Long Hags Poems
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Ghosts and goblins come in waves on Halloween,
The spookiest spooks and ghouliest ghouls you've ever seen.
They really haven't come to haunt,
It's not your mortal soul they want,
Just your Skittles, Candy Corn, and Jelly Beans.
Vampires, werewolves, zombies, hags,
Witches, warlocks, wraiths in rags,
They won't suck your blood or eat you,
They're just here to trick-or-treat you.
When the doorbell rings, you'd best fill up their bags.
If brave of heart, you might invite them in.
Your lair is dark, the fiendish games begin.
Apples to bob, a tail to pin,
Brew to imbibe, a bottle to spin,
As party monsters celebrate All Hallows E'en.
A brotherly jaunt through sinister mirth
behold the brothers Death:
gowned and guided, an ill century
the fourteenth, an alliance of crop, of plague
in ground-down death of torrential pains
in sores and blood under the rains
that drowned the land, starved the bellies
there echoed howls of ill exclaim
a wanting of a light to shine
is where the brothers thought that they
worked well together, effectively
one would scoop from ruined crop
one from sickness, war, attack
the beak, a sign, of the plague mask
in shacks, where hags mopped weeping rot
crosses on doors, on floors of straw
with nothing in the cooking pot
the brothers danced and sang their wealth
of many clientele they sought
and on they went, and on they struck
perfecting songs on appetites
of pestilence and of disease
hand in hand like trees whose leaves
do smother, smite, in murderous breeze
the brothers, down the ages tease
and beckon, wreaking havoc on,
like rolling waves of seas on high
always taunting their sister - life
The Door Wolf.
And, what of the waxing Moons
Its flood, of relentless tides, that time
of scar faced pit dogs, long sharp toothed,
their belly grumbling handlers, eager
to chalk a death line, on cold ale stained flag stones hard.
While in bleakness yard, belly tumbling hags squeeze, last drops out of well gripped ****, for the blind pups bellies,
babies must wait, in so many ways they are a benefit, against the door Wolf.
And what of pale, deep eyed children
Barefoot in waste lands of snow
Thin as cotton threads, as are their ragged clothes !
Their belly grumbling quenched, by easy swallowed earth worms, to placate the parasitic worms hidden within.
Ahh, all in ! to the avoid the door wolf.
And what of the well heeled lace lover,
hovering in trinkets of silver, and cups spilling with distain, against the scroungers pain ?
With, Parisiene perfume, to muffle the drum
Hum drum stench, from a piss trench
soaked and brandyied to sleep.
Her blinkers finaly, blinked blank.
Those waxed, and wained Moons !
Now cobwebbed in long past night skies.
As life is a song , I shall share a piece in a vent ,
brace yourself, for my pen is full of dents,
I could count the leaves that curled into a crumpled cone,
that is how much I have tried getting lost into a dead zone,
Drowning in the wind that carries generations of expectations,
Aiding their needs with a pile of frustrations,
Sounds of those agonizing nags,
Purging from the holes of those pruning hags,
It must be a skill one can only be born with,
the souls seasoned in salt can be this bitter witch,
Harmonious hypocrites hiding behind so called sacred veils,
Whispering chants and believing in their dumb bits,
“ oh look at me and my cunning wits”!!
How in god’s name does your brain sit?
“limbs of iron and spines of steel “ they say,
But watch those verses crack from the slightest sway,
All that labor of kindness comes with a nasty bottomless price to pay,
Begging for benefits on a beat only they can draw,
And some playing humbled and satisfied to the main show,
Tune twisters and lyrical liars,
A swarm burning under a blanket of my mind’s fire,
Why…..why…..must it be so hard??
Would that I had antlers
to woo the docile doe
lock in mock battle
of tree bark as foe.
Perhaps fine tail feathers
to spread in an arc
dance without castanets
from dawn until dark,
A wondrous scent
to slowly unfurl
sweet scented pheromones
to make her hair curl.
Maybe a chatter,
a click or a roar
to lead the sweet vixen
straight to my door.
Alas, being human
with opposable thumbs
I gaze at the screen
go droolingly dumb
fumble with texting,
tweets, and hash tags
fearful these beauties
might just be….. old hags.
