Halloween is a night of shivers, Frosty in the air – For fancy dress is under-dressed, With indoor-shoulders bare. A shame our fav’rite characters All wore no hats and coats – But then, how can their creeping flesh Be shrouded to their throats ? So zombies rags are full of holes, And so are those of crones, While skeletons are so undressed, They shiver in their bones. I guess the undead feel no cold, Or come from Hell-hot berths – And so, to scare the neighbours, We must turn as blue as Smurfs.
Porcelain spiders, That’s what I call them – Trapped in the bath, Its walls too smooth. Porcelain spiders, Frightened and fallen, I try to cup one, But watch him move…! Running-down to the plughole, But never To slip through its grille To the pipes below – I could wash him down, And flush him forever – Or will he come back Through the overflow ? Instead, I persist To fish him out, With only the slightest Tremble and squeak. Porcelain spiders – They’re always about – But are you the same one I rescued last week ?
Black is the cat who stalks my garden, Golden are his eyes. While turnips shine in windows, And the dead are in disguise. As if he knows his time is now, To pounce and colonise.
I know what he is after – It is shelter and a lap. My neighbours, when they spy him, Try to shoo and hiss and clap. But purr-by-purr, so slowly, I am falling for his trap.
I like to call him Pluto, As he slinks across the night – As if master of the underworld, And looking for a fright – As black as human folly When the Devil takes delight.
I know a gloomy author With a gothic sense of gore, Who would turn a black-clad cat Into a tortured metaphor, And would torment alcoholic pessimists For evermore.
Now, I’m not such a superstitious sort – Unlike my wife – She shivers in a hushed tone, Or she cries a merry strife. But I just see a lonely cat Who wants a quiet life.
The thing is, my good lady Is much smarter than you’d think. So she knows this talk of spirits Is the stuff of too much drink. But her Sunday mornings linger And can slip-through any chink.
It’s not like she objects to cats – We’ve housed a dozen yet. Though not these days – they’re sadly gone, And left us in their debt. It’s time, I say, to open-up, And love the one we get.
I need to ask her blessing, though, If I’m to bring him in. To stand-up to the neighbours When the prattle-mouths begin. For he may be a demon straight from Hell – But that’s no sin.
After an exhausting month of Inktobers, here is a bonus horror poem…except it’s not at all scary…sorry about that…
When writing poetry for all that time – Will I get that back ? Those wasted hours when searching for a rhyme, Am I in the black ? Can I cash-in ev’ry ballad For some sunny afternoons ?, That I missed, when wrought and pallid, In my garret all those Junes.
When writing poetry instead of life, Am I still in debt ? I must have words enough to ease the strife – Am I winning yet ? Can I tot-up all my labour due For nights upon the town ? I think I have some years in lieu For ev’ry sonnet down.
Day 31 – Flex – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
This is the body of Christ. As long as it’s made from wheat – For Jesus is no rye-bread hipster, He’s all-carbs while lacking meat. Add no salt and add no yeast, The Son is stodgy stale. And God hates celiacs, it seems, And TTs may not sup his grail. For Jesus does not save the strange, Or bodies less than able – But if this wafer is truly a host, Does that make him a veg’table ?
Day 30 – Cookie – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
My wisdom teeth were swiftly pulled When I was barely twenty-four – That seemed too young, to tell the truth, To call me too long in the tooth. They were impacted, it was ruled – I wouldn’t need them anymore. But suddenly my cheeks felt thin – I’d sacrificed my toothy grin.
I should have fought them tooth-and-nail, I should have made them hand them back, And if I can’t undo the wreck, I’d wear my pearlies round my neck. I felt that each must hold a tale, But now alas, my jaw is slack – As rare as hens’ teeth, grown awry, They were impacted – so was I.
Day 29 – Tusk – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
Is the Brazen Bull on Wall Street Just another Golden Calf ? Well, so what ? Don’t we have the right To choose on our behalf If we worship God or Mammon In a land where freedom’s cheered, Without three thousand slaughtered By a zealot in a beard ?
Me, I worship nobody, And laugh at those who do, But I must admit they have the right To follow gods that moo. As long as no-one forces me Within the public square – But if pressed, I guess I’d grudgingly Affirm a Rusty Bear…
Day 28 – Trophy – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
My cat is far too quiet, She never says meow – But how ? Could it be her diet ? Or a damaged vocal cord ? Good lord ! The vet, though, couldn’t find a scar, And said, that’s just how some cats are.
Some cat breeds are silent, And barely raise a mew – That’s true. But her type is more violent, In their caterwaul and purr – Not her. Are some cats less than dilettantes ? Perhaps she’ll speak-up when she wants.
Does she seem okay ? Is she maybe feeling glum ? Thus shtum ? And yet, she loves to play, And content to sit for strokes, Sans vokes. There’s some cats love to growl and shriek, But my cat never makes a squeak.
My cat is far too zen, And she taunts me with her peace – Please cease ! Cats should rule the den, And should make their presence heard – Unslurred ! But then, I’m such a talky chap, I guess I more than fill the gap…
Day 27 – Dumb – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
Zipporah Zapata is a-buzz with chitty-chatter As she busy-boozy blazes the bazaar – Fizzing with a zealous zest, azure of gaze and Zara-dressed, She jazzes with the zebras at the bar. She’s such a zumba zoomer, as she dazzles with good humour, As she blitzes with her zither on the breeze – And when she wants to zero-in, and cozy-up with hazy gin, She zones-out in a zen to catch some zees…
Day 26 – Zip – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
I’ve known so many mugs over the years, Until they died – Smashed, of course, or handles breaking-off, Or even suicide, Where they don’t survive the dishwasher, Or chipped around the rim – But still with years of life ahead To fill them to the brim.
I’ve lost so many mugs to carelessness, To always getting killed – Denied their only role, of holding drinks, By which they are fulfilled. And yes, I have a dozen others, But I have no other mug That looked and felt like this one, To be tossed with just a shrug.
Day 25 – Fracture – #inktober #inktoberpoem #inktoberpoetry
