“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.”
poems
A Christmas Eve poem
‘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!”
Walpurgian Moon
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.
“Found Among the Remains”: A Halloween Poem
“N’hambarra”
The Journey of the Brigands Three
Poetry Reading: “The Wall”
(Text here.)
The Halloween Party
All of us dressed in our Witch-Sabbath best
To celebrate Halloween’s coming.
There was the Countess Villette and her one-eyed pet
Hosting that mad night of mumming.
There was the fiery hell-cat, in her black pointed hat,
And a lumbering mountainous man.
There was the old gypsy crone, and a creature unknown
Who looked like a doll from Japan.
O! Not even the Devil could imagine that revel;
That cosmic costume soirée of the weird.
Its ghoulish appeal was so very surreal
And nothing was what it appeared.
We laughed and we danced, and all were entranced
As if by some powerful hex.
The fiendish fell spell could be felt down to Hell;
A cocktail of madness and laughter and sex.
Then the clock struck thirteen, and with that, Halloween
Had ended as fast as it came.
And everyone vanished–the occult magic was banished,
And once more, all was quiet and tame.
“Fleeting Autumn Ghost”–A Poem
In the warm October e’en, the young man sits
And dreams of her he set his heart upon.
By the fading light of the fire pits,
In the gentle wind, all low and wan–
He fancies she is here with him
As his companion and his lover.
And though the light grows ever dim,
And the blue and gloomy clouds roll over–
For a moment, it’s as if they are together
Cuddling close beside the pulsing embers;
Braving all the world’s forbidding weather.
But then–alas! The lad remembers–
Remembers ev’rything that went before.
And dwells upon what he regretteth most.
And then he is alone again once more;
And she is gone, like a fleeting Autumn ghost.
“Orange Sky, Lightning”–A Poem
Upon the verdant fields, the summer sun shines bright and warm.
And from behind the hill, the sound of cheerful chatter rises.
Yet, ‘neath the tranquil mask, there hides a heart all black and filthy
Pumping out the wretched blood that this facade disguises.
Upon these lovely fields, the very souls are sacrificed
To those damned Gods who dwell in other horrid spheres.
Behind the people’s laughter is a growl, inhuman and unholy,
Of something in the shadows that grows hungry as it hears
The poor unthinking wretches who frolic in its thrall.
Beneath the chiming bells, the passer-by may see its soul:
The ossified remains of carnivores and monsters
A-dragged up from some old and stinking wormy hole.
******************************
The pretty city brims with personalities so witty,
Who, recalling naught of times gone past,
Celebrate the future, knowing it can never come,
And optimism is the only thing to last.
But off the shore there lies the glinting lizard eyes
Awaiting as the predator the fateful opportunity.
For howsoever far civilizations come
There remain those lacking in remorse or pity.
Guided by the cosmic laws, by no ideas or cause,
There loom the claws of obsolescence.
From somewhere across the bay seems to come
A fearful, frightful wail of demoniac essence.
But neither God nor Devil could long becalm the revel,
But perhaps they did not want or need to.
For all these things must end, howe’er that end must come;
It cometh no matter what the revelers do.
******************************
In spite of their political biases, newsmagazines
Often have some excellent photographs.
I once saw a picture of the seaside that
Might have been an impressionist painting.
The truth of course is much more ugly.
Even the sea lies.
******************************
“All forks in the road are as knives in the flesh”,
Said the Commander to his men.
The Enemy approaches, binding us with blood,
Yet I know my loyalty must be to my love.
But faced with the choice of my love or
my hunger, which to choose?
And so I am a courier, a runner,
And I’m back in the ancient tomb,
And the ruin’d palace, and the museum,
And the casino, and the farmlands,
And my choice is the same as it ever was;
Between power and love. Yet!—
Perhaps it is no choice at all. I may
Have both, or neither. Such is the
Nature of things that choices appear
As if they were not. And I still see
Her hair, and her eyes and her body
And her shoes.
The clock is digital, so there is no ticking,
Only the sound of the battery.
I shudder as I gaze into the simmering
Void that mocks my existence,
And I fear death, not because I wish to live,
But because I cannot lose my thoughts of her.
I steady myself. The minds of Gods and Goddesses
Dead or Never Living seem to reach me.
Left or Right or otherwise
Make the move.