When trees are turning colors
And the frost nips at your door,
Heavy moons hug the horizon,
But the barns can hold no more…
In the hour twixt dark and twilight
When the ghouls cast spells and play,
There’s a time that none remember,
Tucked between the night and day.
Should you see the dead out roaming
And hear words of muffled mime,
Hidden somewhere in the gloaming
Is the call to pumpkin time.
Cheshire grins of jack-o-lanterns
Fill the porches, fields and skies
Hearts beat fast in eager bosoms
While the pumpkin’s on the rise.
Breathless lovers coo and cuddle
Lost in throws of love sublime,
Minds of men become all muddled
In the midst of pumpkin time.
Preachers dance with smiling witches.
All life’s evils seem divine,
When they’re woven in the stitches
Of the spell of pumpkin time.
When frost forms on the pumpkin
and harvest moons shine bright,
shadows of the ancient dead
lurk within the dark of night.
Upon the eve of witches’ power,
when women faint and brave men cower,
lost souls arise with moans and cries
and grow in number by the hour.
In olden times these spirits stepped
from crypts and graves where they had slept,
but lost their way by break of day
and into Satan’s lair they crept.
Once a year they wander,
all mildewed, dank and green.
With vacant minds they ponder:
“What is this Halloween?”
THE LATEST HUBBUB
Trick or treaters, young entreaters,
lurking at my graveyard door,
goblins, ghosties, candied hosties
crying out for treats and more….
These passers-by all scream and cry–
huggers muggers, none too shy…
Squeals quake my concrete floor.
their wailings sound much like a war.
Devils, witches, were-wolf bitches;
wards of fright that chill the night.
I fear their noise, hear how they thrive;
it almost sounds like they’re alive!
I feel the rush of blood,
the flutter of wing—of bat,
and I am certain that
they’re just outside my window.
I hide within my room,
with nowhere else to go
but deep into the gloom,
into the darkest shadows.
The rush, the start
has stirred my heart,
and I awake from fearful dreams
to the light of soft moonbeams.
They’re here once more; I sense the thrills.
My dark wings spread as midnight spills,
and I rejoin my ancient kin.
I thirst… It’s feeding time again!
Watching at her window,
I curse my lost divinity
and long to be the light
that plays upon her skin.
If I could share
Lost beauty burns my eyes;
a fire guts my soul.
The hunger burns again,
and I will lose control!
on wings that flutter
fast, against the moon,
and feel its pull
upon my soul.
With glowing eyes,
her frail form,
watch its darkness
in the pale light
and bid her join with me.
My silken tongue
lingers on her lips,
that curving neck.
As I taste
the saucy warmth
I am possessed.
my every thought!
I suck life
from her breast
then share my gift
BACKSTAGE AT THE MONSTER CABARET
“For heaven’s snakes…” exclaimed Medusa.
“I must fix my hair?”
“Having trouble with mascara,”
sighed the Cyclops–looking in the mirror.
“Who played with my pipes?”
asked the Rat-catcher of Hamelin.
“Gotta take care of this gray!”
complained the bearded woman.
“Someone took four of my gloves,”
shrieked the irate Kraken.
The harpy shrieked much louder,
so as not to be outdone,
and Ursula burped clam chowder
eaten on a hot cross bun.
Frankenstein, the emcee,
cried, “We don’t have all day!”
But by the time that they were ready,
the crowd had run away!
Author Russell MacClaren is a Writer and Poet.
You can reach him at his Facebook page
If you enjoyed reading this and would like to know when more stories, essays, and poems will be posted more please sign up for the mailing list. We don’t sell emails and we don’t engage in spam.