Happy Halloween writers!

Oh, dear, Kelly. I once thought the same thing of hebba. He was a Brit living in Denmark.

Thought he was a woman, too.

Cav, I'm sorry to have derailed your thread. I'll stop now.

Seems we have some patterns of thought going, Ms. Letty. This transgender assignment issue with your male poet counterparts. Talk to me. The doctor is in :-)

I see no way that any thread in Original Writing can be derailed Letty. It's the folk tradition.

Well, Sigmund. (lying comfortably on couch) It all began when I was a wee thing and had only older sisters for companions. My mother didn't hate me, and my father only explained the facts of life when totally backed against the wall. Halloween was the only time that I got to have any fun amongst my parents and sisters. It was then and only then that my day and eerie nights were filled with visions of sugar plums.

Only on that haunted night,
Did I dare step outside my room,
And look with timid eyes of light,
At the large and frightening moon.

I fancied that I saw a shadow,
Creep across the harvest night,
I clutched my present, coloring book
And hugged my dog in small arms tight.

The leaves encircled all my space,
In twirls of yellow eyes and grins,
And even the familiar things,
Reminded me of childish sins.

So now I transfer all my guilt,
To you, my doctor of the snake,
And when I find that doesn't help,
I'll turn into a witch of wake.

Indeed, a talented child of All Witches. Even in therapy, she paints upon the canvas with her words. I deem thee cured, m'lady :-)

If you need a second opinion, I say you be cured as well.

Marvelous, then I am free to take my place in society.

UhOh!

All alone when the lights go out…

Delicate lace curtains reflect as spider webs upon the murky wall, tracing patterned shadows as they sway to a chilled atmosphere. Eyes unaccustomed to darkness, vaguely scan movement in transparent motion, encompassing shadowed corners.

Ill conceived notions invade your senses as straining ears tune in to soft footsteps pacing on loose floorboards…creaking, creaking…nightfall has arrived.

A puddled candle glistening from a mahogany bureau flickers its last flame, while quiet muffled voices talk in disconcerting languages, incoherent to listeners. The painting on the mantel seems to have eyes that blink!

The absurdity of a possible haunting takes it's toll…you rummage every known vestige, high and low, to find batteries for the flashlight…but, to no avail.

Soon a foggy mist gathers, settling deep upon your thoughts, while gloomy clouds collect beyond the window. Lightning scornfully streaks across the sky, reflecting an eerie visage upon a beveled mirror, while imposing thunder rumbles…vibrating your soul. Foreboding fear slows the passing of time, echoing…tick tock...tick tock…mocking the beat of your heart as you drift into a nightmarish dream.

But suddenly!

... You open your eyes as the sun begins to rise…casting its light upon your imagination.
Sweet fresh morning air sweeps your window pane. You breathe in deeply of the glorious morn, gladly erasing all forms of profound darkness inside your minds eye.

Hey, colorbook. I loved it! For some reason, the last line "...casting its light upon your imagination...." caught my imagination. <smile>

All Hallow's Eve approaches.

Thanks Letty, I had fun writing it...glad you liked it my friend. <smile>

colorbook, an interesting coincidence. I received a birthday card from my daughter today. It said: Thank you, Mom, for allowing me to color outside the lines. Well, perhaps there are good spirits after all.

The light
threw shadows on the wall,
a flickering of this or that,
perhaps an unhinged book,
or a sheet or shroud,
waiting to be washed.

Kafka appeared to me that night
in metamorphosis,
scurrying about the dirt,
expressionless, expressionist,
in giant silhouette,
amongst the buildings
of an unhinged world.

Kafka is the bogeyman children,
more fearsome
than any childhood fiction.

Cav,a good analogy of kafka

I like your new avatar...you can write those words pretty quickly





Edit: fixed type o

I think I may remove "candle (hyphen)". Yep, I like my new avatar as well. Ahh, edit done, I think it tightens the rythym.

Appearing as a cockroach,
The sweet recluse of reproach.

