The monument was stone --
actually marble, somewhat
more affluent. The writing
was calligraphy, carefully
chiseled by a fine hand.
The occupant was dead -- All the same….
lampoonery was rampant in the cemetery
Dracula’s ghouls were frighteningly scary
Halloween jokes were flying; satire was bad
witches scarce, these ghosts were deemed beyond mad
grim reaper appeared in the midst of this gloom
campfire singing commenced as evil did bloom
whistling and stomping was loud by the fire
ambiance of the night now turning devilishly dire
I reject another year
of not knowing where
two thousand & twenty five
planted seeds of inspiration
that stayed buried
in the curated soil of hope…
The cemetery of dead dreams
Suffocated by dirt.
I don’t mourn
I’ll begin again and plant
two thousand and twenty six
dreams that didn’t die.
The gallows hum my grandfather's hymn low and long as the lineage of loss.
Every rope remembers a name we forgot to imprint in the wind.
My veins vibrate with song; blood buzzing with borrowed curses.
The moon mouths my surname in mockery,silver tongued and sick with sin.
Our ancestors choke in the soil, coughing our crimes like prayers gone bad.
I walk beneath shadows, my spine a rosary of rusted regrets.
My shadow weeps, stitched from screams,a quilt of old betrayals and bone dust.
Time trembles,terrified of our inheritance of hurt and hunger.
The ghost of my father hums hymns of hunger and horror,holy and hideous.
The rope rocks me gently-singing lullabies in the language of lynching.
I spent October inside, until fall had fled
Stresses proliferated, and a hospital bed
I missed the foliage on the Adirondacks high
Yellow, orange and red against the blue sky
I remembered where I had seen colors before
Just 40 miles from my cottage door.
An old Dutch Church, built in 1697
And the graveyard behind, a waystation to heaven.
I made my way south and walked up the hill
Between mausoleums were trees and the color would spill
copper and red and orange and gold.
I let it sink in, and peace took hold.
A stone path opened up a Hudson River scene
I was the only one there, it felt so serene
Then a cloud drifted west, colors lost hue
Like a muted repainting of that grave-framed view.
I've seen death before, and one thing I knew
The saddest words in life were "nothing more we can do"
I wondered if those words were sometimes incorrect
and I thought just coming for colors might show disrespect.
But many come to see the place, most for history
to see the resting place of Irving, Celtic cross of Carnegie.
And we all join the ranks; we all pay life's cost.
There's no going back, once the river is crossed.
On the night of Halloween, I see
A place so unnerving, so restricted yet free
Opening the creaky gates, I walk
To sense a creature that wishes to stalk
It takes no specific form and stares
As if it doesn’t understand, doesn’t care
Suddenly, around me, the world turns bright
My vision clears as I gaze upon a strange sight
The world around me has changed, and now
It seems lively instead of lost, I wonder how
I try to turn back to return to my life and find out
The other world has disappeared, and it's because of the cemetery, no doubt
Written: October 25, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
*************
Whispering at the tombstone below.
Bathed in the alabaster of the moon glow.
Silent prayers lead gravestones to slant.
The wail of Willow's pulse cuts the cold pant.
Each tornado, a dirge of imminent demise.
Where darkness lurks, the earth sighs.
None who step forth dare to fall asleep.
Eyes aflame, the barghest's claws leap.
Gentle whispers cascade like silent flakes.
Faded dates and carved names shake.
In hands long gone yet still unbeknownst.
Linger past the horn to hear cries from ghosts.
Beyond two tiny
unhinged-gates,
a cobbled path
paves eerie tones.
It guides one through
its labyrinth maze--
of toppled-over
defaced stones.
The specters grace
the weepin' trees,
with prayers--so they too
can rest in peace.
For what lies below
its caved-in slabs--
with wicked weeds
that pricks then stab.
Ghosts' jewelrys, mostly those
of golden round, within each pile
of shredded clothes--attached to
dusty scattered-bones are found.
Two thieves stole some apples, as much as they could carry,
and divvied them up in a dark cemetery.
As they counted them out, a man taking a stroll
thought he heard the Lord and the devil dividing up souls.
Fearing that there was something sinister,
he ran to the church to go get the minister.
Meanwhile, two apples rolled down past the gate.
One thief said, "Leave 'em. What we got here's adequate."
Back came the good men and to spy they tried,
but ran when the other thief asked about the two outside.
for-A Spooky Haunted Poem 8-12 Lines Of Rhyme Poetry Contest-Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
summoned from the underworlds brimstones and fires;
nightmare beast howl to midnights lustre light-
fangs drip with a lust to bite.
summoned from the underworlds brimstones and fires;
an unholy choir echo a demons song-
from inside deaths memorial, shadows long.
summoned from the underworlds brimstones and fires;
the chants of mystical incantations to raise the dead-
releasing souls from eternal slumber, their forever bed.
summoned to the underworlds brimstones and fires-
dark, lost souls, feeding hades funeral pyre.
Let me tell your a spooky story ... it begins on a day blue,
in a quiet and peaceful cemetery with many an angel statue.
I got there late in the afternoon walking past graves old,
as I walked the air seemed to change and I was shivering cold.
There to water flowers I rushed to get it done and leave the dead,
it was then that I heard the whispering and angels weeping red.
Then came the sighing and crying and it was scary and terrifying,
this place of the dead, this boneyard was just to horrifying.
It was becoming gloomy and misty as I passed trees ancient and knotty,
oh dear, there was a spine tingling scream and it had become foggy.
The iron gate enclosure was locked and now there was snow,
a ghostly lady said follow me as snowflakes started to blow.
Our favorite holiday was Halloween.
At the cemetery, we could be seen
enjoying a family picnic - such fun,
after the setting of the dreary sun.
It was easy for us to be brave,
as our blanket was spread by Grandpa's grave.
A voice from somewhere said, "my dear young one,
have some ketchup on your hamburger bun",
as an arm popped through the earth and mud
covered with decaying flesh and blood.
Each year I'd return when the sky grew black
to visit my grandpa who had my back.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Under a weird, pitch-black moon,
the graveyard ghouls moaned a haunting tune.
Old Edgar’s ghost (a CPA by trade)
checked spectral spreadsheets in the shade.
The haunting rates, he hissed, are too low—
Only one faint moan per week? That’s woe!”
Gertrude, floating around in her cobwebby dress,
rolled her hollow eyes. Today’s kids! They're a mess!
Last Halloween, teens just filmed their TikToks—
They laughed at my chains! Ignored my death-knocks!
Her wail, once chilling, now nothing but a squeak,
like rusty hinges, dry and weak.
The final resting place arrests the soul that's stirred to ponder
Unlikely calm, untimely psalm shall with these spirits wander
Now your tomb no more the gloom of morrow's peril pending
The will you brought, the peace you sought herein has found it's ending
I cannot summon up the scale, the cry, the wail, of this sad tale
Where you in desperation drew that final fatal vision
Sunshine graces all that my eye falls on in this vale
I search for hope that we won't follow on the sad division
That led us to the precipice where looking down on others
Would lead us to the place where we would choose to fight our brothers
Hope has many colors, complications, aspirations, and rebirth
But let us hope... lest it should die... along with our self-worth
The air of cemetery is rolled up
Rolled up in a bolus of silence
In the dust between the graves
It blows into the upturned graves
And hangs in the silver of the clouds
Marching silently across the sky.
Plastic flowers for the dead bend
Stuck in their earth they say nothing
There is no perfume in plastic nor voices
Nor songs to sing in forgetfulness
Yet down in the town of the living
The hum of printing presses is heard
Hammering out more Death notices
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