A visit from the Ol' Prospector

This tale comes from a few folks, who when I was on the streets, often said I looked like an old prospector, when carrying my full load. That got me to crafting a character, sometimes acted out in the spooky season for a laugh, to tell some tales, about the past from this ghostly point of view. He's a ghost, just don't believe in them, so thinks he's still alive. You might see him, come the nights of All's Hallows Eve, wandering about calling for those mules of his, between running pans for gold, and cursing the witches as hexed his pan to only bring up nuggets of sweet and chocolate treats. 

Strange footsteps echoed in the building, as the youngsters wandered about in costume, one side a stomp, the other half drag, half limp. The scuff held tones of wind amid the drying leaves the town's trees, when the cold autumn winds dropped down the canyons. 

"Tarnation. Ornery. Where you nasty brayers gots off to this time?" Not more than a whisper, barely heard amid the aisles o' the big box store. Dogs whimpered, drawing back a bit, or barked wildly as the footsteps passed. Folks startled over the actions of animals that normally loved coming there. 

One long sigh, nearly buried by the noise o' modern forced air units, slithered down the aisles. 

"Dag-bummed mules, find that ol' bar in time to gets some nuggets, and they chooses nows to runs off. Oughta sell them boths to that there skinner, I oughtas." Customers jumped, as the whisper grew, and a mist gathered in the center aisle o' the store, forming a moving fog bank, drifting to the east. "Maybe the boys dones doubled back on me. Maybe. Nasty brayers, fer certain." 

Footsteps became louder, the whistling breathing of an old and bothered man now echoed between them, fog turning solid, yet still casting no shadow under the form that emerged from the swirling mass. 

"Dag-goned hayburners. Never let a man get a few good pans out o' that bar, they do. Gonna sell them, I swear me, I'm a gonna." The stomp came loud, as he turned up the wider aisle aimed at the easternmost door. "Get one day a year, ta comes back and find me some gold to buy my claim back, and they dones runs off, every years. Nuff to make a man cuss around ladies, it is."

Near the entrance, a cluster of costumed children, hands out to gather in sweets from the cashiers there jumped as a chill passed over them, when a louder yet stomp came. 

"You young'uns done seen any mules wanderin' by here?" A dusty, hunched o'er man snapped, tapping down his shovel on the concrete floor. The battered brown hat, front of the wide brim bent up, back down, and side wavy from years of use and abuse topped a mop of wild, graying hair, dim blue eyes and big nose framed by a white with hints of pepper beard, dusty dungarees and flannel shirt making him solid, above battered, tan work boots. 

Shaking his dusty head, he moaned. "Young'uns done looks like you seeing a ghost. Just me, the Ol' Prospector, tryin' to find my mules. Nasty brayers runs off all the time."

Looking them over, shocked and slight worried faces of parents behind them, he sighed. "Ain't no ghost, folks. Just an ol' man, cursed to pan the streams fer'ever and ever, seekin' nuffs nuggets and dust to buy back me claim, stolen away by some fancy tinhorn lawyer, come speakin' 'bouts laws and domains, not claims and ore." He laughed. "Not that it got him a penny o' flakes, save those fools gather in, thinkin' they found gold. Nope, that there gold bar be mine, and the stream hides the glitters from all but me."

He rapped his shovel, held more as a cane, and less as a tool, leaning over gently, a smile creasing his face. "But I bets you young'uns have seen ghosts before, just not knows it. Here in Fort Unions, there be ghosts o' all kinds. Long wandering conquistadors seekin' El Dorado's golden streets still, cowpunchers trailin' herds o' bunched strays they lost comin' this way, Niner's like me, seekin' the glory o' the motherlodes, even squatters and settlers, tryin' to get in one last harvest before the storms o' winter come. You just don't know what you see, when the foggy rains o' late October come to these benches." His grin grew, left eye twinkling with mischief's gleam. "Maybe even the phantom train, headed up the canyon and back from the smelters, haulin' ores down and supplies back up them there Cottonwood strewn canyons."

