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HAUNTED by onclaud, nette
Haunted by the Past by Gondolf, John
Haunted by Pett, Roy
Haunted by St. John, Sian
Haunted Guilt by Willbur, Emily
Haunted Dregs by Beam, John
Haunted by Pinet, Emile
Haunted by Haight, Sandra
HAUNTED - EMOTIVE WRITE by ALLISON, JAN
HAUNTED by lawless, John

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The Best Haunted Poems

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No Reservation

You Are Not Invited

--Latching onto my soul without an invitation--
Elements around my shore expose more than air
--Playing with fire is not a game you will win--

----
Silently she swarms in like a leech, 
Feeding and sucking from the wounds my pain left behind.
She came inside: "Uninvited!"
Here have a drink, and die!
Taste the water drips that sail across my lips 
Plodding vigorously in the open air of her unwanted hostility
Forbidden as one, I noticed her aura a sickening light
Imprisonment that haunted smoke around her own imperfections
The hate and envy, she lives in resides airborne
The sound that she have summoned up hunger  
Brought me near the edge of everything
Feel my pain, a touch of impurities    
Tainted, infected, poisoned passion, her face disguised
Surrender toward serenity, the lighthearted woman I am inside 
She will never take, my full eternal grace
It’s time to reveal that blazing fire I hide
Drown her from the false flown sorrows of gust
Hold her hideous head under water--- burn her false fire out

Never will I turn my back and watch her muster them broken lids
Lungful of lies poisons the wind that flows from her snake like voice
Maneuvering the skies, scheming that snatch in
Like a viper twisting its unmatched curves, 
I strike, like a pyromaniac  --A burning match 
Allowing her to taste a part of the air I breathe 
A waste in the breeze her insecurities 
Trying to destroy what she can't be, what she can't see
At the end, blustery weather will remind her of the sea inside me,

YOU! The Angel, who crawls around like a shadow
Gorging its way into the heart with a charm of greed
Twisting reality hoping nobody sees its true sick identity
Slandering my name as the master of evil and manipulative
Marking my territory, warning others of a cold draft
Grasping the beauty that glows from my soul 
There it stood on the ledge UNINVITED
The devil walked and took my shoes 

:)


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013


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The Return

The air is thick with memory -
A fog of reminiscence.
Or is it simply mist 
Rolling through the window? 
I feel the wind and taste the salt,
Hear the distant pulse of waves 
Keeping time, skipping beats
With my haunted heart.
The wind chimes sway and croon
From their place above the sill,
Where sand dollars still form a row
Among crumbs of sand.
And there, on the bedside table -
Speckled stones arranged just so.
And if I lift them, I know
I'll find dustless circles,
Halos from the past.
My vision blurs.
Then I see her in the doorway -
The ghost of childhood,
Twirling in a cloud of skirts,
Strings of seashells draped like gems
Around her fragile neck.
I blink - 
And she's gone.
But through the mist I hear  
The patter of bare feet
Down the empty hallway.


By Heather Ober
Submitted to Nette's "Mixed Senses" contest
*This is an old poem I wrote on March 7, 2012


Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2012


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No limit to how long we grieve

when you let go of my hand
you let go of my heart

as I stumbled and crumbled
life seemed to have paused
silent screams
raged inside

but I was just numb

heart beating in slow motion
life became strange

and

i thought it would make sense 
when the pain subsided
but there is no limit
to how long we grieve

and they say
don't let them in
those crazy thoughts
but they echoed and echoed
until i lost my mind
and its worse
when alone 
haunted by
profound whispers

and

all I wanted
was an angel
to find me
to not give up on me

but nothing

and now
ive lost all faith
in humanity

and 

still im alone
but now drifitng
to a place
i don't want to be

yearning for oxygen

and

no one can catch me

because
when you let go of my hand
you let go of my heart

Simple Musings
Silent One
15 September 2017


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2017


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THE HOUSE OF SPIRITS

It looks like a simple brownstone building,
Not much different then any other but it’s residents,
Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone.
In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by
A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as
The house of spirits.
Witchery or voodoo’s domain, it is a place of salvation for
Spiritual challenged, listen to the beautiful music they make,
Singing within this their walled cage of brick and mortar, these
Ethereal victims lost.
Here in peace they wait for the light to find them, a waiting chamber,
Of the lords misstep souls, those whom walked off the righteous path,
Yet are not without redemptions wanton of need.
Wanders of limbo’s astral plain, seekers whom roam blindly until 
Finding a doorway threshold, then crossing over, into this the house
Of spirits.
A corridors slender passageway, a way stations layover for those tired
And weary travelers to rest until their final journey’s end comes for them,
Sanctuaries power house of the supernatural.
Behind these red doors dare not the mortal flesh clasp the gilded knockers,
For within are things of the unspoken variety, creature protectors waiting at
Bay for the stray intruder to wander forth upon this sacred ground.
Angels kindred brethren whom seek out evil, destroyers patrolling the
Darker shadows for night stalkers whom wish to feast upon the forsaken.
But light’s white power is a mightier force to be reckoned with, and vanquished
Will the devils spawn into the depths from which they came, into the bowels
Of hell shall these demons be thrown into the blackened pit from which they came?
In the twilight’s ethereal hour, a mid-ways breaking point between light and dark,
A shimmering glow strikes this standing watch tower of abandonment’s forgotten,
And heaven’s flood gates are opened unto them, calling these the lost upwards
Towards nirvana and at last know true peace.
It looks like a simple brownstone building,
Not much different then any other but it’s residents.
Are of the haunted kind, not made of flesh and bone.
In every window a wind chime stirs, gently caressed by
A chilling winds icy finger tips, after all this is known as
The house of spirits.

