Ghost’s Flight

Ghosts oft flock to things of old,
amidst the ancient parlor dust -
There they lay licking wounds
of things they never did….

And so what could it be, my ghastly friend,
this thing undone clear to your end -
which makes you sing so wearily -
That in my chambers you should creak,
and bang my pipes -
incessantly?

The night owl calls yet you disdain,
toiling havoc in your domestic reign -
as we, mere mortals scatter in fear
when your shadow’s stain comes oh so near.

But nay, not I, – shouts my quaking breath,
I shant cower from your prolonged death
for you are naught but pickled soul -
who failed to live, and lived to fail -
for which I find little console.

So if you’ve wings then fly away,
or drag your carcass to another day.
For if you should ever materialize -
I’ll give you death you can recognize…

 

.
..
....
.......
..........
...............
.........................
© 2014 John Allen Richter
.........................

Haloween’s Chamber

Pacing, pacing, thread-barren carpeted hall,
passing by each moment – that lurid chamber stall.

Each eve at strike of three, there finds me,
reliving the glory of her inviting screams.

Lucky was I, grateful for always thought,
that nary soul should miss her, as destiny wrought -

Her screams locked away forever now,
no one ever knowing why or how.
Save for me, the master of her misery,
her self now lost to history,
and yet I continue on.

But luck is only as luck can be,
ever rarely – does it fairly – find me.

So never again – might I dissect a friend,
gleefully enjoying frightened eyes when -
removing skin and parts within,
writhing great pleasure to the very end.

Unless I can find another soul;
lonely, less connected, un-whole.

Hark, is that my doorbell rung?
Another victim eagerly sung?

“Trick or Treat! Trick or Treat,”
from such an innocent little ghoul!
Why, surely you’ll come in to meet
what’s left of my last visitor…..

.
..
....
.......
..........
...............
.........................
© 2014 John Allen Richter
.........................

Amok, a ruck, a tiny tuck…

Here’s a bit of prose to honor friend Björn, whose challenge is rather akin to free association writing.  A great pleasure I think….  To my friends at Dversepoets.com

A rose fallen in the path, and yesterday laughs, and riles, for moon has come at last and sheds its light upon our sash, which we shall wear to the fools party, and sing, and sing, and sing.  But I have forgotten everything.

 

 

John Allen Richter


Origins of Ode

Poems do simply come,
from whence I do not know.
Bubbling up, through and from-
my mind’s undertow.

And when they scare me,
or oft declare me,
evil in my own shame,
I wonder then,
if ghouls plunder when
I think myself insane.

For words assail me,
though don’t avail me,
of thought or wonderings.
They simply are,
as from afar,
without my added colorings.

Are they Ghoul’s or God’s,
tempestuous or frauds?
Only time can tell.
The one thing sure,
they’re most obscure,
and probably -
come from hell.

.
..
....
.......
..........
...............
.........................
© 2014 John Allen Richter
.........................

It Was Her Fault

Underneath the table saw.
Fingers in the dust,
writing as they must,
on and on and on.

But what soul shall see -
my secret there,
upon the wood shop floor?
Hidden for eternity,
her cold dark stare,
the bloody fingerless whore.

She screams and cries
with her nubby little hands,
she ups and dies
fulfilling her plans
no whats or whys
or rubber bands
to hold them all together.

And I left that 9th grade shop,
with my rickety birdhouse in tow,
pieces falling off,
as far as I could go.

And when arrived I did declare,
with little wood left to compare,
“it was the whore’s fault.”

Always was.
Always will be.
As her fingers write eternally.

.
..
....
.......
..........
...............
.........................
© 2014 John Allen Richter
.........................

Unworthy

I hide my soul,
I tried my soul
and found it lacking,
less stacking, more racking -
then they – those who know -
those whose lives grow – in depth,
they who only loved and never wept
to be something better,
a goal oriented getter,
a beautiful Irish setter,
anything’s better -
than this useless sack of me.
And I hide this tiny soul,
this tiny, tiny bit of nothingness -
so they won’t see -
so their thoughts aren’t tortured by me.
My ugliness, my beauty.
So I recede,
into the cracks,
with their mothers’ broken backs.
I hide my soul
and cease to be,
cease to breathe……
Until they leave.

.
..
….
…….
……….
……………
…………………….
© 2014 John Allen Richter
…………………….


Hidden Isle

What shadows fall beyond thy nightfall cape, sweetest Delos, into the heavens, casting the blackness of night into the sky from which even Zeus is veiled from thine tender beauty and from the calm thy breast provides?  Though quakes of seabed shatter our world in his presence, and the waters roil with despair and destruction at his whim, I wish to lay my own heart down as fodder for his gnashing desires if – for but one lone moment – it may provide you with freedom from his relentless pursuit.  Your dearest beauty has captured mine heart – mine soul, indeed my every ounce.  And thine eyes so clearly proclaim my life to yours, for if I had but one second to glance into them with mine own then it should liken to eternity in my heart.  And never before could a mortal soul be so fulfilled if only for seeing the fleeting smile of thine own heart.  Come thee, sweet Asteria, come unto my isle, forget your fate and create the happiest soul to ever proclaim to have tasted your sweet lips.  For then my life should be complete, and my destined carcass your shield forever.  You are beauty, and I shall adore you always.


Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 218 other followers