Halloween Poems

Feel free to add your own.

The mist arriser. He taps upon frozen green. The chamber doors lie shut. Lying awake all night he fears when the grey light will trample in. Burn down, he calls. The morning peels at him. In the new day the vapor gasps. Grey light soaked days do burn, through his old white curtains. Blue light sometimes, in the summer, seeps in. It sears. Long summer days pass through him like a thresher. The night’s mist. Lovely as if in sleep. He would never. He may lie in bed with the lights on bright, the night filtered through the curtains. He may close his eyes and drift. But he lurches awake. The night must be lived. Camping shallows in his room. He lies.

Celebration of the dead

The dead have died
and so have earned our respect
they should have been dead sooner
and neither born to this world at all
But, dead they are, and that we respect

Take up my air!.. that…
is the prevailing notion we give to the living
Quit breathing in my space… what? (a sly grin)…
What is my space!?.. just keep walking… I’ll tell you when

All saints day,
but really all dead day
they have achieved sainthood through being dead

it started with jjesuuss who showed us:
watch, I’ll summarize it

“give unto others what you don’t need, your last loaf of bread,
burn in hell for certaint for several reasons, deny god;
certaintly, deny the holy ghhhoossssssssttt;
certantlyer” jesus was no hypocrite, he took
his words seriously he couldn’t just keep…
eating lofes of bread for his needy
stomach when other stomachs
were needyer… he fixed that
and he is a saint

How many years
can one life spend
in respectful mourning
for the dead?@@@@@@!
Well, let’s make an educated,
guess, based on antidoteal evidence…
one says “im soorry i havnt th time for yoo m frnd”
one syas “so mcchh t doo s lttle tyme” and m favorite,
“im too bussy”, But, thy allways leave tyme for the dead…
…days, days, days, chrisTmass, all saints day (for whomever was left out)

I sleep well in graveyards at night
so where can i go to be frightened??
malaaaiiise, that is what is frightening
will you bury my malaise in the dirt???
you motherless bastard

A creeping waryness
An ecstatic calm
and notions well past dawn
hell is the most of the notions

A dismal feeling
Dimspent dark
and falling spirits lark
to hell they belong

Acreeloration minds me
Calyeint dreary
sintilorscof is leary
hell too, you guessed

Associated numbness
dead, lifeful
sintilorscof, spiteful!
born in hell, as it couldn’t not

Putresent agony
Vile and soar
running to nor
hell that is, as well it should

Pumpkin’s flame
scorches inside
skeletle hand that pain denied
a first impression of hell

Was it as you expected?
No, it was fine
As hell can leave room to pine
heaven is where the flames are

heaven is where the flames are
that’s what hurts
damned to causeaction it asserts
christ and his fork

Christ and his fork?
and satan in rags
sintilorscof still here, but lags

sintilorscof, i’ll call hieritmh sint
sint with the fork in tatters
glass everywhere, shatters

heherit, my sint, loves
he loves to sdihyeeriltwog
guessed too, itherhe will jtioeeriltwog
glass and a fork

sint and christ and satan
what is that make
as simple noise slake
and drank blood

set set yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaar
which one

aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh deeeeecayyyyyy
before which check lfe’s ledger
let me, check my deadger

sint, m sint, m sint, so
sint sint sint sint
is heerhti, is hirteeh bent
nineth point sixsevensix circle

sint to the sinth in heallenveh
and finally

pound the wall
and more, this is helleavenh

hell?.. what hell?




Hi, everyone. I like the fall, it is enchanting. I remember early days here at ilp as all other early days in life. I’ve had friends here and enemies as well. They came and went and some of them are still here. But, the fall is just enchanting. I live in the Californian desert. There is no snow and few trees with leaves to fall. But, I notice something in the air, I did a couple weeks ago. I didn’t know what. Then the next day, I knew. It was fall! I don’t know what spring feels like as it is coming, I don’t know if the air changes, or I don’t remember. Fall though, is wonderful. I notice how it catches up to me. I suffer in the summer and in the midst of my suffering, I come out of it slowly, and take a look around. It is fall! I notice that it is fall, as the less temperate world dies, in preparation for winter, I come awake.

