A Halloween Poem

In my little town, when a chill autumn breeze

Comes sweeping down through the colorful trees

Whisking the leaves that float down when torn,

And the cold harvest moon rises over the corn;

Out near the old graveyard, so townspeople tell,

Dwells a monster that’s straight out of Hell.

They say that this creature, so awful and foul,

Is a shape-shifting thing who sometimes takes the form of an owl.

They caution all visitors who come passing through

To avoid the graveyard if they hear any owls crying “hoo”.

A scientist once came to live in our town,

And he thought that he ought track this bird down.

The people all told him he ought not to go,

But he was a skeptic, who doubted the legends, and so,

On Halloween night, he went off to the wood

Trying to find that bird if he possibly could.

He sought the old graveyard–that forbidden zone–

And there, on the unhallowed ground, he waited alone.

His journal records that, as near midnight drew,

He heard that unmistakable “hoo, hoo!”

He did not have to make much of a search,

For atop the ancient, untended crypt the creature did perch.

He must have pursued it inside, underground,

To judge by his footprints–the only traces the search party found.

He’s not been seen since–where he is, none can presume–

And none of the searchers dared to go down in that tomb.

And every man in the party swears on his life that he knew

He heard an owl, in the daylight, calling mockingly: “hoo”.

But this is only old folklore–and from so long ago,

That whether it’s true I cannot claim to know.

Nowadays, the screeches of owls seldom pierce the night air,

And perhaps ’tis the case that there aren’t any there.

But some people say that on dark Autumn nights,

On old country roads, far from the town’s lights,

They have glimpsed a strange man, with a curious cowl,

Whose features resemble those of an owl;

With piercing round eyes, and a nose like a beak.

And there is only one thing that compels him to speak:

If you say the scientist’s name, he’ll look right at you,

And his eyes seem to smile, and he says simply:


 Like this poem? Then maybe you’d enjoy my book of similar short stories and poetry.


What's your stake in this, cowboy?