There once was a sensitive vicar,
who said, "I'm not one to bicker,
but the peal of that bell,
makes me feel quite unwell,
and plays merry hell with my ticker."
An incensed old soul by the spire,
preaching incense-igniting to the choir,
exclaimed, "There is but one catch,
when striking a match,
don't set your surplice on fire."
A parson spoke from the nave,
"Spend all you can, do not save,
if you've spilled all the sands,
and still have time on your hands,
you can't take it with you to the grave."
A wise minister in the kirk,
enlightened, observed with a smirk,
"When it's dark out there,
put your hands in the air,
as many hands make light work.”
Walking through the churchyard, eerie midnight,
Totally overcast sky, didn't want any spooky fright!
Always considered myself tough and brave
Why getting a shiver looking at the graves?
Why is mysterious moon shining so bright?
Are those ghosts and goblins…wandering in sight?
Hear werewolves howling, and gnashing teeth,
I want to run away, I hardly can breathe!
Never knew there was a castle on top of that hill,
Does Dracula live there, getting a shuddering chill!
I want to scream, someone's freezing hand touched my back,
Oh no, no, please let me go, around me all pitch-black!
Ha ha ha! Who laughs like that in a menacing voice?
Is that my friend, Rob…who made me run leaving no choice!
"Boo" he shouted with a piercing cry, and uncanny grin!
"It's Halloween Night …the real fun is gonna begin"!
eerie uncanny
empty churchyard sinister
Owl hoots tu-whooo
November 4, 2022
Brian Strand's Haiku, Tanka, Footle Contest
Bitesize Poem 55 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
This high, half-hidden, churchyard
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.
The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.
But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.
Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?
Ah! To be buried in an old English churchyard
With the dark green ivy and wild roses
Where the sweet nostalgic aromas hill the air
And the church bells ring their clear tolls
My soul with the LORD in heavenly glory
While my aged weary body rests
Under the soil of my ancestors in England or Wales-
Sweet peace with trees and birds in their nests
I would like a little bench under a willow
For those who wish to stop for a visit
Perhaps, a kind word or amusing thought
Every four or five years would benefit.
I'd like a pretty gravestone - not too tall
Simple elegance - my life portraying-
Complete with maiden name and husband's name
Birth date, death date and a few words saying
I came; I lived; I loved; I parted
That I was kind, fair, honest in word
And I cared; yes, that I cared - Listen to the bells!
Glory is absolutely exquisite with my LORD
Evelyn Pearl Anderson
Crystal dewdrop jewels pendent from leafless Hawthorne
over snowdrop pearls and early golden buds of daffodil.
A blackbird upon Sparrow, Peggy Gladys does adorn,
while morning light accentuates the name of Mitchell, Bill.
I look behind, my footsteps in the dew a path have worn,
past Throwers by the row, as well as Bunting, Jane. Stowe, Daniel.
The Churchyard
Dark and brooding yew trees stand
In silence, watching those who come
To view this hallowed, ill-kept land,
Feared by most, still loved by some.
Headstones worn, unkempt, askew,
So tired from years of gross neglect.
Names forgotten, except the new,
That stand in corners, proud, erect.
To where did all the souls depart
Who once placed flowers newly grown?
No sign of guilt or broken heart
Of wives and mothers left alone.
Who now cares for those long gone
From this our world and what it means?
Should I not go where once they shone
To tend the ground and fix the seams?
If I should take the time to care
For those who left in years gone by,
Perhaps one day we’ll meet and share
Our different lives, ‘neath summers sky.
Thrilled to the depths of my body and soul,
Time and wind had passed unseen,
Like an ice detached from a glacier,
It dwindled like a battered scream.
I'm befogged, benumbed and enfeebled,
An unalloyed ennui crept over me,
Leaving an eternity of silence to unnerve my marred frame,
My tongue inched for utterance.
Writhed in awe like a pariah lost in Antarctica,
Suddenly, I heard my name in a cautious whisper,
I stressed my eyes, neck and ears...
But all dilated with fear and pang.
My step seemed to pity the skulls it treaded beneath,
I must have been roaming around a churchyard,
Seeing many inscriptions on the tombs,
But didn't understand the essence of life.
