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“Come with me, and I’ll be your guide,” H.P. Lovecraft said to me.
“I’m no Virgil, but you’re no Alighieri.”
 We set off into the night, separated but a scant few paces–
Our path lit by twinkling jack-o’-lantern faces.
The October moon was low, the westward wind howled sad.
“Lovecraft,” I asked, “Why did you have to be so bad?”
He stopped, and regarded me a while, then said:
“I was full of hate because I was afraid.”
Then he added, “But it may be my hate-filled heart
Alone could have produced my weird and fearful art.”
We walked in silence then, entering the grove
Where in the night wind, the hulking boughs creaked and hove.
Through the shadows, in the flickering moonlight’s glow,
I touched the dial on my pocket radio.
I half-expected I would hear, from some high desert, a distant Bell;
As if to summon me away, to Heaven or to Hell.
But only buzzing static greeted me instead–
The growling traces of a signal long ago gone dead.
I put the radio away, thinking it was foolish of me,
When suddenly, I thought I heard beating wings above me.
But gazing up, saw only that chill autumn sky.
My companion chuckled, “More things are here than you and I.”
We came into a clearing, the dead leaves crackling ‘neath our feet
And upon a huge, smooth stone, he bade me take a seat.
“Listen!” he commanded, “Listen to the cosmic hum around!”
I obeyed, and heard–no, felt!–that omnipresent sound.
Shapes and visions flashed inside my troubled mind–
Ghosts and devils, fiends and demons, ghouls of every kind.
Methought I saw whole worlds, whole realms our own beyond
And smoky black crevasses that in our own existence yawned.
“Do you see?” he asked, recalling me to that shadowy forest floor.
“I do,” I answered. “I see it all. And I would know more.”
He laughed. “Know more? No more! ‘Nevermore,’ as the poet Poe would say–
What we have seen exists only on life’s fringes, and there it’s bound to stay.
The nature of the weird and frightful is that it’s forever out of reach.
You and I are still upon the placid island–if only on its beach.”
He paused, and looked carefully, clinically at me.
“But,” he said at last. “You can still listen to that darkly murmuring sea.”
I closed my eyes, and listened, and could hear the awful roar–
Whether the black surf of the ocean, or the leaves that rustled o’er.
At last, my eyes I opened, and my companion had disappeared,
Leaving me alone with that tingling dread sensation of the Weird.
Upon the ground where he had stood, I saw a folded note.
I picked it up and from it read aloud the words he wrote:
“You and I, we are both strange and frightened men
Who find ourselves with but one tool to wield–the pen.
With this, we must gather and impart unto our friends
The things that we have seen–the things that shall remain when all else ends.”

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Pumpkins2019_1.jpgTrue story: earlier this morning (12:00AM, to be exact) I was standing in a dark field, surrounded by a bunch of glowing jack-o’-lanterns, with a thick fog rolling in and the only sounds were that of a distant train horn and a few birds and insects chirping in the distance. If that isn’t what Halloween is all about, I don’t know what is.

For those who can’t get enough of pictures like the one on the right, I’ll be tweeting various Halloween-ish stuff throughout the day. Whether you love this holiday as much as I do or not, I hope you have a great Halloween. Thanks, as always, for your support.

Now then… there is the matter of the traditional Halloween poem.

I spent a lot of the time I ordinarily spend on the annual poem working on Vespasian Moon, so I kind of ran out of time this year.

Or so I thought. But then, I had an idea.

I’m working on a story that includes a character who writes songs, and one of the songs I’d drafted for him seemed to fit the mood, so I decided to use it. I just couldn’t bring myself to let the streak of posting a Halloween poem end. If, someday, you see this same poem published as part of a larger story… well, all I can say is, Poe did the same thing. I know, I know; the tired old “Edgar Allan did it!” defense.

Herewith, then, is the 2019 Ruined Chapel by Moonlight Halloween poem

***

(more…)

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‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all thro’ the wood,

Not a creature was stirring, and that was not good;

For Berthold had hung up his cam’ra with care,

In hopes the “Low Dark Ones” soon would be there.

