Poltergeists Poems

Black Narcissus

Staring at her reflection in
ocular mirrors, learning my
last blessings, creeping past
poltergeists during marauder
inspections while I transcribe
her flesh on caesura, pleading
with the Pleiades for soprano
notes to stay on his alto clefs,
hanging gardens in her image

Obambulate mistress, with
Black Narcissus as my witness
Extravagant solivagant born
from river spirits, lascivious
nymphs want to hear their
voice echo in mountain cliffs
carried by arid winds to the
place the gods’ garments
ripped, convicting her Prince

Minor Poltergeists

I move through rooms,
quiet weather
changing air, its pressure.
One drawer sticks.
Light bulbs dim faster
when I’m thinking too loud.

The milk spoils early when I’m angry.
Doors swell shut.

I don’t believe in signs—
but last week,
the oven turned itself on, 

then something spoke 
my childhood nickname,
in a voice I'd buried with her.

The Real Monsters

The Real Monsters

We are afraid of fire breathing dragons and scaly lizards.
Things that go bump in the night. Shadow creatures
who live under our beds and in our closets. Yeti
and Big Foot. Pale ghosts and poltergeists.
Chupacabra’s and vampires. Blood red
demons with pitchforks and horns.
Imaginary monsters that
can do us no real harm.
Why do we fear
them. 
What we should be afraid of are people who chose evil.
MS13 and coyotes that traffic in human misery.
Corporate media giants that censor speech. Corrupt
politicians who sell us out to foreign countries.
School boards that label parents terrorists.
Dictators that oppress. Political correctness.
Murders, abusers, gossips, embezzelers.
Wars, hatred and genocide.
We should fear these. For
they are the
real
monsters.

Perfect Illusion

within the oscillation of melting clocks,
our poltergeists of times long expired…still reverberate~
tainted ticking echoing
in an everlasting tug of war,
pushing and pulling,
throwing barbs at bleeding hearts 

oh, how the echoes distort reality,
haunting perfect illusions~
remnants of misunderstood souls
caught in constant conflict…

what was once a beacon of love~
transmuted inhospitable confusion

words, warped by borderline delusions,
each syllable twisted and contorted,
blind rationality,
unraveling the ties that bind,
wrapping them around suffocating throats,
choking on harsh accusations~
until we became irrelevant
irretrievable phantoms~
perpetually confined
within stupefied misapprehension…..

Haunted House

I walked in through the creaking door
Blood stains on the hardwood floor
I followed bloody footprints up the stairs
I knew that I had best beware

The house stood empty for twenty years
No one dared enter due to the fears
Of murderous incidents that occurred therein
It was dubbed in town the house of sin

I knew not who had done the deed
But my soul inside had this burning need
To search the house for evidence
The cold that passed through me made me wince

From atop the stairs, I looked down below
Poltergeists in life-form put on a show
The horror that took place was no longer a mystery
I saw my wife stabbing and killing me

Smoldering Men

Written: October 21, 2023,
                         __________________________________

Undressed poltergeists prowl around
a lurch occurring on the ground
people stoked the burning man's fire,
our souls, toasted by the sun's pyre
we twirl boldly, strong our hearts pound.

Masters of Mayhem

Written: October 19, 2023, For Tania Kitchen Spooky Halloween Contest

                        ___________________________________

Hope is buried, gulping Satan of the Night.
Its odd, dreadful beats drove in schizo sight.
Sweet dread awaits the fair-headed, awful stride.
As fear drew closer, it heard the sad words abide.
 
They were expressionless, their bodies obeying.
Love, it's ignored—bleeding hearts break, swaying.
They recall dread and can tell a horrific story well.
A red-hot sword could lure Satan from his shell.

Haunting, poltergeists, and zombies are the core
At Halloween, they shine as murderers may abhor.
Undermining existence in horror's catacombs
Blood and mayhem are the spooky twin gnomes.

Become a demon, and I'll stay at Dracula castle.
Awaken afraid from a lucid state, scared of hassle.
Amidst a Halloween party, I was stuck in despair.
Fear remains upon me after a spooky nightmare.

The Library

Among the systematic layout
Atop mirrored polished floors
That reflects the study of light,
Sharply angled shelves shadow symmetry
Like waves of open walls.

