
His soul still wanders the Tigris River lost forever to Combat
For all of my fallen friends, heroes, and families. You are always with me and will see you soon
Copyright © Jesse James Forster | Year Posted 2011
Long poem by
Maurice Yvonne | Details |
Rick Springfield's Jesse's Girl was playing on the radio,
we were all partying guys and girls out on my patio.
I prayed no one or you would catch me looking your way,
noticing what I was doing for the better part of the day.
The music?, just irony, go ahead give it a whirl,
here I am awestruck by you my best friends girl
I just know this is so wrong all the thoughts I have about you.
You always look like you smell like soap taste like morning dew.
You always look like you just came out of the dryer.
I really have to ignore this urge or end up in the fryer.
There's a girl just to my left I know it's me she's talking to.
She might as well be talking to the wall all I can see is you.
It's my party, my house but I grab my jacket and leave.
Suddenly I hear someone running behind me, it's Steve
" You ok guy, you're white as a sheet, are you ill?"
he says, worry on his face. I reply "I'm fine, chill."
"Good. Mind if I join you?" he counters and he's all in.
Guilty is my middle name but I don't tell him of my sin.
"I've been staring at your girlfriend all night" I think!
"Is that what I should tell him?" I am on the brink.
I change my mind and I decide not to tell him anything.
We walk for a while before he shows me a wedding ring.
He explains he is ready to take the leap.
I listen quietly I don't make a peep.
What is wrong with me? This is my childhood friend,
I might as well be Judas look at me...as if I wish his end.
He is Caesar and I am Brutus with a knife in my hand.
How did I get here what am I thinking this was unplanned.
I congratulate him, his hug says it all.
He suspects nothing, nothing at all.
I know I will be selling my eternal soul
when we finish, at the end of this stroll.
I haven't told you the other side until now,
she looks at me too. She can't take this vow.
I know I will lose a lifelong relationship.
I don't care. I'm going for it. Let it rip
I 'm going to move in on her this very night
or in the morning in the bright of the light,
share my feelings. I am sure she feels the same way too
I am sure she will, if she didn't I wouldn't know what to do.
Steve must of left, but when? He was just with me.
Two men lead me to a room. Lock the door for me.
Everyone must of left. I hear screams in the hall.
I think they injected something in me, the gall.
The dream the dream I am having...again.
Rape...murder...bodies, Steve, her, me, insane.
What did I do?...what did I do?...wet I'm wet.
Sleep. I have to sleep. That's it you bet.
I bolt up. She's in bed with me. She's with me.
A nightmare. I was having...it was all make believe.
These nightmares have to stop...these bad dreams.
Go back to sleep. Yes. In the hall, what are those screams?
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Cmack Estevez | Details |
I hate my life
My souls are damaged it’s full of pure hell that I can’t take it back it’s like listening to that awful country depression music that you can’t stand and you just want to go beyond insane.
Do anybody knows how much I suffer in those goddamn burden battles ? Do any of you lucky non grateful sons of bitches know what I did to get here ? I killed every enemy with my bare hated bloody hands I hated the enemy in Iraq and I don’t regret killing. Saddam Hussein deserved to hang lifelessly. He deserves to be killed but luckily I didn’t slit his throat and hanged him myself but all these terrorist especially Al Qaeda and Bin Laden killed millions and injured millions of victims in New York. I hate these sons of bitches I even hate their kids even slaughtered them with anger. Eventually I was discharged I was injured during the war I got shot in the chest nine times and also a final bullet to the temple that send and knocked me in a coma for ten days. I always thought on May 11 , 2004 that I was going to die and not wake up from my coma. I’m so lucky as of right now when I woke up from the coma . I wasn’t me anymore I was a monster I left my beautiful wife Cassandra I left my kids Seth , Pamela Chloe and Tyrone Jr. heartbroken and then I hit the streets and took and robbed plenty of drugs . What can I say the war changed me it made me worse and worse every struggling day that eventually I heavily overdosed on Crystal Meth and had to go to the hospital. Now I’m here in this goddamn rehab center reminiscing about why in the hell that I hate my useless nasty hopeless fate . I’m a killer always will be . I’m no American hero there’s no happy ending there’s tragic death endings near me. I can’t get my beautiful snow white wife back and for her to understand my pain. I can’t get my life back my kids are nothing to me anymore. I just wished that I could’ve never went to Iraq I should’ve dodged it and rejected it like Muhammad Ali did Vietnam. All day and All night I hear guns in the air pointing at me and three deadly trigger fingers pointing back at the shooter. I hear the bombs boom ! boom ! boom ! I hear the tanks boom boom all freaking day . I hear soldiers screaming while being wounded. I see bullets flying I see blood I see every human corpses blown up into pieces goddamn it what the hell is wrong with me ? Why am I’m in this circle ? I don’t need sympathy I don’t need nobody to say sorry I’m crazy I should kill myself in this circle but I can’t. I want to forget about the war I want to step out of rehab and say I’m better and free from the tragic. I know in everybody’s hearts that you will not give up on me and I won’t give up on you thank you !!! And to my wife Lisa and my kids I’m sorry. Thank you !!!
Copyright © Cmack Estevez | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
James Clark | Details |
It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood.
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait, I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath, such a heavy lump in my throat, “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think, my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink.
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends.
I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.
Copyright © James Clark | Year Posted 2013