BY; CHERYL ANNA DUNN

 


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014


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The Old Dark House

The Old Dark House

This tale of “The Old Dark House” is one that’s replete with a
most horrid sense of pure evil and macabre, and is worth being
retold each year during the deep-dark hours of All Hallows’ Eve
before the chime of midnight, when the thin veil separating the
land of the living and the dead momentarily dissolves, bringing
both worlds together until the break of dawn.

Beware of this house’s mythical and ethereal presence in the
shadow dreams of the innocent, and be forewarned to never
conjure its image in your unconscious mind. If so conjured,
The Old Dark House shall become an unending reality to the
innocent and uninformed, and on All Hallows’ Eve, the evil
“Demons of Hell” shall come for your very soul!  

The Old Dark House is one that is bathed and cursed in utter
hellfire and damnation by Lucifer himself. It’s one that creeps a
chill and frozen reminder into the very frame of its nasty, putrid
structure. It shall guarantee you the worst possible nightmares as
your very soul cries in agony and pleads unrelentingly for mercy!

Your nightmares are, in turn, amplified and born into the very
structure of this house with ivy creeping as you palpably sense
the wretched ice-cold fingers of Hell opening the doors to the
cavernous basement were evil shadows of goblins, ghosts,
ghouls, vampires, and werewolves parade openly from past lives.

Everyone suffering the curse of the damned was captured here
when they visited, becoming prisoners to the darkness of true evil,
far away from the light, goodness, and eternal mercy of Almighty
God Himself.

Six generations of my family actually dwelled beneath the rafters
of The Old Dark House where demonic forces were constantly in
play—as hot sparks burned the tongues of lost souls who cried in
agony, and their world would enter the vortex of darkness whilst
blood-curdling screams could be distinctly heard during the night
on All Hallows’ Eve. Ghostly images would appear out of nowhere
supported by the frightening ferocity of Lucifer who is the true dark
presence and ultimate tempter of mankind!

The horror I felt as a young boy trapped in this existence is truly
unimaginable. The image of The Old Dark House still haunts my
adult consciousness, even today, as I would shudder in the cold
night-sweat of sleep to purge its eternal presence from my mind!

Cruel pictures adorn the hell-hole hall of imagination as a gruesome
and unbelievable power underneath wields its vice-grip of hideous
words, whispering in the coldest of ice without the living being able
to breathe in a cloud of mercy and forgiveness, within an ancient
language of evil and evil-doings that twist the shape of words to
suit one’s human fears and cold shivers!

I still don’t understand the full measure of things being lost in this
dark pit of Hell in The Old Dark House. It’s a place that’s devoid
of human meaning and worth as shrunken heads are disembodied!
I hold on to what remains of a past shame, hovering high in the air
as unclean spirits of a crooked vision-circle wander aimlessly as a
Blind Sheppard leads our lost souls to the depressing Dark Land of
Nowhere and Nothingness!

Every October as the full moon rises high in the dark-sky evening,
a ritual fire is set by a local coven of witches to celebrate the advent
of All Hallows’ Eve. These witches know well the power and evil of
The Old Dark House. Their burnt offerings and black magic spells
echo hauntingly as Hell’s own fury is unearthed, challenging all
things virtuous in mankind’s existence and in God’s world of beauty,
hope, kindness, and light.

These evil images of black magic and witchcraft haunted my sleep
entire. I couldn’t sleep at all before dawn. I constantly sense now
an awakening madness in my soul, as if it comes from hidden graves
yet to be uncovered. Images and bad memories of The Old Dark House
push me now toward the opening of unknown tombs. I can actually
now smell Death’s Sulphur-burnt flesh!

Doors begin to rustle behind me as I hear loud footsteps of a pin
echoing deep in my mind. The echo shatters any illusions I have
of human sanity and forgiveness. I feel the sheer horror and begin
suffocating as the stale air is trapped in each breath I take!  

I sit up now—immediately confused, looking directly at a lonely
and empty Black Void that goes on and on and on—to infinity!