Seeing disbelief, he shook his head. Setting the shovel down, both hands on the handle as he leaned o'er it, peering at his audience. "Tellin' the plumb honest truth, there. You looks arounds, traces them ol' tracks still be there. Long grades that avoid the steeper climbs, mimicking the runs o' Tanner's Ditch and the canals o' you ancestors fer irrigatin's with. And on foggy, rainy, or snowy nights, you might just see the swirls o' the ol's steam engine's plume, as she runs those traces, seeking to finish that last run, one more time. Might even hear the faint scream o' her whistle, as she rounds the bends, finding other ghosts, or folks in these funny horseless carriages you race 'rounds in, missing out the things we saw as you speed on by." Laughing softly, he caught many an eye, those o' the kids that dared meet his gaze. Leaning back, he wavered as the shovel pointed to Fort Union Boulevard. "Yep, trains ran once, up along that road o'er there, 'fores branching aroun' Butler Hill, to rise up slower along the Big Cottonwood's run. Trains that served the mines o' both canyons, trains that were cursed by those they woke too early, the natives they drove off the land, and the settlers whose water they done fouled with tailin's and coal dust from the trains. Been many a year since those tracks was pulled out, by gandy-dancers long since ghosts themselves now, but those trains still run. Uphill slow, fightin' to reach the tops o' the canyons, and the mines along the way. Or racin' downhill, out o' control, engineers and firemen prayin' as they fight to keep their cars all on the tracks, not spilling the precious loads they carry. You watch, you'll see, young'uns. Those mines, the ghost ores still are dug, by the shades o' miners trapped under them mountains' bones fer'ever, and their ore still rides down them tracks, just not as you can tell, lest you see the fogs and snow swirling around, before, and inside them.

"Those trains, they were't lifeblood o' towns downs hereabouts. Jobs at the smelters, jobs in the railyards keepin' them trains runnin', jobs cutting the wood or diggin' coal to fire their boilers. Not a regular run, maybe twice, thrice at most a day, but still, they moved along, slow inside the canyon, buildin' up a fine head o' steam along these here flatter benches, racin' to Murray and Midvale, to deliver they loads o' rocks, and have folks pull out the precious from the worthless bits. Hints o' the rails marked durin' snowstorms as ice lines along Fort Union, showin' where those spirit iron horses still run, amid the snows, to deliver ghostly ore. Mark my words, you listen, out there tonight, you'll hear the huffin' and chuffin' as the pistons o' those ol' trains still run, tryin' to make it down to safety, a'fores an avalanche takes the tracks out again. See the cars rockin' in the air out above the freeway, in the places they dug down to make those lanes fer folks to roar along, faster than steam engines comin' back down the canyons. The flakes or raindrops will stick together, showin' you those ol' rail runners up there, or along the creek bed further up the canyons."

He leaned back, tipping the battered hat back, wiping his brow with his kerchief. "Yeppers, thems were the days, when the iron horse was king o' this valley, stopping sometimes to gather up a few cars o' sugar beets to haul to the processing houses, during the harvest. When the howling was not just the winds racin' down the canyons, but the release o' the steam, when boilers got to full pressure, and needed to bleed a bit. Days when men and women watched and waved as the trains passed, hopin' there'd be no leavin' o' the rails, prayin' the mountains were not hungry fer they kinsfolk and neighbors as worked they mines. When the land here still had farms, 'sides ol' Wheeler's place o'er yonder, as still bein' workeds." 

Hunching over his shovel, both hands again on the handle he sighed. "Nowadays, fancy folks dance the snows in winter, sled runners strapped to their feet where we dug out them ores fer the rich men back east. Investors who bought us out, forced us to work fer pennies, instead o' all the weath we'd finded. Been many a nights, under them mountains, since I last came down, ta find that place where the dust and nuggets gather up, down here beneath them purple mountain majesties. But one day a year, they let me out, to try and work that bar, and gather me up the funds to buy it back from them, to get me's claim back."

