Five Poems by Linda Sparks

 

The Hanged Man

 

Have you no pity for the man who spins in the sun?

Twirling in that final neck-breaking dance,

his last thoughts, his scream swallowed forever.

“I did not mean to do it.”

“Please. Show me mercy.”

“Is there a god?”

“I am innocent.”

The crowd has moved away with their picnic lunches

and their ghoulish and salacious tittering,

and young children run and play and fake falling dead

with squeals of delight that echo but descend

uselessly upon the hanged man’s audible senses.

He no longer cares for such things

since the trapdoor blasted like a shotgun

and he was falling into eternity.

His vacant eyes watch them dully.

Soon the carrion eaters will arrive for the feast.

And he will be put upon display with a sign upon his chest.

Photographs will be taken and pieces of his clothing cut

as souvenirs to be treasured and traded with exaggerated

tales of knowing the man and all his alleged crimes

and the gruesome and salubrious details of his dying.

A story to be repeated often by the safety of the hearth fire,

and the ignorance that such a thing could ever happen to them.

Certainly, the hanged man drew his own fate.

But the exquisite chill of doubt rises in the flickering flames.

 

When the Werewolf Knocks

Do you dare to answer the door when the werewolf knocks?

It has come from the woods, hungry and seeking prey.

Only silver bullets will stop it in its tracks and save you.

If you are sleeping when he comes for you,

will you awaken to the foul reek of musk,

and rotten flesh and unwashed lupus canine?

I ask you simply because you do not lock your door,

“Does the werewolf knock before he visits?”

Am I hoping for some salvation for you?

Some brief reprieve from the jaws of death?

Some wolfsbane sprouted from the drool of Cerberus?

Marigolds, a silver blade, uncrossable running water?

Even though he politely raps upon the door,

check for hairy palms and a long index finger.

And let us not forget the yellow eyes that burn

into your soul like a hot branding iron.

You consider my question thoughtfully and then you smile.

I detect that fearlessness that has kept you safe so far.

The woods are to my back and there is creeping darkness,

and rustling in the brush that is insidious.

You calmly reply to my question asking

if the werewolf knocks when he visits.

“No, she don’t.”

That smile is enough to remind me

you do not fear werewolves or death

even when she comes to visit without knocking.

 

 

The Graveyard Fence

I have chosen to walk beside the cemetery,

carefully skirting its boundaries and singing

a soft sweet melody from my childhood.

I clutch my stick that I have to use against

the yipping, biting dogs who track me

with their curiosity, protectivity and their teeth.

I am not cruel to animals but I am prepared.

The dead are sleeping peacefully as the sun wanes

in the western sky, blinking fitfully between the clouds.

I passed houses on my walk with evening lights

coming on for the supper hour and twinkling

blue lightning bugs against the growing darkness.

There is a bit of chill in the air and I draw my coat

tightly against the wind that persistently tugs at me.

I know that if the evening firefly is accidentally

trapped within their homes someone will die.

Just an old superstition but I listen to such lore.

Especially since I am a cemetery walker and

need every tool in my bag of tricks I can find.

Even now, as I pass the wooden fencing that keeps

the dead enclosed and secure and away from the living,

I touch my dog-stick against the boards as a gesture.

Is touching wood an announcement to the ancient wood gods

that I am here and accepting an invitation to wander

the cemetery even though the living should not bother

those who are sleeping in their wooden caskets?

Knocking the wooden fence outside a graveyard

reminds me that

I am alive and unafraid.

            

 

The Wolf and the Rose

He loved her more than the wind and the run

on the darkest nights when the world slept.

His blood burned with this desire for her

which he could not understand at all.

Had a witch cast a spell upon his heart?

He watched her shadow at the window,

lit by firelight and a flickering candle,

but he had no need for illumination as

he was nocturnal and could see all that

moved in the dark forest and the house.

When he met her on the path during sunlight,

she smiled at him and cast him a greeting.

Her voice was soft as the stream that flowed

beside the path and it captured his ear,

so that he heard it long after she passed.

He met her often upon that path until

she told him her name was Rose.

He dared not tell her his own true name

because she would run screaming.

At night he returned to his true form

and he guarded the house from predators,

that might try to harm his beautiful Rose.

Each morning, she would find roses upon

her doorstep, as brilliant as crimson blood.

She gathered them and drank in their essence,

and smiled into the woods at the giver.

“I am not afraid,” she said, and laughed.

But he lingered in the fearful shadows.

 

 

The Haunted

 

Wisping, wafting, weightless as a will o’-wisp of the muck

of relentless swamp, reeking bayou and those without luck.

Do they wander and whimper and cry?

Moaning harshly, “Why me, oh why?”

Or are those fists raised to the sky?

Crying “why did I ever have to die?”

Does the night gleam with green light

Giving daring watchers a true fright?

Why do those lost souls howl

And wail in grief in nocturnal prowl?

Are they the haunted ones of old?

Embracing revenge best served cold?

Vengeance may be savoured well

Even from the murky depths of hell

By those who are haunted and now fly

As retribution wraiths across the dark sky.

Do you hide under the bed and cry?

Fearing you are the one marked to die?

 

 

Linda Sparks is a poet and author with several published books. She prefers writing poetry, horror and fantasy but is not adverse to the paranormal. She believes in poking the darkness to see what will awaken.