Cell doors in the house basement were always closed tight with
rusted iron links bound by heavy chains. As a poor child alone in
this house with other condemned children, there were nice rooms
upstairs that were always barred and shut to us as we suffered in
the filthy basement below. In Lucifer’s Hell!

I recall now too, in my memory, a gallery of special portraits in
The Old Dark House, which formed a ghastly mosaic of pure evil.
These portraits were of key human disciples of Lucifer who had served
him well through the ages. All of these images were grotesque and evil
when taken as a whole.

What did I learn? Evil is what Evil is! And Evil does what Evil does!

I’m free now from the eternal curse of The Old Dark House. I escaped
this mansion of the macabre as a young man and found my soul path
to Almighty God and stepped into His holy light of forgiveness and
redemption! 

As a very old man now, I sleep and dream a lot. Usually my dreams, 
thank goodness, are pleasant as I draw toward the end of my mortal
existence here on earth.

Yet, despite all the good things in my life now, during October of
each year, as All Hallows’ Eve cometh closer in the deep recesses
of my mind—I remember clearly that the ground floor of The Old
Dark House always had these frigid-cold wind gusts that spoke 
chillingly to one’s very soul. As young kids we would run upstairs
in this evil house to hear the “Demons of the Night” moan and cry!

Old Hob always had a way to speak to all of us as kids in His House!

Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid, and Gary Bateman
A Collaborated Poem, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
September 7, 2016 (Narrative)


Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2016


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Magic

Enchantment of magic’s sweet passion has bound me
With minutes and hours I now must reclaim;
Spellbound, love calls to the spirits around me
And drifts into dreams at the sound of his name.

The breath of his memory awakens from slumber;
I hear the soft whispers of a loving refrain
That stirs in my heart such an infinite hunger
With incense to scent each exquisite strain.

The face of my love comes back in a vision
With sounds of his voice in the soft grey gloom;
In a twilight of stars when the scent is Elysian
I wait for him under the plum tree in bloom.

So hushed is the flute of a love song enchanted
With music he played when his mouth was stirred;
 I now hear the song so tenderly haunted
Invading my dreams with all that I heard.

As green leaves and blossoms twine and are braided
The strings of my heart have come undone;
When the lush of the green vine is woven unfaded
The binding of my heart with his is as one.



Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2011


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Living Hell

Damned by the devil's curse upon my heart
I pace the lonely bridge twixt love and hate
Stalked by death's shadow from the very start
Forsaken by the guiding hand of fate

My restless soul sleeps in the tangled thorns
Nursed by the acrid milk of bitter weed
Tormented nightly by old lovers scorned
And haunted by a score of sinful deeds

Pray, take me now to storm the gates of hell
Confront the wicked one and question why
Twas reason for my birth under his spell
To live a loveless life until I die

I curse this lonely life given to me
The fire of hell is all t'will set me free


  an original poem by Daniel Turner


Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016


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Whisky Moment

~the Fear of Never~ A DRINK TO REMEMBER!


   And the fire catches every time, my heart needs a sip
I bear no shame pouring, poisoned pabulum whisky down 
Lost in a place with hungry whores, ink paying  gigolos 
This night a respected gentleman put's on his evening gown
He sits in front of a mic playing the same old sad song
Fitted out in drag, his wife has no clue
Holy breeders trying to change my shoes
Lingering from the Cute Chinaman, running his tab sky high
Bluebirds of jealousy, set round the vintage Barstool like fools
Minds overpowered and threaten to the very nub

I am drunk-- in his eye, 
He receives a macabre confession of possessiveness 
I am drunk-- in her eye,
She has a sick confession of subconsciousness 

Broken loose from a negative, regressive state of mind
Sit and enjoy this broken bottle of champagne 
Unspoken rage in every empty can left behind
A shot glass drops from my unstable hands longing to hold a pen
I look into a mirror and embrace every meaning of stability
Blotting out the madness behind a metal cage of reality
At times, I feel the need to bring down this masquerade 
A drink so hostile, I can't even remember my image and name 

Too many scars, from the foster of paper and pen
My dependents are drunken demons from a traumatized childhood 
Tonight I will legislate a special thanks
Holding up my cup, until death finds my note 
I will smile, at every Judge and Jury, during karaoke night
Shutting down my eyes, fantasizing everything's gonna be alright
I will not  jilt knowing, writers block haunted my days away
Insecure hoarding monsters enjoying spoil forgotten words
Tonight I thirst like never before, my tongue inscribes around a tin cup
I am not eating up by it, no matter how long I've drowned in it
This is my kind of whisky, my thoughts, my days of ammo 
To tell you the truth, I possess no desire to drink
It's all about the love of poetry and how sober, I become (WITHOUT)
The monsters that reside inside, have one thing to say

"Give me Poetry, or give me Death!"

by: PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014


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Midnight In The Library

Around midnight, in the library I found myself drawn,
to these shelves haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
as a rare, late October storm brews beyond the pane,
bringing life back to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker.