Somebody please write a poem or story about a hell hound, a crow that haunts your window sill, a witches spell causing massive paranoia and slight, festering misery, the cries in the night you swear you hear, your deep fear that horned satan, blood red, will appear at the foot of your bed, beckoning you down a tunnel, the alternate world that you sometimes enter when you leave your house; quiet and open, with dead trees and complete silence, your fascination with your reflection in the mirror that occasionally reddens and contorts in it’s forthcoming agony of hell, starved people who still live on as skeletons, desperate in hunger, but hopeless, having consumed there own stomach and other organs; describe the flash of misery that comes across the hollowed face of one, lying there, as he consumes even his epidermal layer, the circus-like show of spiritual butchers that plays out every night in your home seconds after your eyes turn heavy and subsequent sleepless desperation, satanic deals; satin being somewhat of a loan shark, they are always fun, the nightmare images that always appear behind your reflection when you stare too long in the mirror, classics: buried alive, unwelcome awakenings while dozing in a cemetery, a primal land of perpetual night where wolf packs prowl and Virgil awaits.

Or do I have to wait another year? Burn in hell, either way… !

We can’t live in this world
As it is, there are too many, here
They take from us, our insides
Damn you take the life from me
You, almost all of you
But, I’m here
I’m here to seek
Because I, we are lost, so we seek
This is what we are born into
So we stagnate on the issue
Until we die
We were born to be used to it
It is unnatural to spend eighty years
Seeking, to be born into Found
Would have been
Would have been, better

I will not absorb you all, be absorbed by you all
You cretins, so similar, too many similar
Where is the criteria, why do Those who have an idea
Why do They languish? The Realists, those who
Theirs is the hypocrisy that kills me
They have Their vague criteria, They chose it
And then They languish, without having Found
They cannot love the other, that veil has been burned
They take on that nature of hate for those that
Have been ruled out
Through Their vagueness

The hairless animal has left it’s cover too soon or
Ill prepared, it burns in the light, the light of
Non-denial, and It runs for cover of a tree, where It
Can mock those still in their hole, shaded and comfortable
And then Some will not settle for cover
Will continually run in the light and burn

As if I had a choice
I run above the denier’s tunnels and do not love them
I can’t, there’s too many
I can’t hate them, but burn with sympathy
Or is that the sun?[size=85]?[/size][size=50]?[/size]
The Shaded Surfaces are all I can hate if I must
Scurry if the shade fails

Halloween you say! What can be said? Falling leaves losing their sweet taste for a tree, burnished colors of orange and brown which take away the breath of you as though there isn’t enough to take away our breaths which way you ask wake up in all ways, unfortunately grinning pumpkins hollowed out by would-be sculptors of a season only faces dashing their selves into a pool of apples for a hedonistic bite been done before alas ithe cause of it all Halloween’s beginnings in the garden of eden and squeeky gates being closed all fade to black and dust and massive and masked balls of children everywhere delighting in being someone else a hero or a fiend to be or not to be all dictated by the controlling capitalistic spook gods and their tv ads and somewhere a black cat pretends to care but all the while can be seen tripping us up as dusk sneaks in coiling itself around and groaning and gasping for the candies of life to sweeten all lies all lies of children’s lives and blacken and decay their teeth, all a conspiracy of evil dentists banded together forgetfulness of starving children for even a crumb which birds happily obtain the smiling eyes of the church oh how cute they say looking lovingly at these magical embodiments which once upon a time burned their witches at the stake or dropped them in hot boiling water so that satan would escape their poor desolate possessed bodies delusional minds our silly attempts to overtake one another decorating our houses in meaningless creepy dead creatures of the night enshrouding them in a “look at mine” attitude which strangely pawns and sucks out all the meaning of christmas which slowly and surely has dwindled almost to nothingness within the grasp of the capitalist monsters come on, you warm spicy pumpkin pie take your place among the god-sent ambrosia dollop yourself with mountains of whipped cream a true celebration comfort for the pathetic moment a moon for halloween a saving grace one can only hope despite another god-forsaken holiday money loser poor excuse to grab at some kind of fun and mythic mirth to take us away from ourselves.