"Where am I?", the voice said
"You're in the Valley of the Dead."
The gargolyes seemed to come alive,
And grin with evil fratricide.

And then, from out the soundless deep,
There was a voice from ancient keep.

You are where Letty ought to be
Please, no longer conjure me.

Then echoing silence.
And I found I was alone.

The nice thing about cockroaches is that they are never alone. I shall post a link to a must-read book: http://www.serpentstail.com/books/?_P=BOK1852427469

Has anyone got a ghosty story for the campfire tonight?

http://able2know.org/topic/18557-12#post-3456413

(There's a Celtic Apple recipe there if you are interested in spicy magic apples)

So here's kind of a scary (in a way) Halloween story - and it's true... Halloween was a big deal in our neighborhood in suburban New Jersey when I was growing up. Every year you planned your costume in minute detail and you implemented it impeccably - like when I was the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz I had real hay or straw or whatever sticking up out of my overalls for HOURS even though it was f***ing uncomfortable...

So you trick or treated for about four hours from five till nine and you carried a pillow case because you got some serious LOOT (the big hershey bars were the best) and then you went home to divvy up your candy - we always gave our Mary Janes and Pay Days to my dad - we didn't want them and he loved them.

But one Friday Halloween night we convinced our parents to let us sleep out in the tent in the back yard even though it was like forty degrees (fahrenheit) which is pretty cold - and we had hung out by the Knot Hole and smiled enough to convince this over age guy to go in and buy us under age girls some Sangria... So we came home and curled up in our sleeping bags and ate candy and drank Sangria and by the end of the night we were laying next to the pumpkins and squash in my Dad's garden (naked) talking about growing under the moon and then we streaked around the neighborhood....

And do you know that not one person saw us and the only person who didn't join us and knows about it to this day is my sister Sarah who was much too sensible to join us (and she still is).

(I'm having so much fun treating the tricksters and listening to music on Halloween which is my absolute favorite holiday). Thanks Endy for giving me this opportunity to relive Halloween memories.

Funny, Aidan.

Here's a poem, Endy

Molly Means
Molly Means
Old Molly Means was a hag and a witch;
Chile of the devil, the dark, and sitch.
Her heavy hair hung thick in ropes
And her blazing eyes was black as picch.
Imp at three and wench at 'leben
She counted her husbands to the number seben.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
There goes the ghost of Molly Means.

Some say she was born with a veil on her face
So she could look through unnatural space
Through the future and through the past
And charm a body or an evil place
And every man could well despise
The evil look in her coal black eyes.
Old Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Dark is the ghost of Molly Means.

And when the tale begun to spread
Of evil and of holy dread:
Her black-hand arts and her evil powers
How she could cast her spells and called the dead,
The younguns was afraid at night
And the farmers feared their crops would blight.
Old Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Cold is the ghost of Molly Means.

Then one dark day she put a spell
On a young gal-bride just come to dwell
In the lane just down from Molly's shack
And when her husband come riding back
His wife was barking like a dog
And on all fours like a common hog.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Where is the ghost of Molly Means?

The neighbors come and they went away
And said she'd die before break of day
But her husband held her in his arms
And swore he'd break the wicked charms;
He'd search all up and down the land
And turn the spell on Molly's hand.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Sharp is the ghost of Molly Means.

So he rode all day and he rode all night
And at the dawn he come in sight
Of a man who said he could move the spell
And cause the awful thing to dwell
On Molly Means, to bark and bleed
Till she died at the hands of her evil deed.
Old Molly, Molly, Molly Means
This is the ghost of Molly Means.

Sometimes at night through the shadowy trees
She rides along on a winter breeze.
You can hear her holler and whine and cry.
Her voice is thin and her moan is high,
And her cackling laugh or her barking cold
Bring terror to the young and old.
O Molly, Molly, Molly Means
Lean is the ghost of Molly Means.


Margaret Walker

Thank you Letty - I always find you kind of funny too

Happy Halloween!