To these shelves, haunted still by Poe, Stevenson and King,
my fingers grasp a book from under the dust and webs,
bringing life back, to the creatures of Shelley and Stoker,
it's well-worn, leather spine just waiting to chill my own.

My fingers grasp a book, from under the dust and webs,
while autumn winds rustle leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
it's well-worn leather spine, just waiting, to chill my own,
my head, sinking further back into the velvet-lined chair.

While autumn winds rustle, leaves like crisp, yellowed paper,
candlelight flickers dimly across the tattered old pages,
my head sinking further, back into the velvet-lined chair,
where the ghosts of Irving and Dickens will not let me sleep.

Candlelight flickers dimly, across the tattered, old pages,
I, unable to recline, with the shadows thrown by the fire,
where the ghosts, of Irving and Dickens, will not let me sleep,
residents of the dark welcome, and wait to be revisited.

I, unable to recline with the shadows, thrown by the fire,
as a rare, late October storm brews, beyond the pane,
residents of the dark, welcome and wait, to be revisited,
around midnight, in the library, I found myself... drawn.






Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015


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UNICORN

                 Like the UNICORN

At times I fear I am the mysterious of all animals
Like the Unicorn, I myself do not feel real
My inner beauty is the only thing to conceal
I am my own mythological creature
Roaming souls with a little will power to heal
 
Ages of my forgotten tear
Like the Unicorns  a prophecy so unclear
I compare your beauty to be the eyes of stare
I am a magical power so rare
Absorbing the energy of the sun into a spear
I appear like the wild horse
I have no feelings of real existence, my life with no compare
Embracing all memories to disappear

Wasting away absorbing nature's life
GONE!
Haunted down by a hunters knife
Thousands of wolves hungry to eat me alive

Fallen legends and myth
Pondering in a past life who I am
I feel a  touch upon my bones
Am I he the Unicorn 
A horse with one horn
Unlike the Unicorn who fell to exist
My suffering  really does exist
How I wish everything was fake
To be like you hiding upon the mist

Like the Unicorn who is a horse with no horn
Like a nobody when my life slips into the abyss 
A depth of wishing to have never been  born
With the vision of  Heaven’s Realm with a Unicorn twist

Like the Unicorn who only exist in Legends and Myth.
I come and go like a blown kiss
Shedding tears feeling all alone
I want to be like the Unicorn who are bound to roam
Take me away from this wonders of thorns
Give me a magic Medallion to free myself from the pits
Infatuated with the gorgeous Unicorn
A passion among beauty is where I exist

by:


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010


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Necromancer (The Haunting Continues...)

In the cemetery I walk, so dark it is this night.
 Hoping that the Ghouls won't start to bite.
I feel the tug of the dead, as each grave I pass.
 Thankful this nervous tension won't last.

Armed with my Animation supplies,
 I stare out at all the green glowing eyes.
A chicken for my blood sacrifice,
 Raising the dead, there's always a price.

The salt keeps the dead inside.
 Using the machete our magic, we'll ride.
Salt is for everybody's protection.
 Cold steal seals out any deception.

To prime the earth so the dead will rise,
 cast the blood and create our ties.
Focus my energy and the ground starts to shake.
 Winds whip through the area and the on-lookers quake.

I command all that is at least 3 days dead.
 Just enough time for the soul to move ahead.
Born with this power as a Necromancer,
 When I will my power all the dead have to answer.

I look to Sandra Hudson, who hired me,
 to raise the dead and hear their screams.
I call Illyanna De La Keur from her deep, dark grave.
 Her words are scary so be very, very brave.


For John Loving III's "Haunted Poets Society"


Copyright © Aleera De La Keur | Year Posted 2009


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Unsung Hero - The Soldier

Unsung Hero – The Soldier

Warily he stood at the corner,
Wondering which way to turn.
A weary smile on his faded brow,
As he held out an old worn-out hat hoping for handouts,
A few miserly pennies or perhaps, even a piece of bread.

This once proud soldier,
Now reduced to being a petty beggar,
Was a remnant of a cruel war;
Where he once stood side-by-side with his comrades
And helplessly watched them fall one-by-one.

Cruel memories haunted his saddened heart,
As he each day he desperately tried to survive, 
Wondering if it would have been better
If he too on the bloody battlefield had died - 
But there was no real answer.

Maybe it was good that he had done his duty
Fighting for those who couldn’t. 
But now he was forgotten and forlorn, 
With no honor, no glory,
He was just a nobody.

With warm tears streaming down his cold cheeks,
Even now he thought of his fallen comrades, 
Questioning if they were really in a better place -
What if?
Why?

