Category Archives: horror poetry
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Okay, okay, I know I’ve been slacking on posting new stuff lately. But hey… I could never let today slip by without a blog post. What sort of self-respecting horror blogger would I be if I didn’t say HAPPY HALLOWEEN!?
And to celebrate? How about we get in the mood with a horror poem by Rick Powell, then I’ll share a SUPER EASY pumpkin cookie recipe you can make last minute to enjoy this evening, and to top it off… How about sex in a haunted house? Haha. That is, how about we watch the short horror film ‘Sex in a Haunted House’? 😛
The Midnight Hour
It is the time when the mortal forms succumb to rest,
The time to put your troubles and toils away till the morrow,
To not think about what has ailed you or hampered your mind,
To try to forget who has harmed you or has caused you to sorrow.
*
This hour is for other things to come to life and rise from the shadows,
Things the light of day had not exposed and revealed to human eyes,
Things that have no home here in the waking dawn of daily man,
This hour is for creatures of many forms to stalk under the ebony skies.
*
Some have claw or talon that can rip asunder your flesh in a minute,
Teeth that are razor sharp that will stop your scream before it has spoken,
Some are the most savage beasts of nightmares that your brain could ever conceive,
That to gaze upon them for a moment will leave your frail mind and soul broken.
*
Foolish is the man who would brave to venture out into this hellish world,
To try to show wisdom and courage and prove they are not the ones to cower,
Beware of these beings that are known to haunt the darkest of all graves,
It is far better to stay in your homes and not seek what walks at the midnight hour.
*
Rick Powell
5/19/2014
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Feeling festive but don’t have a lot of time? Try these Three Ingredient Pumpkin Cookies for a quick and tasty treat tonight.
Three Ingredient Pumpkin Cookies
1 (15 ounce) can of pumpkin
1 box of spice cake mix
1 cup of milk chocolate chips OR butterscotch chips (Mmmmmm)
Preheat oven to 350°F.
Lightly coat your cookie sheet with non-stick spray.
In a large bowl, mix together the cake mix and pumpkin with a fork or mixer until well blended.
Fold in chocolate or butterscotch chips.
Drop by the spoonful on greased baking sheets.
Bake for 15-18 minutes.
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Okay, now that we’re in the mood…
Sex in a Haunted House!
Mwahaha.
Happy Halloween!
More Regrets Than Glories, by Rick Powell
A collection of dark poetry just hit the market, written by friend and talented author, Rick Powell. You may remember Rick from his guest appearance on April 3rd, 2015, when he shared a few poems from his book, My Soul Stained, My Seed Sour. A little over a year later, Rick is back with his new book, More Regrets Than Glories, and another poem to share. If you enjoy what you read, consider picking up a copy of the book, please.
PRINT: http://www.lulu.com/shop/rick-powell/more-regrets-than-glories/paperback/product-22694866.html
The Coachman
The dark coachman stopped at my house this Autumn night,
I was hesitant as I stepped up to the cold seat to sit at his side,
His countenance was in shadow from the hood of his aged cloak,
We started on without a word as through the forest we did ride.
I then wrapped the thick wool blanket around my thin, pale form,
Ma said I have had the chills for days and nothing could cure my ill,
Pa had no money since this year the crops were bad all around,
I asked “Where are we going?” but the coachman’s voice was silent still.
I looked back to my home and at the windows dark as the blackest pitch,
The forest beyond my house was even more dark and silent in the night,
My memories of the last days were muddled and I hope to be well soon,
I hope that this fever will pass and I will be better by the morning light.
I remember my parents talking about the Doc at the edge of the other town,
They were most frantic as my Ma kept a cool rag on my burning head,
I passed in and out of the blackness as I heard them arguing about what to do,
I felt my skin was braised by the fires of Hell, even though cold sweat filled my bed.
Why would they send me with this coachman, when my health was most dire?
Why did they not come with me, my only family that I have ever known?
Why does this dark horse that pulls us seem to be a beast out of a nightmare?
Why do I see a deathly grin of the coachman, when the Autumn moon is shown?
