The Spitting Gargoyle
Locked in cold stone,
the guardian of cemeteries
and ancient fortresses and houses,
spews forth an arc of silvery water
as the nearby wolfen beast of lore
slithers sleekly into covering darkness.
The fountain drinks lustily
of raw spillage as
black wrought iron bars flicker
with enchanting fairy lights.
The Gargoyle’s grimace is locked
and rigid with potent and fetid rage,
imprisoned in stone by myth or magic
or the power of a craftsman’s hands.
Its long teeth are befouled and green
from eons of perpetual gurgling
with a rhythmic cavernous song
that sings a thirsting haunting tune
long strangled by the utterance of pain.
It waits patiently and watches
as flesh passes closely reeking of life.
The Gargoyle remains the eternal keeper of stone.
It crouches
talons poised
and it waits for the moment
when it will stir.
Lost
The velvet whisper of ancient trees
shrouds the forest walker with reverence.
How is it that you, a mere mortal
dare to walk this path of eternity
claiming all as your ill-gotten domain?
Yet you stumble
as clumsily as prey?
Frivolously inhaling floral scents,
tasting of the sweet honeysuckle vine,
and the luck of four-leaf clovers.
We watch from our high bowers
at the ludicrous invasion below.
Too lazy to bring a picnic?
Preferring to ravage my larder,
yet oblivious to starvation
that is often the cost to be paid.
Dancing to music only you hear,
softly singing a fairy rhyme
learned at your long
dead mother’s knee.
Time bows to none.
Not even the high Fae of the forest.
For we, too, must pay the cost
and harvest the blood price.
How fortunate you have chosen us
this beautiful spring day as evening
closes quickly and unforgivingly.
Shall we count you as
little girl lost in the woods?
Befuddled by strange mushrooms
tasted without invitation?
Or a sodden soul sucked deeply
into the morass of our swamp?
There are many bodies to be counted,
mouths still gaped wide for that last breath.
You are not yet afraid.
I promise you,
that, too shall come.
Dragon’s Teeth
Her thoughts spilled wildly with mangled
words unwritten and yet to be analysed,
always inspired by the search
for old bones and the shards
of dead souls and their remains.
Long ago she learned to count
the bones and sing to them,
coaxing their tales from remnants
and luring their lives from fragments,
as she assembled the mysteries
of structural anatomy and science.
Night encroached and she stumbled,
cutting her flesh upon sharp stone
which she gathered into the safety
of a pocket for later review.
Her fingers fondled it.
No stone.
It had to be a bone.
Until a mountain roared
and nearly felled her again.
“Who goes there?”
A commanding voice
demanding her presence
in that ominous cave.
She squeaked and whispered
but refused to cry
even if she was about to die.
“I mean no harm.”
She shivered.
“Thief! I shall
chop your hands
from your bones.”
“No. I’ve taken nothing.”
A lie, a sizzling spitting falsity.
Her hands touched the sharpness,
snugly in the sanctity of a pocket.
The heat began to rise and her hair
flamed as red as the dying sun.
With trembling hands, she offered
the stolen stabbing shard of bone
hoping to keep her own hands.
The ancient one sucked it deeply
into its ravenous mouth
and reptilian eyes watched her.
She did not scream.
“I knew I lost that tooth,”
the creature roared,
yet seemed delighted.
She ran like a rabbit
or any unfortunate dragon prey,
be it a sly fleet-footed fox
or a foolish human
who had not listened
to the tale of the bone.
Linda Sparks has several books published and she
has also been published in multiple anthologies and on-line publications. She was awarded Best in Collection for
Evermore 3 by Ravens Quoth Press in 2023. She also was awarded the Emerald
Prize for her poem published by Sweetycat Press. She served as Editor for
Valkyrie Magazine. She loves writing horror, science fiction and paranormal
mystery. She lives with her family in Florida.
No comments:
Post a Comment