Hullo, folks!
Do you hear me?
You didn’t hear me when I was dying.
At least hear me now, when I’m dead and buried.
I am, as you know, Jinesh,
Buried here—in this churchyard at Poonthura,
Buried on Sunday—
Like Solomon Grundy!
I did hear you when you were crying—
During the recent floods,
Rushed to your help,
Saved more than a hundred of you.
You all praised me, called me a hero,
Lined the street I lived in
With posters, flex boards, banners and whatnot.
Now you all know that I, as a pillion rider,
Was hit by a passing truck,
Which further ran over my helping hands,
Crushing them—
Thus, adding grievous injury to injury!
I lay there on the roadside,
Crying aloud for help,
Which fell on your deaf years:
You were all busy, all in a nervous hurry—
Off to Timbuktu!
I wept and cried for help, by turns.
But I was left there to die unwept and unsung,
Though I had been honoured.
Now you all may say: RIP
But, you see, I remain restless!
***
in a churchyard
the pink dogwood
sheds it's blossoms
Shall find some space upon this yard
It is just a matter of days,
The inmates here will give no room
For they are stubborn in their ways.
Fit in here is a task I must
Though I have not the faintest clue,
Of how on earth could that be done
But do know I am stubborn too.
***********
Sitting snugly on a smooth,soft slope
Surveying a stretch of sea eternally still
That moment memorialised in my mind
As the sun- sinking silence soothes the trees
Stand the monuments to shrunken lives.
The plots define within strict limits
The tales of beings whose remembrance
Provides what amounts to no more
Than their names ,ranks and serial numbers,
Their joys and sorrows only to be surmised.
Gloriously the sun bathes the glistening stones
Giving them their moment of glory
Resting softly upon the chiselled legends
And then plunged into the darkness
Of the dead of night
Until their resurrection with the rising sun.
The dainty hills surrounded a level slice of earth
Where cocooned in times’ misty distance
Ancient gathering concluded that this flat gift
Would provide home for their number.
At the physical, but no longer spiritual centre,
Of the village, was an old country chapel
A monument to a bygone age
Sparsely populated by gently ageing folk.
I am here for a special ceremony
The son of a friend is making his communion
A step on the road to maturity
For the young man of the moment
I sit in my pew at the rear of the chapel
Too many yummy mummies in their finery
Distracting me from the main event;
Irreverent thoughts amongst the reverence.
Presently outside into the sunshine
The young lads return to their immaturity
Bedecked in their communion suits,
Playing football in the church grounds.
Twas darkness upon the quietly residing heath...
And deathly was the sullen red sandstone tower...
Standing gloomily inside the masons dry-stone walls
Amidst toppling granite slabs and the faded, wilting flower.
Solemn was the chime of the hollow, mournful bell
When tolling out on midnights grimly sombre hour;
And thinly the swirling, unearthly mist
Did so wend abouts her silent, melancholic bower.
Where from a fronded yew of venerable years,
Besides ancient trunks of ivy-entwined gnarly oak,
A chilling screech from a sudden ghostly apparition...
Summoning upon waking resident souls - did thus invoke!
For pale his form in soft white downy flight...
But none paler than that of me...
As across from the stream, held by an unblinking stare -
My shaky fears are transfixed so unnervingly!
Oh wise old feathered sage of long owl-lived age,
Unctuous incumbent of learned perch within black night,
Allow this the moment to calm my pounding heart...
And catch upon my fleeing thoughts - after such a wicked fright!!
The clock is striking twelve;
A breeze begins to blow.
I hear a heavy tread:
Someone I used to know?
A hand upon my arm;
I dare not turn around
(Remind myself that graves
Are dug in holy ground).
The fingers bite my flesh;
A stench envelops me.
I ask, ‘Who’s there?’ and turn,
But no one’s there, I see.
I hear a cackling laugh.
The clouds conceal the moon
As voices whisper then:
‘You’ll join us here and soon.’
I sense I’m in a crowd.
It starts to pour with rain.
I gasp and clasp my chest:
My heart can’t stand the strain…
For Kelly’s Ghost Story contest
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