John G. Lawless
11/22/2015
Hurricane
You crash ashore like a savage one-eyed lion attacking its prey. Hunger gnaws at your belly, the trip from Africa has been long. Wind like claws slashing and ripping, roofs torn from their moorings and flung aside like paper. Concrete and steel buildings assaulted and torn apart like Lincoln logs. Your voice roaring, torrents of rain fall like spittle from your massive jaws. Storm surges form from your massive size are kicked inland by your mighty paws. Your clear calm single eye gazes down in triumph.
you pause suddenly
it is only a short rest
more rage yet to come
With a frenzy you resume the attack. Broken gas mains shoot jets of flame. Partial buildings with broken windows like toothless old hags. Vehicles tossed about like matchbook toys after a child’s tantrum. Boats found far inland high and dry. Your appetite sated for the moment you move on in search of other prey.
after the raging storm
destruction is everywhere
we will rebuild
I can’t get the moors
out of my skin -
me the wild bog asphodel
now planted
in a pot in tame Ohio.
The moors grind you
into peat and gritstone,
they keep walking you around
while the open spaces sweep you dry,
even in the downpouring sky,
even under the bitter grasp
of banshee winds.
Who would lament
the bone hammering miles
trudged between hags and toughs,
the flat featureless,
slog over those high acres
of heather and mist?
Yet I find myself to be this longing,
to be this itch to find my own wilderness
here in suburbia.
You may find me now
strolling along the grassy edges
of Mall parking lots,
spot my shadow climbing a sunny day;
my head bent into an imaginary horizon,
eyes following paths that only
shaggy sheep can trace.
up a steep and gritty track
reach the tops
wilderness reclaims a verge
of wintery snags
land juts and tilts
hauls out
lays treeless
clumps and hags
pitch up stricken soil
heap their marshy troughs
loud the heartbeat
nearer to feral thought
then any numb mouth or ear
slough quag and mire muddle
seep listless
every bog runnel shrouded
to fetch up the feckless
harsh and gorsy
heather grips low
the moors stretch
flat and far fetching
a grappling wind
blears
bites and baffles
a bedrock sprouting
tough rooted and cold
as an ice-crushed vine
clutches
flinty undercuts
wait to pitch the faltering
a tangle of un-spun fleece
caught in barb and thistle
sheep piss in running rivulets
thread through
mizzle-pecked rocks
inscribed
by whatever tortures the air
ravens picket gritstone edges
glimmer wings beat back the below
primal caws that lift and speak
for the standing stones
their harrowing
storm-cuffed history
as silent
as scored moss or lichen
before light founders
cropped spikes snatch
snaggle beneath a lowering mist
or snow flecked haze
a scant anchoring
a shallow farrowing
shorn and scoured
below and aloft
shredding miles
with toil and trudge
twenty years later
son sends pictures
of moors long traipsed
the sky in my phone howls
Three little old ladies came to Chester’s door
He did not know it but he had met them all before.
One had lived with him and took care of his children four.
Another he had been engaged too, but jilted with the girl next door.
The girl next door was the last one to arrive, she was holding out tea.
It is rather delicious, she told him, our secret womanly apricot recipe.
The police had no clues that day in the death of Chester.
The three hags went home grinning and said, “now we go after Fester.”
Fester was Chester’s twin, and he had been evil to them too.
They frequented his Michigan doorstep at a quarter past two.
Come in! He said. I have been expecting some gorgeous gals like you.
They watched him as he tasted their offering and turned a brilliant blue.
Moon looms in the dark on Halloween night;
foreboding specters create frights;
shadows flitting through the frigid air;
goblins and ghouls scamper…beware…
cackling of cauldron-stirring hags, rides the night air.
Fleeting shadows, hide what lies in nights’ darkened lair.
In the distance, strange lights in the sky;
and peculiar things are darting past my eye.
As a cold wind blows its’ chilling breath;
the fear arising, I detest,
makes me cringe, creates a shiver;
increasing pace, I begin to quiver.
Something brushed my face and then,
it’s energy dark, electrified the wind.
I must get home, go where it’s safe;
then, a headless horseman, I did face!
My heart, it pounded, painfully;
I bounded unashamedly.
Written on: 10-15-18
“Halloween Night Poetry Contest“;
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin