The Ghoulette Becomes Breakfast
‘I’m so so in
the Halloween spirit—a scavenger hunt I’m hosting. I’ve hidden bloody axes, scythes etc. in
my backyard, however I’m
terribly upset I won’t be able to attend tonight,’
screamed The Ghoulette in fright
in a stork’s oven roasting in the light.
A too famished stork had kidnapped her,
had kidnapped her with great skirr.
Poison, poison, poison.
Something’s gone rotten.
A knife in its rightful place.
Bullets ascending from unstable ground.
A swarm of scythes curl around my joints.
As the metal cools my skin,
I feel the abyss taking over.
This angel of death wants me.
Something denies her, yet it’s not me.
What is it, somebody just tell me.
The sound of claws scratching torments my ears.
I quiver with fear, there must be a way out.
She’s so close, her gaze is right there.
A golden mace tainted with rodent fur.
Collapsed, coughing blood.
What a familiar feeling.
Dancing shadows, laughing and singing.
Are there others in the room?
The void whispers, playing tricks on my ears.
Endless tears leave stains on my skin.
Thousands of ears can’t hear my screams.
She won’t let me live, it won’t let me die.
A heartbeat never ceases—
it just stops moving.
Lifeless, numb, and cold.
Written: November 06, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Karen Jones
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December can be a seraphic break ... not a trek through squalor—
No wheezy winds, no stygian moods ... no suction of sodden days,
Let it simmer with the warmth ... of rapture and rosemary stew.
Let the nimbus sky festoon the trees ... with blithesome skeuomorph snow—
Each flake is a serendipity whisper ... a spark of pure grace,
Let the river rime ripple ... as a rakish scarf on the hills.
Let the roost resound with stories ... sages, and escorts alike—
While the air sizzles with ... mellifluous sigh and a hint of lard,
Let the rugged year resile ... ratified by insight and treacle.
Let the vault of stars above ... be a tailored zenith of light —
A quixotic quilt stitched by ... Siamese dreams and slack-jawed awe,
Let bleak hours resile into ... symbiosis with joy, not scorn.
Allow the standard hush of snow ... to soften the slur of time —
And a slender sickle of hope ... scythes the stench of the past,
Let December be the soul of ... what we almost dared to believe.
When young, stay in the heat of the foam.
Where both strange things and miracles roll.
Old age is for picking out supple blue pools.
Counting blessings and mincing what's left of the fool-
The foam is where gift, opportunity and temptation collide.
A bit of a pants-pissing red-eyed carnival ride.
The pools can be an offbeat and queasy reflection.
When harpy and angel spar over the ghost of regret.
Stay in the foam as long as the fragile dream holds.
Until bones collapse or you strike a thin vein of gold.
You'll find quiet pools at the end of life's rapids.
Where black scythes collect black back taxes.
Until then, stay in the heat of the foam.
Sunlight glints off polished silver
A river reflects in its face
Water tinted a reddish hue
Sweeps along the scythes base
But iron and silver do not meet
Until the blade swings toward a rock
The wooden handle now rots there
With both bodies the river has caught
We were careful as we entered the dark barn.
There are always hoes, rakes, and scythes lying around.
You do not want to step on something that means stitches.
I had done that before.
What is grandpa keeping in here? I wondered.
My cousin said “there is something alive. Maybe a goat?”
Our goal was the hay mow. We love playing up there.
We reached it before day break
We heard a clunk, and there was a ladder next to the mow.
My cousin looked as startled as I felt.
Someone was in here with us. Someone who could move a ladder.
A few minutes later an alpaca in sunglasses appeared.
Apparently, he was standing on the ladder.
“Is that an alpaca?” My cousin whispered.
“Sure is,” the alpaca whispered back.
Sky filters through scant woods
printing a cold sunlight on shadowed tree trunks.
Only December has this light,
it both scours and forages,
it scythes away all heaped-up flotsam.
A December wind,
sings its own death song.
Ice hangs unseen upon the air.