He’d checked all the settings, he’d put out the feed,

And eagerly waited, with good books to read.

But Berthold had just about given up on the game

Shaking his head, sad to see nothing came–

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

That he ran in the field to see what’s the matter.

Tripping over his pumpkins and Halloween junk—

Running past the old graveyard and dodging a skunk–

When, what to his screen-glazèd eyes should appear,

But that all of his internet friends were now here!

With a look of surprise, did the blogger exclaim,

And he chuckled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:

“It’s Noah, and Patrick, and Audrey and James! Paxson,

And Eileen,  and Phillip, and–”,  he said, gaspin’.

“We all know our names,” chorused his followers all.

”Then why,” said BG, “Have you come this evening to call?

 For there’s naught going on, as my camera shows,

 It only records ‘coz sometimes the wind blows.”

 ”Oh, you mean like your books?” Waberthold chimed in.

 And Berthold shot him a look, erasing his grin.

“As I was saying, there is nothing to see,

 The forest here’s quiet as quiet can be.

Not that it matters, since I can’t record sound,

 (If only a cam’ra like Katie Dawn’s could be found!)

 But anyway, not a creature is stirring, not even a—”

 At which point, his friends all together said “shhh!”

“You already said that,” they all pointed out.

“And we’ve come to tell you what the season’s about.”

“Eh?” said Berthold, looking dazed and confused.

 (Could it be they had realized he was less than enthused?)

“Oh, Berthold,” said Carrie. “You silly vampirical soul,

You’re lucky your stocking’s not filled up with coal.”

 “The point of the season is family and friends,

Not churning out ‘content’, as if it ne’er ends.”

Berthold began nodding. “Yes, yes; now I see what you mean!”

“Thanks all, for coming, and happy Hallo–”

“Argh!” said Mark, with a scream. 

 “Just kidding, of course, Happy Holidays one and all!” 

They said cheery farewells, till the next time they’d call.

And Berthold went home full of holiday cheer,

And only later did see on his camera appear

 Just barely in sight through the winter night’s fog

The shape of a—something. A coyote? A reindeer? A dog?

At any rate, whether man or a woman or a gigantic hound–

Even though, as I’ve said, the camera does not record sound–

I am sure it exclaimed, ere it vanished from sight—

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

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On the twisting paths where red and brown leaves lie,

The tranquil setting merely fools the eye—

For just beyond the peaceful veil, foul demons lurk,

Full of lusting hunger, keen to go berserk.

 

The babbling brooks between the trees conceal

Undreamt of horrors, hellish and surreal.

Festering, infected wounds in Nature’s orders

That seep across the day-to-day world’s  borders.

 

Like charming vampires, and alluring succubi,

Horror true conspires to fool the mortal eye. 

What sorcerous chicanery the monsters do employ

As they produce their grand trompe l’oeil!

 

Ere in search of fun you take your leave,

Recall that “Devils practice always to deceive”,

And entice you in to something worse than dying.

Recall all this, but know: I may be lying.

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[Lyrics by Berthold Gambrel and Maxwell’s_Maximums]

Here’s the tale of Steve the Pumpkin–

Steve the Pumpkin was my friend.

But on October 31st,

Steve the Pumpkin met his end.

Steve was sitting in the field that evening,

In silent thought, as oft he did,

When he was foully apprehended

By a passing neighbor’s kid.

Then they took ol’ Steve the Pumpkin

And they carved ’em up real good.

And put a candle in his noggin

Just because the bastards could.

I swore that I’d avenge him;

So I dressed up like a ghost

And barged in on my neighbors

Demanding candy, tea and toast.

And that’s the honest story

Of trick-or-treating’s youth.

Others may say different

But Steve the Pumpkin knows the truth.

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I debated whether to even bother writing these this year. I probably won’t be following the NFL very closely any more for a while. But this is a tradition here at Ruined Chapel, and as Tevye would say, tradition is how we keep our balance. So I went ahead and did it.

As usual, the order in which they appear reflects my prediction for each team’s standing in the division at the end of the season.