Happy happy halloween and so it goes…
Not quite a poem Stuart but something spoke to me perhaps caffeein withdrawal.

Okay, the crow appeals to me…

The Crow it haunts my windowsill

The crow it haunts my windowsill
I hear its lonely cawing
I see its lovely sheen within the pale moonlight.

For who for what has it come - this time?
I want to ask but feel the fear of knowing
He looks at me - I shiver I quiver. He smells it.

Why my windowsill, dark bird announcing
A simple respite a pit stop in the lonely cruel night?
Do I welcome you in to sit awhile?

To perch upon my shoulder
and I to wait for words perhaps to come
Speechless in the gloom and doom of a silent room

A dark aboding - is this my night?
To die - to be no more - no breaths escaping?
Are you to be companion on my way?

I may still say how much I love your cawing
your sweetest flight in unison with others
oh, intelligent sentinel that you are.

Would that hold your eerie mission at bay
to speak as such - to tell me that my time has come
my spirit to return with you to some place.

Is it dark or is it light within this place?
Does it move or is it dead
will my soul soar?

Please be gentle if you lift me up
to take me home - wherever that may be.
Sweet crow - may I have one more moment please?

For one more breath - a slowly, rising meaningful breath
A walk along the trees - to see the stars one last time.
To be to feel within the darkness of the sacred night?

To feel the autumn breeze - like a cool cool shower
To stand alone and still - to Be - one last time.
To remember Love - I promise I will not escape.

Silently into the welcoming night i go
guided by you, oh mythic crow
on this all hallow’s eve.

Fearless before the crow, the messenger of death. Why is that we no longer fear them? As in most enlightened intelligent people?

Perhaps because there is just no arguing with Death. But we can communicate with something one last time and ask for a bit more time. Or at least to remember where we’ve been one last time. At least those rare and meaningful, beautiful moments and people.

I love crows. They are intelligent but i love all birds. Do you know that it took me all of ten minutes to compose that poem? It just spilled out of me. Writing that was like dancing and frolicking in the rain for me. Some poems take me weeks :laughing:. and although they are satisfying because of the struggle and the creativity, it wasn’t the same. Perhaps the spirit of halloween or the spirit of some crow was just waiting in the wings for someone to write about them and then entered into me, took over and possessed me. :laughing: Only kidding of course.

Can you imagine being able to communicate, actually communicate verbally, with a crow? :mrgreen:

Sort of like communicating with a lizard, but with a remarkable flightiness… and we both know what uccisorian communication is like… where some flightiness would be welcome.

The spirit of Halloween, if not taken too seriously, is real enough for any one raised in a culture celebrating it.

“I sleep well in graveyards at night
so where can i go to be frightened??
malaaaiiise, that is what is frightening”

I actually meant that.

Have you ever experienced hopeless malaise, the kind that compels you to figuratively and incessantly check for all exits? I’m well now, really, but it’s seems worthwhile in my happy moments to bring up that imagery, not to take it’s absence for granted.

If I was a photographer I would make it my goal to photograph people’s face at the highest onset of there malaise, but even better to be a painter. As poets we can make do and can be less obtrusive.

I’ve never looked upon it, but looking outwards let me guess;

A feint shudder
Eyes closed
No other describable difference
Except they seemingly aged perhaps five years
And they continually drop, in time and stature
Seated stature, they wouldn’t be standing still
A quick grimace
Then almost a fore warning in the air
Of the eyes
Which haven’t moved but are almost glowing
As draped lamps

Undramatically they open
As quick as the eyes were before closed
And there’s nothing remarkable
Just red veins as if deprived of sleep
But, they shudder again
Even more faintly
Perhaps only giving such an illusion
And then the malaise finally
Fully, manifests itself on their face
There’s no words