His thoughts about his tortured past
Continued to cling to him, 
Like the tattered coat 
He wore during the day,
And used for a pillow at night.

In his mind, he was still on the battlefield, 
Only this time he battled invisible foes -
A mind growing feeble, homelessness,
Hunger, loneliness, and most of all – 
Not having anyone to love him. 




9-16-2014


Copyright © Kika Ayala | Year Posted 2014


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- Haunted Beauty -

 

The family had just moved into an old castle in Scotland; 
mother, father and their only daughter, Emmie, that they loved so deeply. 
Emmie was only 12 years old, and so innocent and beautiful. 
One night, she was woken up by a dripping sound; 
an echoing sound of water drops in a sink; 
rhythmic and terrifying. 
She sat on her bed, and suddenly appeared a free floating arc of strange light. 
It's that time of year again: Halloween night. 
Doors flew open and shut; strange voices and footsteps started. 
She was so frightened, that she almost threw up. 
Emmie made the sign of the cross, and plunged into a thicket of thorny wild roses. 
Terrified, excited and ready to run out of the house in 20 seconds, 
she overheard whispering words: "All beauty must die." 
The voice was so deathly, that it sent chills through her spine. 
It did not make it any better that it sounded too close to her ears. 
Her nightdress being torn by rose thorns like papers in a paper shredder, 
she ran as fast as she could; not back to the old castle, 
but away from the creepy voice, and strange events 
in the old castle. 
Exhausted, she searched for a place she could find rest 
"All beauty must die" the voice visited 
her unceremoniously once more. "What do you want from me? 
Is it wrong to be born beautiful? " 
she asked, wondering where she got her courage from. 
The energy to scream or run departed her, 
the moment she saw a woman dressed in white, 
levitating in the air, and moving towards her; 
a horrid face that carried the night's darkness, 
looked decayed, with worms crawling out from it. 
Remember this is a true story about Emmie; 
she gets chills just remembering the events of that night…… 





Contest: Halloween Co-Writes, By Diane Locksley

Poem Written by: Teddy Kimathi and Anne-Lise Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved 


Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2014


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Where The Heart Resides

Like open arms
These broken gates reach out to me
And lead me to the lonely house
That overlooks the sea

Her door once proud and stately
Now splintered hangs in shame
As she realizes no longer can she
Keep out the wind and rain

I look into her beautiful
Sad and haunted eyes
These windows to her soul
Where alone she waits to die

Her rooms I see before me
Stripped naked raped and bleeding
And somewhere from within them
I hear her softly pleading

She beckons me to enter
I cross her threshold timidly
And suddenly an old familiar feeling
Comes washing over me

The floorboards squeak beneath me
As I move slowly down the hall
Tip-toeing through the paper roses
All withered on her walls

I step into her parlor
With tears falling from my eyes
As precious memories carry me
To the place my heart resides

I see her in her former splendor
Dressed in satin and old lace
Crystal chandeliers reflect the light
And caress her lovely face

French doors open to the fields
Where once I used to play
Make believe in lands of dreams
On sunny summer days

Silky curled beside the hearth
Purring softly as she sleeps
I caress her so tenderly
As my heart falls at her feet

The air is filled with music
As grandma strokes the keys
The aunts and uncles all join in
And sing in harmony

We take our places at the table
Laid out in fine bone china
We bow our heads and thank the Lord
For all the ties that bind us

Grandpa carves the giant turkey
Grandma brings the platters
We fill our plates with food and mirth
And an endless stream of chatter

And when the moon hangs overhead
In a soft and velvet sky
One by one we take our leave
With hugs kisses and goodbye’s.

I love you Grandma
I love you Grandpa
Rings into the night
And once again in my world
Everything is right

I close the door behind me
I say my last farewell
As I hear her take her final breath
In the trill of a whippoorwill

                    ~~~~~
Author:  Elaine George

My first entry on Poetrysoup  - Feb. 2, 2006


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006


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Now and Then

Now And Then My heart still thinks about you – Now and Then -- My arms still want to hold you – Now and Then – And, even though I know you’re gone, Your mem’ry just keeps hanging on And I still think about you – Now and Then. My friends all ask about you – Now and Then. I tell them I still see you – Now and Then. Though you have someone to take my place, When I close my eyes I see your face – And your mem’ries, they still haunt me – Now and Then. My heart keeps on rememb’ring How much I loved you so – And though I know it’s over – My heart just won’t let go. And, when I think about you – Now and Then. I always see a love that should have been. My life will never be the same ‘Cause I’m always haunted by your name – Each time I think about you – Now and Then. Yes, I still think about you, Now and Then.


Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2013


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One Good Thing

In the late 1970s, I was going home on a Friday evening,
and needed a little more fuel in my truck, 
enough to get back to work on Monday morning.
I had $3 on me, pulled into a gas station, 
told the guy who pumped gas to give me three Dollars' worth.  
Back in those days that was a meaningful amount of fuel.  