Dark poetry by Lindsey Goddard
The great response we’ve received to horror poetry so far has got me itching to share one of my own. Do you mind if I steal the spotlight for a moment? The following poem has been published twice. In 2009, it appeared in the anthology Mausoleum Memoirs, and in 2013, it appeared in the October issue of Infernal Ink Magazine. It’s my favorite poem I’ve written. I hope you enjoy it. Well… as much as one can enjoy gloom and doom. 🙂
Within These Walls
By: Lindsey Goddard
A ghost who mourns; her earthly name
was tarnished by the word “insane”.
The curse of life: her mortal bane,
her rival… ’til she stopped the pain.
Her name is now synonymous
with how she chose the Reaper’s kiss,
and how she stopped her heart for this–
eternal ache, with no dismiss.
And now she floats within these walls,
follows me down every hall,
eyes me from the shower stall,
begging me to hear her call.
“Lobotomy,” she heard them say
on that strange and frightful day,
“is sure to wipe her tears away.”
Choked up, her father said “okay.”
An ear still pressed against the door,
she listened as the doctor swore
her grief and strife would be no-more.
His words, they chilled her to the core.
She ran until her legs gave out,
chest heaving with her final shout,
“It ends right here, there is no doubt!”
And she began to look about.
The gallows towered in the distance.
She ignored her limbs’ resistance.
Permitting not a moment’s hindrance,
she bid this world a curt good riddance.
Her tortured soul, it didn’t stay
near her gallows of dismay.
From its deathbed it did stray,
finding its way home that day.
And now she floats within these walls,
follows me down every hall,
eyes me from the shower stall,
begging me to hear her call.
Her name is now synonymous
with how she chose the Reaper’s kiss,
and how she stopped her heart for this–
eternal ache, with no dismiss.
Dark Poetry by Alistair Cross
As promised, this blog will focus on a variety of entertainment, so long as it’s plenty horrific! Today, I bring you poetry.
Alistair Cross grew up on horror novels and scary movies. By the age of 8, he began writing his own stories. Fast forward to 2012 – that’s when his first novel was published by Damnation Books, and he’s been busy cranking out dark tales and poetry for his readers ever since.
Alistair hosts a live radio show, Thorne & Cross: Haunted Nights LIVE, and you can find his website at: AlistairCross.com. The two poems we’ve chosen to share with you are dark and clever and evocatively disturbing. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.
The Beautiful Girl
I woke up with a girl
Who was dead as could be
This a most macabre scenario
That made no sense to me
~
I couldn’t recollect her
From the night before
But there she was with cold blue flesh
In a dress made of velour
~
Her sightless eyes were watching me
Her mouth agape in fear
And down her cheek a tell-tale streak
Of a single dried up tear
~
And for weeks now I have wondered
How she came to be
This beautiful, decaying girl
Who keeps me company
***
A Book of Morbid Methods
I met her in the pages
Of an old dust-covered book
A book of misadventure
And the sad wife of a crook
~
She married into money
That was her belief
But she recently discovered
She’d been married to a thief
~
She was written to be pretty
She had diamond rings and furs
And she said it was all mine
If I’d trade my world for hers
~
She was angry at her writer
For her husband’s cons and lies
For her life of sins and secrets
And her pseudo-human guise
~
But I told her it was dull
Here on the other side
That over here, life’s dismal
And ruled by greed and pride
~
I declined her proposition
But she said, “Just look at me…
I have everything I want
I am glamorous and free…”
~
For a moment, I considered
What did I have to lose?
The world might have more meaning
If viewed from in her shoes
~
She watched me as I pondered
But she sensed my hesitation
Then a tear fell from her eye
And she said in desperation…
~
“My husband is suspicious
That I know what’s going on
He’s a man of morbid methods
I’ll be sorry before long.”
~
And this I did consider
What was I to do?
Maybe if I tried
I could rewrite a page or two
~
And so I traded places
With my newfound fiction friend
But what I didn’t realize
Was the book was at its end
~
For, just moments after stepping
Into the pages of this book
By way of strangulation
I was murdered by the crook
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