In far away desolate valley of the Himalayan hills grand,
I was driving fast on the soggy road around the wetland.
The car got stuck in the sticky mud, I couldn’t take it out,
I was in for awful trouble in the wilderness, I had no doubt.
Luckily, I spotted a dilapidated manor house not very far,
for help before nightfall I could hurriedly walk up there.
Its door I knocked, a pale man took me into a room stale
that greeted me with smoke of the dim lantern to inhale.
His curled lips quivered, he faintly said, ”you’re hungry”,
and disappeared into the dark, closed the door swiftly.
He didn’t return for long, I explored, saw a streak of light
in a room where I found him stone still, sitting upright.
He held caressing a human skeleton, I was horrified to see.
He saw me, said, “this friend is too old, a new one you’ll be”.
Cold sweat rolled down my spine, I shivered to the frozen core,
ran out of the haunted house into wild through the back door.
yellow green with pops of red
Rubenesque pregnant leaves on trees
rounded strokes
balls in balloon colors
oranges and lemons
mangos and peaches
cheerful potted plants in clay pots
tobacco rolled in the distance
white manor house with matching shed
enjoying their exciting fruitful bounty
this art gives me a lift, makes me want to skip
my energy increases on every glance
is that watermelon?
Wow!
An abundant woods
runs along the boundary
of the manor house.
The pointed arc Manor house onset,
Angel sculptures silhouettes.
Light through stained gothic windows,
high chairs and gargoyle shadows.
Marbled floor rows of columns,
pointed sealing reached by slaloms.
Heavy gilded frame,
giving her aura a powerful claim.
Brightness from eyes that capture,
ageless beauty fracture.
Sensation trigger warmth,
her smile only conforms.
Her caring gesture so rich,
purple velvet and satin stitch.
Cross in hand with bushy cuffs,
staring more then usual enough’s.
Temperature fluctuation,
some cold brush past sensation.
Sacredness speak joy of tears,
understanding now her cares.
Some little gifts to know,
crafted beauty in soul still glow.
Few tears were shed when news arrived
that Lord Trevelyan had died.
One solitary wreath was laid
as shallow, feigned respects were paid.
Remote and sullen, he'd disdained
each hand of friendship, and remained
throughout his life a bitter soul
with whom no person could condole.
His lavish mansion towered still
above the village, on the hill
where shadows stalked, in pale moonlight,
all signs of life within their sight.
And curious to see inside
the house whose doors had been denied,
the villagers set forth with haste
unconscious of the doom they faced.
As ghostly clouds went scudding by
a vixen screamed its eldritch cry.
Then one by one they reached the hall:
The door slammed fast once and for all.
They stood transfixed as terror reigned
And piercing cries rang unrestrained.
No soul would dare set foot again
on Lord Trevelyan's domain.
23/01/19
'One Night In A Haunted Manor Poetry Contest'
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
As the pregnant moon begins to rise,
one can hear the mournful cries
And when the spirts start their prowl
rabid wolves began to howl
From the manor house upon the hill,
you can hear the mournful shrill
from the souls who dwell inside,
who were killed and tossed aside
Some phantoms have been seen,
and as the moon lights up the scene
one can hear the groans and cries,
as if these sounds were demonize
A priest went there to investigate,
but no one knows his fate
Perhaps he too is now a ghost,
and has become the spirt’s host
Stay away from that place they say,
or you will never see another day
for the ancient manor on that hill,
sits there waiting for another kill
T’was flair from the cobbles that drove the loom
with forced hardy sweat they laboured till eve
a family tradition from the womb
with threaded shuttle and reed hook they weave.
The warp the weft that nurtured the blending
the clatter the din the need of lip sync
a marriage of yarns a pattern pending
the huff and the puff with no time to blink.
This place the cornerstone belonged one’s life
town mill chimneys stretching into the clouds
the smog the fog to cut through with a knife
one pence to pay if late due to the crowds.
While in the countryside the manor house
no longer ‘His Grace’ but master with nous.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
A manor house on a hill
Petit-fours & cheese trolley
These small things...
A whiskey glass clinking
Musk of ancient tweed
wet dogs by the fire
A front door strewn with wellies
and autumn leaves
These are the small things
of a perfect country afternoon
When darkness fell, he came awake
And readied for the night ahead
Clambering out of his pine box
This coffin forever his bed
Shade from sunlight and prying eyes
His secret was well hidden too
“hind the wall in the manor house
He was the only one who knew
For centuries, he prowled this earth
A living man who became cursed
To prey upon humanity
Thus quenching his eternal thirst
He craved warm blood from pulsing veins
He feared the peasants would soon know
Hearing cries echo in the night
His victims’ lifeblood ebbing low
Hating himself for those he killed
No recourse but to carry on
Survival was his first concern
He would pass another eon
Before he took another step
The yells of town folk reached his ears
The door broke in, the torches blazed
It was the sum of all his fears
By dawn the house had burned away
The town folk could breathe calm once more
For they had burned the hellish ghoul
The evil creature of past lore
Where will I go, what will I be told to do?
Will it be the road paved with gold for me and you?
What can I expect, what will I find on the road ahead?
I may find the road turns into a muddy track instead.
Why am I pushed towards the muddy track?
Is there some work for me to do, Will I continue holding back?
Will it be amongst the homeless people, and the poor ones who
Always thinking and wondering, will their wish come true?
An Empty Manor House, cold and damp with no heart
Who would own this house, to find out where do we start?
Permission we received to rent it, and now the work begins
With Gods touch and hard work the homeless now live in.
Not such a muddy track, once elbow grease was applied
By working together, God and man, the homeless will survive
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