After a short time, he shut the pump off, came back to me, 
"That'll be $10.35."  He'd filled it up.  

"Well uh... Wow, man, I did say to give me three bucks' worth....  
Three bucks is all I got."
I gave him the three $1 Dollar bills,
then displayed the forlorn and empty chamber that was my wallet.

Another blow, one more little stumble of existence, 
yet again life had dealt with him harshly.  
He dropped his head down and turned it to the side, 
"Yeah, you did say that...." 

This was before my bank had automatic teller machines.  
You were out of money late on Friday afternoon, 
you had to wait until the banks opened up on Monday morning.  
Credit cards were not yet part of my life.  
I told him I'd go to the bank on Monday and bring him the rest of the money.  
Asked if he was working then. 

"Yeah, I'll be here.  Okay..."  He was shrugging as he said, "Okay"
- he knew darn well I wouldn't return.  
He was going to have to eat that $7.35. 

He was an old-looking mid-40s, possibly 50.  
He'd been close to the margins of society, 
maybe even lived right on them.  
He had that "hard look," as if he was used to fate grinding against him. 
He might have been too young for World War II, 
but what about the Korean conflict, that strange proxy war? 
Could be... No way to tell from his clothes or appearance.  
He was getting by, but not in a good way, 
and didn't expect much else at this point.  
Hanging on, a little bit haunted in the eyes. 
Ex-convict?  Maybe.  
As I drove away, he tilted his head back and looked up.  
Was he appealing to God, asking for mercy and better luck?  
Or was he just staring at the roof-like canopy over the fuel pump area, 
wondering what the heck he was doing there? 

Monday came, I went to work, and at lunch got some money out of the bank.  
Even got change for the 35 cents.  
Later in the day, it was busy at the gas station when I returned, 
lots of vehicles at the pumps; 
so I parked around the other side of the building, 
then looked for the guy.  
He was bent over an old, low car, fuel nozzle in hand.  
I walked up to him and was pretty close when I said, "Hey man..." 

There was that haunted look again:  
"Whoa, who is this coming toward me, is there a problem, what's going on?"  
He was thinking that, didn't say anything, just looked at me.  
Maybe he still had trouble with the law out there, somewhere, 
thought I was a cop. 

"I was here Friday, you filled my truck up and I didn't have all the money....?"  
I took out $7 in bills and fished in my pocket, got a quarter and two dimes. 

A little bit of sunrise for him, right there, and he remembered.  
Some light in his eyes.  
I don't claim an especially honest life, this was just one thing I did.  
He nodded and said, "Hey yeah, buddy, thanks - most people wouldn't have stopped back." 

Almost 40 years ago.  He's probably dead by now.


Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016


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Since Youve Been Gone- A 24 Year Old Poem

Since you’ve been gone….
	The flowers have lost their color
		The sun refuses to give its light
			The moon weeps in her sorrow
				And days have turned into night
					Since you’ve been gone

Since you’ve been gone…
	The birds sing a mournful requiem
		The wind moans at the windowsill
			The sea threatens and billows
				The starlight has grown suddenly dim
					Since you’ve been gone

Since you’ve been gone…
	My world has crumbled down
		The people laugh at my pain
			My strength has withered away
				My tears mix with the rain
					Since you’ve been gone

Since you’ve been gone
	I’m haunted by the beauty of your smile
		I count the endless seconds and days
			I moan your name to my bedroom walls
				I wander around in an endless maze
					Since you’ve been gone

Nothing, no nothing has been the same…
Since you’ve been gone

Eileen Manassian
Circa 1991- 1992

I know there are some changes that need to be made to this, but I wanted to share this with you as I wrote it when I was about...24ish. I wrote it for my then boyfriend who is now my husband. He is the only man who has ever made love to me. I've known him since we were 12....


Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013


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Haunted

A hole in the head shooting pain trembles
nightshades coldly down the spine
a soul lost in the land of the living
carried away in darkness
flying inside dark clouds holding just a dream

Distant thunder roars lightening splitting cracks
sure as the crow flies crawling opens Hell's gates
dark jewels of the night
charred remains churning in a cauldron
boiling goodness tears of thoughts

Piercing screams spawning nightmares
holding a promise once made
walking in a valley amongst the dead
shadows now smile hearing animals scream
as the moon plays silver dancing light

Dreams snatched away from reality
the crow calls echoes in silence
victims of this world howling over and back
tragedy cries in their pain and suffering
eyes seeking light
whispers through the branches
a heather bleat creature of the night calls

Haunted by humans chained to the earth
awaiting shadows and sunsets 
a cursed banshee wails supernatural screams 
from everywhere and nowhere

Mind numbing winds passing through
a white silhouette shredded shroud
around a heart entombed
in agonies' twilight shades clouds darken
storms brewed stirring specters chase the wind

Cold rains become lost tears
the willow weeps in eternal sorrows
a lament for the dead
as the silver crescent moon smiles goodbye

Blends in clear as day after sunrise
forgotten in a valley of unrest
death bell's toll out from the past
onyx feathered crows call painful cries

Forever seeking heaven's gate now sealed
that promised choice was lost ages ago
only burning Hell fires
or cold earthworms await




Written by: Liam McDaid & Kelly Deschler


Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2015


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Halloween Memories


      I was dressed as a witch for Halloween that year long ago,
And with my friends we were going from house to house;
            At that time kids could still do that without fear,
Our street was perfect for Halloween trick or treating fun.

