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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.

KINDLE: https://www.amazon.com/More-Regrets-Than-Glories-collection-ebook/dp/B01GANL3U6?ie=UTF8&keywords=more+regrets+than+glories&qid=1464492710&ref_=sr_1_1&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

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?

mrtg

The Dark Poetry of Johnny Ringo

What’s that in the air? It smells like… OCTOBER! What a beautiful month, full of spooky delights. The perfect time for dark poetry. My thanks go out to Johnny Ringo for sharing his works with us. Enjoy!

*

Asphyxia is my damnation
That stifles my lungs and chokes my brain,
And while I struggle to think in a vacuum of fear,
No sanctuary can be found.

My arms flail in panic to reach your skin,
To feel the warmth of your flesh,
For the sound of your heart beating to lull me,
But sound and warmth are not luxuries here.

The decomposition of my brain is necessity,
My cells dying, screaming out for respite,
My fingernails clawing at a prison, incorporeal,
Which destroys all of my being in an empty whisper.

Terror grips everything around me.
Release means a prayer of breath I lack.
If time would rewind to release me,
I would not starve in the black.

Asphyxia is my damnation.

1

Bring me back from the dead.
Let me rise from the dirt to reclaim my place.
Show me the path to the truth.
Let me don the tattered remains of happiness.
I will rise to bring true chaos.
Mend the wounds that have been wrought.
This is not revenge but justice.
They will know the pain they caused and suffer.
I will fight to the last breath
To destroy the sinners and crush their tyranny;
Then when the task is done,
Guide me back to the grave to sleep again.
I will find peace with my love.
Due to your guidance, justice has been served.

rising

Dripping blood,
Restrained barks of rage,
Ebbing and flowing pulses,
The flames that dance.

The sorrow of children.
Tears of blood flow down
Emerald eyes, breasts of alabaster.
Baptize the child.

Gaping wounds
Tear across a perfect image
Weeping innocence, ignorantly.
Hatred for us.

Your makings,
Tales of insanity aged
Across the lips of all.
Death is yours.

Your skin will bear my mark.
Yours is blood and lies.

3

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

tandc

Visit the author:

ac

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