Moonache

This chamber feels most familiar
When it's shadow-clad and hollow.
I have such space to feel and fear,
And fearlessly may wallow.

Assuredly, the Moon is out.
Her heavy song my ears do bear
From pallid lips. I have no doubt:
Celestial is the song I hear.

While luminous her words may be,
(Though spoken by some delphic tongue)
Her visage is obscured from me
And no light hath she brung

Might brumous vapors cloud my view?
Or is my blindness nothing less
Than benighted beating sinew
About to fray from passion's stress?

Yet though I miss the lunar beams
That once so nobly split the dark,
Succor flows anew from dreams
Where moonlight is afraid to lurk

A Yorkshire Lane in November, by John Atkinson Grimshaw, 1873

I wrote this poem last night during a thunderstorm.  Inspiration struck unexpectedly (insert lightning-metaphor here) and I'm quite proud of the result.  

Thank you for reading 🖤

The Orange Ones

And they- the orange ones, large and small

who all sleep in their earthly beds 

will soon wake and open their triangle eyes

once the primordial fire spreads.

Photo and poem by @Obscura_Hortus

Haunt Theory: What's He Building In There?

What's he building in there?

What the hell is he building in there?

He has subscriptions to those magazines

He never waves when he goes by

He's hiding something from the rest of us

He's all to himself

I think I know why

He took down the tire swing from the pepper tree

He has no children of his own, you see

He has no dog

And he has no friends

And his lawn is dying

And what about all those packages he sends?

What's he building in there?

With that hook light on the stairs

What's he building in there?

I'll tell you one thing

He's not building a playhouse for the children

What's he building in there?

Now what's that sound from under the door?

He's pounding nails into a hardwood floor

And I swear to god I heard someone moaning low

And I keep seeing the blue light of a T.V. show

He has a router and a table saw

And you won't believe what Mr. Sticha saw

There's poison underneath the sink of course

But there's also enough formaldehyde to choke a horse

What's he building in there?

What the hell is he building in there?

I heard he has an ex-wife

In some place called Mayors Income, Tennessee

And he used to have a consulting business in Indonesia

But what is he building in there?

What the hell is building in there?

He has no friends

But he gets a lot of mail

I'll bet he spent a little time in jail

I heard he was up on the roof last night

Signaling with a flashlight

And what's that tune he's always whistling

What's he building in there?

What's he building in there?

We have a right to know...

Photo taken while visiting some family outside Louisville.
Original song by Tom Waits

My Scarecrows

My scarecrows don't bother to keep crows at bay,

But work wonders for keeping the neighbors away.

Mr. Macklin's Jack O'Lantern

by David McCord

Mr. Macklin takes his knife 
And carves the yellow pumpkin face: 
Three holes bring eyes and nose to life, 
The mouth has thirteen teeth in place. 
Then Mr. Macklin just for fun 
Transfers the corn-cob pipe from his 
Wry mouth to Jack’s, and everyone 
Dies laughing! O what fun it is 

Till Mr. Macklin draws the shade 
And lights the candle in Jack’s skull. 
Then all the inside dark is made 
As spooky and as horrorful 
As Halloween, and creepy crawl 
The shadows on the tool-house floor, 
With Jack’s face dancing on the wall. 
O Mr. Macklin! where's the door?

Text Source

Short Autumn Poem

 by @writers_cobweb