      It was a hill with many cozy old homes some heritage,
They all had big covered porches and glowing windows;
            And all were nestled behind great ancient trees,
It was a memory I cherish, one of innocence and sweet joy.

      Sometimes, I was a princess, or a ghost, or a pirate,
And other times it was hard to tell exactly what I was;
            The leaves crunched under our feet; the air crisp,
Mother told us, "only go to houses that have Jack-O-Lanterns."

      "TRICK OR TREAT!" We would yell when the door opened,
But if the person said, "TRICK!" We would be so confused;
             When my bag got real heavy, I took my loot home,
And had a costume adjustment or even maybe a change.

      At the top of the hill was an old house; a haunted house,
It was dark and rundown and had a nasty black cat hissing;
            A real witch lived there; she ate little kids I was told,
Mother said, "don't be mean, she is just a lonely, old lady."

      I would like to tell you about the old lady who lived there,
But that is a whole different story, maybe another time;
           After the trick or treating, we examined all our treasures,
Our loot consisted of candy and chips, apples and other stuff.

      I gave mother the apples, she seemed to like them a lot,
My baby brother tried to eat all my candy but I hid them;
           Mother said, "don't eat it all at once!" (mother that is silly)
The next day, "oh mommy, my tummy hurts so bad, bad!"

___________________________
October 6, 2015


Narrative


For the contest, Happy Halloween, sponsor, Kelly Deschler

First Place


Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015


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The Devil's Tide

I looked up at a silver moon 
Peering through a cloud of misty gloom 
As we sailed across the Atlantic Sea 
That fateful night in June 
 
And as I stood upon the bow 
A furrow crossed my troubled brow 
As a dying star fall from the sky 
As the wind out of the north 
Began to cry 
 
'Twas then with fearful heart 
I came at last to realize 
That we were sailing 
On a wave of ill-tidings 
Known as 'The Devil's Tide' 
 
For no omen of the sea 
Brought more fear than thee 
A fallen star -  a silver moon 
Together in the month of June 
If legend true would surely bring us doom 
 
So with no trace of land in sight 
We sailed onward through the night
I -  the Captain 'Louie Lou' 
With my faithful crew 
Aboard the 3 mast schooner 'Angel - of the Blue' 
On canvas wings we flew 
Upon the wailing wind that blew 
 
Then suddenly a hush of malaise 
Crushed the summer night
Filling all the crew with dreadful fright 
As all the stars in heaven lost their light 
And the silver moon dipped completely out of sight 
Leaving us to drift without guidance 
To our unknown plight 
 
An eerie sound began to roll out of the west 
Growing louder and louder as we held our breath 
Until it was upon us and the ship began rise 
As we looked in horror into the Devil's eye 
As the Angel of the Blue began to fly 
Up the Devil's breast she climbed 20 fathoms high 
 
One by one the Angel's wings were torn away 
As she fought to save us from the Devil's rage 
Screams of horror falling from her timber sides 
As the crew fell into the Devil's tide 
 
And I -  tethered to the helm -  watched them die 
As we climbed even higher into the Devil's eye 
And as the Angel's body creaked and cracked
We finally scaled the crest and rode upon the Devil's back
Just before I fainted and my world went black 
 
I woke up in the morning high on a mountain side 
Never knowing just how I had survived 
knowing only that my Angel and my crew had died 
 
~~~ 
 
Many years have come and gone since then 
And I am forever haunted by each and every one of them 
My faithful crew and my mighty 'Angel of the Blue' 
 
I see their faces in my dreams 
As I awaken to their screams 
Wishing, too -  that I had died 
But someone had to live 
To tell the tale of the 'Devil's Tide'.