Cocking his head, he sighed. "Dag-bummed mules. Leave a man to wander 'bouts lookin' fer's them, when rightfuls, he should be runnin' pans fer flakes. Oughta sold them to that there teamster, back after the war 'tween the states. Rightful, I shoulda." He waves his free hand, turning to the back o' the store. "Tarnation! Ornery! Get your mangy hides back here boys! Found that sandbar, we need to run pans, a'fores we has to go back there." Limping along, left leg dragging the foot along, he moaned again. "Been a century since that avalanche took me, when I snuck out to pan the waters above Donut Falls. Need them mules to behave and stay put, long enough to buy my peace." As he walked away, his form became as misty as the trains he'd spoken of, before swirling apart into a blast of sawdust raised at the back of the store. 

A final echo came, faint, but full of warning to the kids. "Don't go lookin' fer me gold, young'uns, you be cursed as me, to only seek it once a year, and have others stop you from findin' it. Tarnation! Ornery! You boys gets back here, ya hear me!" 

Aliens and Souvenirs pt. 1 - a little tale for All Hallow's Eve...

I hated to leave that temp at the desk alone, I mean, who knows what sort of mayhem will slip by the uninitiated. What others write off as crank calls, we in CRAPP take seriously. But, when the folks in the funky shades and black suits call, you go over, let them wire you up, and try steering them away from questions that will leave them in the care of "..the men in white, who are always right.."
I made it to the rickety freight elevator behind our back door, the one I use to escape folks  like the little lawyer elf lady when they come serving summons, subpoenas, restraining orders, or IRS/GAO audit notices. The doors on that thing almost closed when I remembered, I'd sent a notice of my disgust this morning, leaving the recently departed James Blair's "Tank", a heavily modified IH Scout that had the military green with envy at the fire-power it packed, in the Director's parking stall.
The damned elevator has a sensor in it that triggers the doors to move in guillotine fashion based on your urgency to enter or exit. Yeah, most of them do, but this one is different, somehow, some joker actually placed metal blades on the thing, to make it that way. OSHA would have a fit, but this is one of two places they never inspect for safety issues. Which is why me and the guy who samples the lava in Hawaii have great bar crawls laughing about trying to lure the paper pushers out in the danger, when I have vacations or work in the middle of the less than peaceful Ocean.
Manny heard the jingle of the keys, and stuck his head out. "Five O'clock somewhere, right?"
I grimaced. I was going to be buying rounds for a few years, given his workmanship in carpentry, and union rules. "Only if you want to help me pass a lie detector, commites."
"Thou shalt not bear false witness, Trejanio." He scolded me, knowing I'd have to, or be up on charges again.
"Yeah, well, maybe you could ask their guardian angels to steer them to the funny stuff, not the locked into a padded cell stuff." I grunted, realizing some of that would be better not known either. "Just not about incidents like that hunting group in Texas."
"You are on your own, mi amigo. But, I will see if Dad will help bail you out if you get too deep in the rotten cabbage." With that, my oldest friend turned back to the desk. "I'm going to need some walnut scraps to fix the desk top, grab some on your way back."
Once a carpenter, always a carpenter. Manny hates most jobs, save the times he sneaks onto a Habitat for Humanity site, to restore his own faith in why he keeps trying to save folks.
"I'll try to get back after lunch, (temp name). Take yours at noon, put the phones to the voice mail, just promise to come back." Letting loose my best smile, I tried to keep (her?) from getting too scared at doing this solo. "If we let if fill up, the folks upstairs make all temp jobs permanent. And the pizza joint down the road is off limits. Caught them using unicorn meat last month, still ain't sure we seized it all."
The newbie looked worried, I really hoped (she?) thought I was joking about the unicorn meat. Looked the type to be a unicorn lover, and had that left eye glint to suggest they might actually suffer some serious horned horse lover vengeance at the pie shop.