Spangled with books from scholars
Writers and dreamers
Labeled and categorized
Stacked upon the aisles of dialogue
Lying like little coffins numbered end to end.

A graveyard of words
Waiting to be opened by those who want to know,
These literary legacies of dormant poltergeists
Where the annuls of what must be remembered
Commemorate the living of yesterday

As eyes gaze upon each corpse
Engaging the ‘ghosts of words’
Reaching each heart, each soul
Captured in this moment of disclosure
Where miles of expression bring truths to life


June 16, 2023


A Brian Stand Premiere No 1223 Poetry Contest

Strange Things Are Happening

A rustle here,
A rattle there,
A furtive footstep faintly falling on the stair,
And there's nobody rocking in that rocking chair.
Strange things are happening!

An eerie creak,
My knees go weak,
I fear that poltergeists are here and playing hide-and-seek,
And every shadow hides a goblin or a ghoulish freak.
Strange things are happening!

My throat has lumps,
My skin has bumps,
My hair will soon be turning white or falling out in clumps,
I feel like fleeing fleetly, but my legs are stumps.
Strange things are happening!

So I jump in bed,
Cover up my head,
Close my eyes real tight and think of counting sheep, instead,
And hope that in the morning I won't wake up dead
Because strange things are happening.

My friends were mean
When they set this scene
And devised these pranks contrived to make me shake and scream,
But it will be their turn, I swear, next Halloween,
To say strange things are happening!

A Spooky Speculation

There are those who think the spirits of loved ones departed
Have moved on to their heavenly reward,
And there are those who think they'd like to, but "cain't"
Because they still need to finish something they have started,
And until some resolve they contrive to move toward,
They stay trapped here on Earth as a "haint".

Poltergeists don't exist, no real proof there at all,
This is just an "old wives tale", at best,
So I'd entreat you to show some restraint.
That strange noise you may hear some stormy night in the hall
Is just weather related, so give it a rest.
You may think it's a "haint",
But it "ain't".

Author's note: "Haint" is an old mispronounced folklore word for "haunt", or ghost.

Grindhouse Disappointment

I often wake screaming in the dark from a nightmare, 
The details of which I can never remember.
I feel cheated for having been so terrorized 
By demons that seem beyond my imagining.
I expect better than that from my grindhouse existence.
If I'm to be pestered by nocturnal poltergeists
And succubi that leave me drained of life,
I’d choose to be privy to the director’s cut.
My curiosity demands no less.

Ghost-Written

My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.

Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.

My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.

My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail. 

My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.

Preparing For Bullies

Catha’s hair glistened in the Celtic way
Druids would have worshipped her
A sprinkle of cinnamon on her arms
Her face pixie-like and heart shaped
People fell in love with her
Scottish, Irish and Druids claimed her

We were five when Ma spun the Catha stories.
For our benefit, to honor our McCormick ginger hair. 
To help us feel normal with our copper hair
And our plethora of freckles. 

Born near Stonehenge, 
Gifted with a soothsayer’s heart
She was more fey than the faeries
More gypsy than the Romans.
Clairaudient and clairsentient, 
She sensed brownies, elves, and poltergeists

We were seven when our classmates began to bully us
Making fun of our McCormick ginger hair. 
To try and make us feel ashamed of our copper hair
And our plethora of freckles, but it did not work
For we were like Catha, the pride of the clan.
Mother’s preparation suiting us up to ignore their evil taunts.

Those Giggling Christmas Elves

The elves are fighting over the Christmas bell again.
It is fragile and ringing, underneath my fat chin.
I will wish you a merry Christmas, my darling friend.
Before I clobber those elves. Will that damned ringing end?
Oh, man, they are poltergeists, and they have run into a wall.
I am frantic now, for they are less than four inches tall.
They can do a lot of damaging in there, without a chamber pot.
Have a terrific New Year’s, also. You are the only friend I’ve got.
Those giggling devils have turned out the light. This clearly ain’t right!

When

10/28/20
When vampires fly abroad in search of blood
And poltergeists and demons do no good;
When zombies drooling, crawl up from the ground
And ghoulish spirits glide without a sound;
When bats and spiders brush across your face
And coffins spill out bodies all in lace;
A chill crawls up your spine, your hair turns green.
You know the time has come for Hallowe'en.

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