Four Poems by Linda Sparks

 

The Tower Window

 

 

I peer through the narrow-slit drinking the light.

 

My porous eyes are long darkened by this blight.

 

The air is mouldy and stings of old death

 

But it gives me the power of sweet breath.

 

My heartbeat thuds and then roars

 

And a black ominous raven soars.

 

Does it send a message to the old god?

 

I shall soon be sleeping beneath the sod.

 

Or is it true that only emptiness awaits

 

And gods care little for our human fates?

 

A lone figure moves within my view

 

Until I see he is now accompanied too.

 

Followed by a man wearing a mask

 

Obscuring his identity for this task.

 

I try not to search the gathering crowd

 

For only a few witnesses are allowed.

 

What do I expect to see or to hear?

 

Is the icy air rancid with his fear?

 

I cannot believe that is true at all,

 

Only that he has taken the fall.

 

I never expected to find a friend,

 

Now libelled by the king’s men.

 

They swore we rutted like beasts

 

As the king attended his feasts.

 

Cold chills dance upon my spine,

 

As I hear the executioner’s axe whine.

 

And then his head rolls away

 

On this bright and sunny day.

 

It is my deepest grief and sorrow,

 

My pretty head will roll tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

Cemetery Dance

 

 

The darkness embraces in sublime.

 

An exotic lover that reeks of divine.

 

Shrouded in twilight and a moon

 

Not yet seeking to rise with the loon.

 

The cicadas’ cries are piercing shrill

 

Bursting and stabbing all with a thrill

 

Millions arising at the very same time

 

Mournful with deep lamentation’s chime.

 

They erupt from the earth

 

As she expels them in birth.

 

A silvery black cat ambles by and smiles

 

Revealing her sinister beauty and wiles.

 

I hear the creak of the withered bone,

 

The shiver of darkness and being alone.

 

And mouldy earth grim with the rot of hell

 

A lush garden of feasting and gorging well.

 

And bursting caskets from graves of dearth,

 

Exploding from the pressure of mouldy earth

 

And being down far too long

 

Releasing the skeletal strong

 

Bony phalanges protruding

 

And flesh and skin denuding.

 

Reaching, gouging, accusing profanely.

 

Laughter echoes in the dark inanely.

 

Creatures skitter away fearing a brutal end

 

And never even dare to alert their close kin.

 

Far greater than their ravenous hunger’s sway.

 

They will seek their fortunate prey another day

 

Or another night when the bones sleep.

 

And there are a multitude of souls to keep.

 

Tonight, they shall ultimately rise

 

Soaring upward touching the skies.

 

Clickety-clack, rickety-rack tones.

 

Singing the song of rattling bones

 

Paying homage to the ancient ones

 

Of old magic that is now long done.

 

To allow the icy bones to rise

 

Like the cicadas in the dark skies

 

And vacant screams and cries

 

And violence and deathly sighs.

 

Never forgotten, the eternal sway

 

Of disarticulated bones now at play.

 

That they might reign once more

 

As was foretold by the ancient lore.

 

Do you hear the whisper of the dead?

 

Who are supposed to now lie abed?

 

Whimper not and try to be very brave.

 

As the bones are clattering from the grave.

 

Released from their bondage this night.

 

If you intend to live, you must fight.

 

 

 

The Street to Nowhere

 

 

Slipping through the wet-rain darkness of night

 

She moves silkily and disdainfully without fright.

 

Shadows slither and recede into the black

 

Disappearing into the slimmest lonely crack.

 

Vaporously, the air is raw with blood and booze

 

Stepping over a sodden one who takes a snooze.

 

The stiletto heels click against the battered path,

 

Trod by many drunken ones just having a laugh.

 

She moves with the magic of her great power

 

As the clock slides easily into the Witching Hour.

 

Music is pulsating and raw as she notes her prey,

 

That lusty beautiful one shall never see the day.

 

The street echoes and shadows shift with glee

 

As they have come to enjoy the bloody spree.

 

Long and lean she gifts him with her smile,

 

And he staggers and grins for just a little while.

 

His dreams are tangled, his speech is lost,

 

His caution forsaken at such a great cost.

 

She offers to buy him a drink on Bourbon Street.

 

In his haze, he believes she is fair and sweet.

 

Too late he suffers her embrace

 

And gasps as he looks into her face

 

And sees the girl with the purple eyes

 

Haunting the nowhere street where he dies.

 

 

 

 

Lazarus

 

 

Mould encroaches and rot pervades me

 

Yet I blink away dirt and attempt to see.

 

Why is it that the cold earth is my shroud?

 

And when I cry and wail it isn’t at all loud?

 

I can no longer heed the beating of my heart.

 

Yet I hear the wheels of a forlorn broken cart

 

Moving sadly like a sorrowful dirge above my head.

 

Could it be possible or insane that I am truly dead?

 

The breath of life no longer whispers within me.

 

My chest is immovable and shifts non serenely.

 

This mind is clear, unfazed by earth and dirt,

 

Body unbroken by my disease and cruel hurt.

 

Laughter rises upon the air above

 

And I feel the joy of tender love.

 

Why has it been taken away?

 

Have I absolutely nothing to say?

 

Why must I return to the sullen earth,

 

Intended for me since the moment of birth?

 

I move one finger slowly and then two,

 

Cautiously daring to believe this is true.

 

How is it they buried a man in the ground?

 

Was it because no beat of his heart was found?

 

Yet here I lie, shifting dirt with a thought

 

Not rigid and mortis as they had thought.

 

I quiet my mind and pour all of my soul

 

Into moving this body as my finite goal.

 

I shall not think of those who put me here

 

As I know they ultimately shed a tear.

 

It is now justifiably for me

 

To clear the earth and be free.

 

Linda Sparks has several books published. She prefers writing horror and dark fantasy as well as science fiction. She served as editor for Valkyrie Magazine. She is currently working on two horror novels.  She lives in Florida.