One last "Live" posting...

Still down in town, finishing up some work...
so, I got lucky again, not sexually or employment wise, but was published...

so, check out this anthology of drabbles, 100 word exactly tales, of a spooky nature. You'll find one by me amid it, in company of many others better and equal, I'm sure. Pre-order right now, live to Kindles on the 15th of October.

http://www.amazon.com/Spooky-Halloween-Drabbles-2014-Booth-ebook/dp/B00O2A0G9O/ref=la_B00A7CVLNG_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1412608309&sr=1-1

enjoy the reads, support the authors if you like their tales by buying their other works.

As for me, well, I'm heading off soon. Not sure when, but soon.

-Dyfedd Rex, sipping his last few hot coffees for the winter.

Guillotine Jim's Tale - A ghostly poem from a few years back

Gather close my kin, lean in to the fire
as I tell this tale of woe and the wages of sin
for Washington Irving's tale of the horseman
can only hold a dim candle indeed to this yarn
of the fate of Guillotine Jim the gangster ghost
who is damned to wander in Hell's fires forever
brought low by the curses of many young girls
whose ponies he defiled to scare them senseless.

Now Jim was the one you hear the tales of
who did the deed few would confess to
of chopping of the heads of many lil' Flicka's
and leaving them on preteen girls beds as omens
to their daddies to keep their mouths shut
about what they had seen or heard in bars
when drinking beneath their station to find
some silly floozie to take the place in bed
of the frigid wives they had married in haste
or over bad gambling debts they could not pay.

After decades of ruling the streets of the Big Apple
with his chainsaw and the heads of too many mares
he chopped into the wrong thoroughbred herd
and made enemies with a wicked coven of girls
who had found the paths of darkness in grimoires
better left unmentioned, untouched, and forgotten
Those gals had been scarred by Jim's evil in their souls
and sold them to Satan without a single regret
for the revenge of which you are about to be told

Satan heard the offers, and took their souls,
and for once held up his end of the bargain
heading out to the pastures of Sheol to find
the stallion of midnight's darkest moments.
He loped off its head and sent it to gather in
a sinner long unrepentant for his actions
and torture him with his own worst fears
to keep the souls of thirteen young pure hearts
to quench his lusts in forever and ever.

The beast had screamed when its pate was torn
from his sleek shadowy neck that night
and tore off as charged to gather up a rider
and take down to meet his damnation
Fire blazed up from that trachel exposed
as he trod the avenues and alleys searching
for the man who destroyed little girls' hearts
to bring him down to his proper level.
Night after night, once the hunt began
Jim lived in fear of being caught by the beast
for on his first glimpse of that ghostly creature
he knew it was crafted to be his fitting end.

At last after months, the horse caught the mobster
and kicked him out of his seat in some bistro
before a crowd that stampeded out in fear
as the headless stallion claimed his rider
by tossing Jim aboard its razor spined back
to be cut in a million places dear to the man
who soon was sheathed in Hell's fiery blaze
to scream in fear as borne along the roads
he had taken his own prey down in days before
to chop their heads off in Central Park
leaving the bodies to rot, and leaving the heads
in the beds of innocent young children.

They say the Stallion took him deep into Hades
others claim he rides the plains of Purgatory
I heard a tale he races in Newark against bullet bikes.
But all know his fate, and reason the mobs stopped
leaving the pates of ponies in beds these days
As Guillotine Jim still does ride at the head of the parade
every All Hollow's Eve for now and eternity
leading thirteen girls who sold their souls to see
him burn in hell for harming their ponies
down to damnation for ever more.

2010- Dyfedd Rex

Ghosts Stop Lingering - A poem of Ghosts and such

and one more to make it officially the end of October... that scariest of months.