The woodland acres shimmer,
then tremble upon a long fading note,
one that ushers in
last rites and other mixed blessings.
It is too cold for bat flights around the moon
but I take the trip anyway,
the jar of moonshine was crazy strong.
When this year topples into the next,
time will find me in a crowded stadium
my back turned from the game in disgust,
or maybe I will be crouched
like a comic book gargoyle on the top of my TV
watching pockets of insanity
explode like grenades
on a plasma screen dream.
If I am able to write without crushing my fingers
I will try to describe the roving bands of reapers
and their scythes;
how those kindly terminators ended
the fun-house peep show,
how also behind those hoody figures
hordes of blank-eyes city workers
dutifully moped up the spill, as if spilled brains
were as hazardous as banana skins.
It wasn't like a dream
It was rather a scream
There wasn't any peaceful floating
Or victorious taunt and gloating
It was frightening and scary and red all over
Damocles dangling as the scythes hover
Everyone bawling their eyes out and
Watching me splattering on the sand
It was all gore and fury and blood and puke
It was crucifixion it was poor Luke
It was the ER with it's mangled victims
Of crashes and accidents and machine rhythms
IT WAS DEATH but it wasn't to me
As i cast aside my broken body
The only thing that wafted through me
Was the crazy fact that I was free
To watch them suffer for all eternity
Weeping when they knew I had leprosy
And would have died in coma and morose
Without hands, fingers or toes
Coloured Putin
Shoot her full of rainbows
Scythes from heaven
Souls down in Hell
Hundred thousand dead
Mamushka I miss you
Our Leader sent us there
Not an Odessa holiday
Opposite of that mama
Forgive them all
It's Putin's orders
Hundred thou casualties
Bullet ridden rainbows
Her essence is black
SELL OUT
Nick Armbrister
out in 23
Those that shove past you, glare and scatter,
That drive the scares, in your wits and slither,
That smile and stare, at things you did master,
And then them that you will, lose and move,
Or through thicks, care for and pursue.
The bearers of the whips of black scythes,
Folded in turbulent evils of shaded blythes,
That wait in desires of you, to swift in myths,
And then bear of nothingness, the power of slices,
Unnerved by the struggles to free, from the swings and minces.
There are those that, in swears vow and plead,
Please with, in steps synching walk on paths,
That they laid in thorns, that they enroute,
And awaits them, in rounds, on routes.
Maintain the binds to them, in pomposity,
That you may, in silence, find prosperity,
In pretence, that with them, you are,
Swinged and minces from bites,
Of their evil, the scythe.
28/5/2022
Along street’s he’s casing, unseen in control
Sickles and Scythes, double edged swords
One hooks the young, other catches the old
And for winding up days, gets a tidy reward
Not diamonds or rubies, platinum nor gold
But fruits, and candies, his Halloween hoard
Bitesize Poem no.54 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
10/22/22
When comes the death of death’s last gasp
this momentary timeless lapse
between each breath, inhale, exhale
death’s agony, succeed or fail,
will linger on the scythes honed tip
slip slowly through Death’s claw-like grip
knowing that within its grasp
comes the death of death’s last gasp.
John G. Lawless
©2/14/2022
an acre of land
our very own smallholding
father scythes long grass
rows of potatoes
green runner beans, sweet carrots
mother bakes fresh bread
huge laundry baskets
filled with ripe red strawberries
small hands were stained red
a goat and two pigs
chickens and a cockerel
our morning alarm
perched upon a stool
I learn to do the milking
owl hoots in ash tree
Garden Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
06/10/20
I dreamt that squadrons of crosses were falling from heaven.
Striking the ground, they instantly turned into demons.
Wielding scythes, they began cutting down the screaming masses.
I was crouched in the foothills, watching as blood flowed down.
One of the "cross-demon" people took notice as I turned to run.
I awoke kicking the sheets. Just before it struck me.
After that dream, I can't imagine being on the tribulation short list.
To be whisked up into heaven.
No, sir, I think I'll be mingling with cross-demons
screaming and dropping F bombs.
Based on a true dream
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