[Maryann Corbett]

Just a reminder that the usual approach on the Mastery board is to post poems by Old Dead People. (I admit that this thread began mixing it up years ago, so nobody is to blame for being confused, and the contributions are fun.)

[Janice D. Soderling]

Here is a Halloween one to remind you youngsters to say your prayers tonight and watch out for the Black Things and don't ever, never, make fun of no Old Persons, living or dead.

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE

by: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)
INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION

To all the little children: -- The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones -- Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

LITTLE Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout:--
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

[Chris Childers]

All the usual false apprentice modesty aside, as founder of this thread maybe I can issue a fiat: It's okay to post your own poems here. Maybe not in a parallel thread which you start entitled, "I'm Pretty Great, Aren't I?" but in this thread, it's okay, even encouraged.

Chris

[Maryann Corbett]

Well, then! Here's mine.

Epistle to the Pumpkin Field


This is the truth:
They knife your face,

drag out your entrails
to feed to the crows,

and set the flame
in what remains.

Ecstatic vision.
One night: you shine.


Facebook members have also been treated to a lovely one by A.E. Stallings.

[Andrew Frisardi]

No spooks, but there are dead people in it:

Etruscan Tomb: An Inventory

One hand mirror, two amphoras,
Three amphoras, four;
Five figured vases
Arranged around the door;
Six miniature warriors
Recalling heroic lore;
Seven little, eight little warriors,
In bronze, without the gore;
Nine painted musicians
Playing a silent encore;
Ten partying patricians;
And happily, a whore.

[Donna English]

Okay, Chris here's one of mine.

Brad the empaler, on Halloween night,
paints girls--with malevolent skill—
brushing on fear as they slowly turn white,
growing paler and paler until:

Brad takes his palette knife out of his vest
and cuts in some wide crimson lines;
into belly and throat, into temple and chest.
Then he mounts his peculiar designs.

[John Whitworth]

The Great Pumpkin Song

On the Night of Halloween
Making merry on the Green
SHAPES OF EVIL can be seen:

Bogles, bugaboos and bats,
Witches in their pointy hats,
With their wailing, witchy cats,

Gorgons, basilisks and orcs,
Devils with their devil forks,
Monsters with their eyes on stalks.

Now the horrid Pumpkin Head
Rises from the squelchy dead
And his Pumpkin Eyes are red.

As he munches, as he scrunches,
Ah my Sweets, my Honeybunches,
They are children's bones he crunches.

Children, he has come to take you,
Shake you, flake you, break you, stake you,
In a Pumpkin Pie to bake you.

Stay inside and don't be dumb
When the spooks and spectres come.
Sit down safe upon your bum

And
never,
never,
never,
never,
never,
never
leave your
MUM!

[Julie Steiner]

Opening Ceremony

Despair! Our jack-o'-lantern isn't out.
He's still inside the kitchen. "All the other
neighbors have lit theirs," we nag our mother.
She drops a match--the third, now--with a shout.

The doorbell rings. "The sun is barely down!"
she scolds us. "There's an etiquette, you know!"
We do, but nothing, NOTHING, is more slow
than dusk on Hallowe'en. Just ask this clown.

No time to hear his "Trick or treat!" I shove
some candy in his pillowcase, then slam
the door. I almost miss my mother's "Damn!"
She'll never light it, coming from above!

Again, the bell. My sister groans. "Your turn!"
I bark, in crisis mode. Perhaps beneath...
between the stringy boogers in his teeth...
we might persuade the candle-stub to burn.

I find a chopstick: "Sideways! Poke it in!"
We light the end and thread it through a slit
of toothy maw. So close...so close...it's lit!
Let Hallowe'en officially begin!

[Maryann Corbett]

Dare I reboost this lovely old thread of Halloween poems?

I do so with the warning that when it was begun, the rule about not posting one's own poems was honored more in the breach than in the observance.

Still, I hope the poems will be enjoyed and more can be added.

[RCL]

Halloween Horror?

Emily D. Franklin 1612

Witchcraft was hung, in History,
But History and I
Find all the Witchcraft that we need
Around us, every Day -


Emily D. Franklin 1782

Witchcraft has not a pedigree
'Tis early as our Breath
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death -