Still around.
They just won't leave.
Still walking halls, sitting in chairs
After bodies pass, the spirit lingers on too long
and when I dream each noisy night
the are still there
waiting for
something.
I know not.
But in those dreams
words of an old movie come to me
stop their lingering about this place they must leave
by simply doing what he said not to
and crossing the streams
watch them
implode.

Ghost Dinghies of the Doldrums - An older poem for your Halloween needs

unpainted wooden boats adrift in open waters

Came upon them, we did
the plain wooden shore boats,
 that normals as trails behind a ship.
driftin' in doldrums' bated breath,
we crossed this treacherous sea
looking for our fortunes and dreams
by raidin' the holds of others.

None were aboards 'em,
and no goods, tools or clues lefts
by thems as put offs some vessel
to seek the wind where she hid perhaps
or fleeing mad capt'ns rage at the calmin',
by takin' the risk of the deep blue below
and chancin' Ol' Scratch's glance .

Ghost boats the murmurs ran
as the helm were set hards to starboards
 as to steer rounds 'em by a wide distance
lest there be wreckage of another
that plied these seas in trade or like we
to live off others hards workin's
come up to tears we hull.

By consensus of the crew
under the rules we'd voted upon
when we raised the flag of black cloth
we chose to ne'er even looks agains
lest the sirens be usin' them boats
as baits to lure us to they clutches
to drags down to Davey Jones Locker.

Cauldron of Conversion to Evil - a poem I am thinking of revisiting

Twelve witches gathered that night
among the hemlock choked woods
around their black cauldron of sins
to welcome another to their coven
unwilling though she may have come.
Bound in the tree above that pot
suspended by the rope used to hang
those who commited heinous crimes
she squirmed in her hemp constraints
as below her the hags began their craft
to warp her into one of their evil kind.
Three sisters stirred that pot laughing
as two more chanted the spells hoarsely
to transform the sweet young thing
into a wicked enchantress of men
to be the new leader of their numbers
and make them strong as once they'd been
before the Inquisition found their queen
just a few weeks afore their Blackes mass.
They named each of the cardinal sins,
tossing in the ingredients to maker her over
clothing, tools, and other things imbued
with the sins banned by the Fathers
as being those of the points of Evil's Compass.
then the lowered the screaming virgin down
into the boiling broth of foul enchanting
all chanting and pouring out their hate
for the girl to absorb into boiled skin
amid the frothing green concoction.
Those with paddles held her under
as others struck her with cat'o'nines
when she lifted arms or legs, even back
out of the soup she was now part of
Then came the moment of the midnight hour
and the owl and raven cried out above
The let rise the green skinned hag
they had just created to joine them
She thanked her sistern for freeing her
from the bounds of purity and good
casting her first dire spell upon the ground
as at last the trees died, shedding all
leaves and bark as well to mark the woods
as being haunted by the ghosts of those
slain by their spells, starting with her own mother.

　

Twisted Offering - a strange poem of the season and job hunting

I will save the commentary for after you read this, just read it all before sicking the authorities upon me, please...... you might regret doing so.


In throes of near Economic Depression
when desperately searching for gainful employment,
one resorts to means more resourceful
in imagination than in easier times.

Yes indeed, one finds one must
turn to the forces of darkness
and offer up a precious sacrifice
to obtain a job more swiftly.

Decisions made in night's middle hours
come to pass with rising sun.
I grab several small wooden spikes
and kidnap the unsuspecting innocent lambs

Then off to find an altar
to do the terrible deed upon
and seal the deal I made
with forces beyond your mortal comprehension.

With luck it is found finally
a place left momentarily unattended
for me to do foul deeds,
I lay the forfeited ones out.

Chanting a complex prayer, voice soft,
I raise up my weapon high,
as the priest comes back out
hollering for me to please stop

Too late, the spear is fallen
piercing the skin like thin foil
allowing the ichors to flow out
filling the air with sickly sweetness.

Father Gilliam lays stern, shaking hand
upon my shoulder as he gazes
upon the gift I have bequeathed
to the next world so brutally.