AFC East

Patriots

Empire’s Twilight:
Still can win the division.
But not playoff game.

Dolphins

Mediocre team
But good enough for second
In AFC East.

 Jets

Always rebuilding
Jets will be bad yet again
And fire their coach.

Bills

We ended the drought!
Then lost all our good players
And drafted a bust.

AFC North

Steelers

In Big Ben’s last year
They recapture the magic
Of Two thousand Five.

Ravens

So much for Flacco
They struggle again, and start
Jackson by week five

Bengals

Besides Death and Tax
Bengal mediocrity
Is only sure thing.

Browns

Belichick’s jealous!
Hue doubles career wins (team)
In just one season!

AFC South

Colts

Luck returns to form
And they win the division
But lose to Steelers.

Jaguars

Still a strong defense
But Blake Bortles regresses
And they miss playoffs.

Titans

Were lucky last year;
Won’t happen again this year.
Better unis, though.

Texans

Watson was a fluke;
This year, teams figure him out
And they go nowhere.

AFC West

Raiders

Gruden brings them back
To their old playoff glory
But not Super Bowl.

Chargers

They should be better
But always underachieve.
This year is the same.

Broncos

The “case” of the fluke
Quarterback in title game
Ends with the Broncos.

Chiefs

They’ll be missing Smith
When unproven gunslinger
Throws twenty-plus picks.

NFC East

Eagles

Is Wentz really good?
Yes, but they’re also lucky;
They will not repeat.

Cowboys

Who are they really?
Last year’s bad team or ’16’s?
I think it’s last year’s.

Redskins

Still paying the price
For bad management’s past sins.
Will underperform.

Giants

First round running backs
Seldom give good ROI–
Too bad for Saquon.

NFC North

Packers

Back where they belong
Reigning over division–
But can’t beat the Rams.

Vikings

The magic ran out
Against  Philadelphia;
Won’t be  recaptured.

Bears

Could surprise people
But Trubisky will flame out
In the second half.

Lions

Stafford’s getting old
Defense has never been good–
Into the cellar!

NFC South

Panthers

Behind strong runners
They win the division but
Lose out to the Rams.

Falcons

Ryan ‘s MVP
But team itself ‘s lackluster–
It’s the old story.

Saints

Brees’s decline starts
And Kamara suffers slump;
They miss the playoffs.

Buccaneers

Winston is a bust
Now they’ll have to start over
Should have known better.

NFC West

Rams

Completely stacked team
Has best record in the league;
But loses S.B.

49ers

Jimmy G is good;
But they won’t overcome Rams.
But wait till next year.

Seahawks

How do you squander
A superstar like Wilson?
Just ask Pete Carroll.

Cardinals

Poor old Fitzgerald
Has played so long on bad teams.
And he will again.

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Now that I have iMovie back for the first time in a decade, I can do a lot more with videos. So I’ve updated some of the ones I previously put on YouTube. No major changes, so if you have already watched the originals it probably won’t add much, but I like them a lot better, and it’s a fun way to learn more about iMovie’s capabilities.

***

***

If I were George Lucas, I suppose I’d call this a “special edition trilogy” or something.

 

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Walpurgis

Blazing torches, starry night,
Walpurgian moon, shining bright–
Walking through the forest, ancient map in hand,
A traveler passes through this cursèd land,
Beset by never-ending blight.

Wind in branches, making moan,
Trees above him list and groan,
A frightful sight he’d be, if any saw him now,
A-coming to fulfill the long-forgotten vow–
But no one sees–he is alone.

Creatures stir upon the hill,
Birds are shrieking, long and shrill,
And yet the lonely traveler presses ever on
Seeking that which is forever gone
But which Time shall never kill.

Works of virtue, works of sin,
All works merge together in
The inkiness of sprawling space above
That covers all on this disturbing evening of
Long-worshiped Hallowmass’s twin.

Blazing torches, starry night,
Walpurgian moon, shining bright–
Within a forest clearing, the unnerving figures stand,
Gazing up at Via Lactea‘s shimmery band,
As if praying to its light.