~~~~~~~~

Author:  Elaine George
Entry for contest:  Legends
Awarded:  First Place






Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2007


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Goodbye Song

Another haunted night, I watch raindrops fall from consolatory words, track each plane flying south, and I think of you. My lungs empty a lonely sigh… I bullet a dark, heaving sky with my angry words as I curse you for walking away again. I remember the starlings that came earlier; they circled low, then perched along the eaves while the sun held me in afternoon glow, as if to say goodbye, friend. We will meet again. I should have known. Night after night, shadows march a solemn procession across a long-faced moon. I know he is mourning, too. Weeds tangle my thoughts until I dream in a web of mismatched memories and neglected clues - so many questions, left in a heap at the foot of our bed, no answers said out loud. Solitude plays games with my heart; mocking me tonight, the house wins again. Why do I gamble after I lost you before? How many times have you walked out that door? I try to mend cracks exposed when darkness fades into golden dawn. I try to color my crumpled world like a child. I paint smiles on your face in our albums to tell myself lies. I replay the moment you walked away; I envision every detail down to one lace that dangled from your new shoes, new shoes bought to step into our new life together. I remember when we wrapped ourselves in our dreams to keep warm. One day, your face will dissolve like a rain puddle on a summer day. One day, I’ll say goodbye and start again. Maybe today will be that day. At least today, I’ll try. A lone starling in a dark, glossy suit lands on my window sill at break of dawn. It wakes me with its sweet, warbled song and waits long enough for me to rise from bed so I might feel the promise of a new day shine into my soul. Then, as my tears fall soft like spun silk, he spreads his wings and flies away. In light of dawn’s blessings, I am the starling, singing a goodbye song. I pray, tonight, I dream of anyone but you. written April, 2014


Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015


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Wearied Wanderlust

"Wearied Wanderlust" upon a gilded meadow glows a bottle of tender tears scattered ashes burnt and laden carpeting of stone ravished emotions turbulent feasting on flesh and bone filtering through fibers as escalating fears harbor broken dreams evaporating in waning years as visions petrified reside in somber tone upon a gilded meadow glows Life's chilling chant of haunted love still stalks a tattered heart is wandering, wearied and all alone swallowed a bittersweet taste of vacant cone in endless patterns of desolate walks upon a gilded meadow glows..


Copyright © Linda-Marie SweetHeart | Year Posted 2012


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Nevermore

I write of a man named Edgar Allan Poe,
Whose dark, tortured soul could not rest,
His work is something every poet should know,
These stories are among some of the best.

"The Raven" was never more ghastly and grim,
"The Pit And The Pendulum" which tortured him,
"The Valley Of Unrest" was such a quiet place,
Where "The Sleeper" dreams in peaceful grace,
"The Murders In The Rue Morgue" were a mystery,
"The Fall Of The House Of Usher" had a gloomy history,
"The Black Cat" was dead, but suffered no pain,
"The Tell-Tale Heart" is what drove him insane,
"The Masque Of The Red Death" did conceal,
While "The Purloined Letter" did reveal,
"The Premature Burial" meant for the dead,
"Annabel Lee" was the corpse bride he wed,
"Spirits Of The Dead" found themselves alone,
"The Conqueror Worm" that fed on human bone,
"The Haunted Palace" was wandered by ghosts,
"Tamerlane" written for one he loved the most.

As the poetry flowed from his heart,
One tragic day, death came to his door,
Finally his tortured soul could depart,
He would then pick up his pen, nevermore.


Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013


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The Solstice Door

The light is coming and I wish you well...

Behind the running, running man the land
Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry
Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone
Inscribing solemn circles in the sky
There is no time to take a backward look
Just running, running, running, running blind
He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove
With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind
He runs with only hope in empty hands
All faint of heart, with life blood running cold
The chill of winter earth beneath his feet
All water turned to ice in frozen fold
All out of breath with minutes yet to live
He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew
Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door
Described in tales the bards and ancients knew
 ‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade
All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls
And in the glade there stands a single stone
And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls
And there, within the shadow’s light he sees
That which before him other men have found
A stairway leading down in to the earth
A dark descending path in to the ground
No way but down now, this the only way
He gathers one last breath, and full of fear
Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps
That lead towards the portal of the year
How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair
That shadow down, down to the Solstice door
To where, beneath the door a chink of light
Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor
He sits upon the bottom step to rest 
Reflect, and contemplate the year behind
And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit
And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind
Forget me not, she sings; I am still here
I wait for you, for life to shift and stir
And through the keyhole and the chink there blows
A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir
Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face
The promise of new life upon her breath
Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step
For she has saved him with her love from death
Another year dies, another lives
He sits and waits; she watches from afar
And as he waits the light in darkness shifts
And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…

by Gail


 







Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2015


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The Haunted House

Steps in -
What din!

Rat squeaks 
Floor creaks

Let loose,
Ghost boos

Blood Pool -
Bats drool!

Strobe lights,
Snake bites

Suspense -
Live Fence!

Zombie -
Crombie*

Cat's eyes -
On mice

Closed space,
Lined face

Blue slime,
Red grime

Skulls stare -
BEWARE

Quiver,
Shiver!

Loud cry...
Mouth dry 

Our horde
Spots board: ....


Your end,
My friend



---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* - Crombie, here, means 'Something crazy'


Copyright © Sneha RV The Literature Lover | Year Posted 2015