A deep sigh, the hand stills,
then whips my shoulder around wickedly
so I stare into mournful eyes
"Son, you cannot keep doing this..."

His voice trails off into chokes
as laughter rises up from within
both of us looking back again
at a toothpick impaled Carmello bar...
           ..my sacrifice to God for Employment.

Okay, now that you understand I was not sacrificing children or small animals, we can discuss the origins of this poem without spoiling it.

I have a friend who lives in terror of his black cat getting out in the fall, especially the closer it is to Halloween. He was telling me of his fears, of never seeing the poor kitten again she were out, and what some sickos might do to her. That same day, I had a conversation about this is the season for offering up gifts to the gods and costumed children of small pieces of chocolate... you get where this is going, yes only my mind could combine these two ideas, then again who knows... maybe my slimy brain actually was resonating in tune with the thoughts of others. Who cares... but seriously, other than a candybar, what else does God really need?

You can all shun me now, or share this around if you liked it. 　

Demonic Cyborg Saxbot Schoolgirl Nuns from the Hyades - an older poem

-Chatbots inpired more of my early stuff than I care to admit most days, just the constant attacks of flirty comments and flying off to avoid detection. This one came from that  and some other comments of other folks that day/night. Usually these came on Sunday mornings, as I drank coffee, or early in the wee hours, as I sat up on the patio doing something else.... these are congealing eventually into a tale of science and lust gone wrong, I can tell.

The invasion went awry due to the conflicting signals.
Vatican TV crossed with The Jazz Channel in the wormhole
as well as some sick scifi shows and anime from Japan.
So the invaders had a strange sense of the soldiers to send
to conquer poor earth from the get go.

They created a race of curvy bio-demonettes,
succubi with bright red skin, cute faces,
long black hair with a great set of horns.
Then bound nanobots to them as thighboots
gloves and onsey thong bathing suits.

Upon their silver armored cyberized parts
crosses and yin-yangs grew black as the sins
that the babes from the stars were meant
to inspire in all they met and spoke with,
and their touch carried joygasms.

But this is where they all went wrong
for instead of seeking to lure the humans
to bed and subdue their torrid passion
with bodies built and enhanced for the giggity
The wielded golden saxophones.

Skilled in the arts of jazz, blues and early rock
with a little band music tossed in for fun
the aliens came to soothe our souls
instead of steal them as fuel for hell's fires
with sweet notes of brass and reeds.

They formed bands, and stormed the charts
took to the internet with an ease that made
the boy bands and dizzy girls jealous
until one would serenade them to callm thoughts
about rain, streams and oceans.

While the invasion lasted, and its still going on
the music from the Hyades ruled the airwaves
with the tenors, altos, and even rare bass saxes
turning us into their dancing yet relaxed slaves
Until their masters come and conquer our world.

Art as bane of Zombies - a poem for NunYa...

I blame Nunya for this one. Yes, Ms. Bidness, this one came of your comment on the Facebook, and my subsequent comment, as well as one last bit from another commenter to make it finish out sweet.


Carmen Dominguez ~ reading poetry, watching zombie flicks and sewing beads on plastic, where they belong.
But its more pretty and amusing when you sew them onto Zombie fingers... (my reply that made the connection as brain goo boiled over instead of simmering.)
wow, when you multi-task, you do it up right! (someone else best left blameless)

In the dark of night
under her flickering candle
the Princess of Impropriety sews
fingers dancing amid threads
as she weaves a tapestry
made of beads and strings
to save those she loves
from the ravening undead beasts
who come to eat brains.

Each darting move she makes
flicks her enchanted bone needle
taken from a god's skeleton,
enchants the strangely beautiful art
into a shield to aid
in turning walking dead away
and the few who persist
find their fingers sewn in
with beads like funery rings.

She continues on all night
making the world safe again
with magical arts in threads
which she imbues with love
chanting aloud poetry she reads
while watching over our wanderings
in darkness inhabited by dead
who know not the way
back to their appointed graves.

With dawn comes the sun
touching the beads imbedded sorceries
in the art she made
the light of which shatter
bonds made of necromantic force
to free the decaying ones
from their eternal wandering curse
with a rainbow of love
her multi-tasking hands made.

Cooking Soup amid the Haystacks - a poem from the old Spaz Improv...

As the harvest progresses
the time for soups takes over
as the flying geese move south
flying by night to avoid the guns
of the hunters seeking food
or just a release from stress
with the blast at some thought.
Sandwiches fall to the side
as the haystacks are made
for the traditional hayrides
and the soup is cooked up
with care or negligence
in pot or slow cookers everywhere
capturing the essence
of the season in their broth
filling the air with the smell
of what once was truly home.
-I cannot remember who tossed out that title as a prompt, I want to say theTimelessGypsy, but that may be wrong... all I know is its appropriate to the season, cooking amid the sheaves...
　

Traditions of the Outhouse - Poem of an America now gone

Old traditions die hard they say
and this one died a terrible death
remember it well oh joyous folk
the midnight of hallow's eve gift
of that tiny shed with the halfmoon
cut in the door left on doorstep.

Indoor plumbing and years of neglect
reduced the holiday trick to naught
as we found it tougher each year
to gather in a real wooden outhouse
to leave on someone's front walk
as a mark of our feelings to them.

The port-a-potty seemed a cure
until the lawsuits over the spills
of the blue death from below
stored in the internal chambers
so ripe with the scent of rotten crud
that stayed around forever after.

Not to mention the charges of theft
for just the borrowing for a night
of one leased john to pull the prank
that was the Tradition of this night
for so long our great grandparents
had told us of the tale around fireplaces.

Now its considered a crime and evil
with the full government force
of EPA Environmental Impact Statements
needed for years after the joke
is played on the ones we hold lesser
than that deposited in that tank.

But damn it was fun while it lasted...

yeah, this one was from last year, but its still good... and timely this season of spooks and ghouls...

Damn the Eyes of Shadows - another seasonal poem

I wander the shadows seeking her
the lover that stalks the shadows
moving from body to body like a ghost
as she possesses them for a moment
or a night to seduce me with those eyes
glowing from the shadows like a cat's
as she stares at me from her hiding
laughing as I stumble from place to plcae
seeking her in each set of eyes I meet
like a toy she pulls about on a string
damn you shadow lover and your shady ways

...and damn your eyes for luring me on.

Broken Oath

This is another holiday piece, not a reflection of my moods, it was written a while back for somewhere else....

I took the vow of poverty and pain
and wander this world alone by night
having lost count of the gods I've slain
in this long roaming in search of a fight.

But the darkness is not just my cloak these days
she is my eternal lover, steeping me in her ways.

The elements I brave without a thought
the bullets of man's guns pass me by
for I am the one who is never caught
as I stab the deities until they die.

And when they are all dead, Night shall gather me in
The final goddes I cannot slay, as we wake the world with our sin.

Father of gods call me this bleak day
when the shadow people take your souls
the offspring of my tumble in the hay
with Mother Night under impaling poles.

I betrayed my oath, and thus was forever damned
and still alive my body into the earth was jammed

until they need me to free man again
from the grip off the Immortals sin,
I lay in wait for release and mayhem.

It being October, here is one I wrote a while back,
something creepy enough for the season I hope....

"Black Horse of Death is Nigh"

They sold it off to save the family
the stallion with the coat of onyx
that stalked their fields every night
refusing to be stabled even in storms.
Times were tough, choices were few
so off to the dog food factory the sent it.
But three nights later, like a ghost
it returned to the pasture's grasses
where he foams at his mouth awaiting
the children to come and try to ride him
so he can take them to his new master
down in Hell's darkest and deepest pits,
where the nightmares neigh in glee
knowing the Black Horse of death is nigh.