The Grave Yard
Vandals knocked down the gravestones in the churchyard during the night.
They didn’t give a damn about the dead, their families, or what is right.
The grave yard vandals have gone and the usual tranquillity has returned
to the field of the dead, the flattened headstones and broken urns.
The peace and quiet of the night is disturbed by an owl’s repeated hoot,
and the flapping of wings, as the Belfry’s bats come flying through.
The moon bright sky suddenly vanishes behind a darkened cloud,
as if to give a wake up sign to a transparent figure covered by a shroud.
The howling grey figure hovers over the flattened epitaphs and marble stones,
waking the dormant spirits who respond with unhappy morbid moans.
The ghosts of the old and newly departed are rising in anger this very night
to take revenge on the desecrators who broke the dark’s link with the light.
Hosts of vengeful grey blue ghosts and spirits swirl and mingle together,
and then separate to seek out the vandals in this night of damp cold weather.
With deathly haunting cries they howl and search, as they travel with the wind
through keyholes, cracks in doors and windows, they examine everything.
One by one the vandals were cornered and reminded of their shame;
continually they shout, “No harm was meant.., it was just a game.”
Swirling in the air the ghouls prodded and pulled, as they hounded them on
back to the grave yard where they would face what they had done.
Into a large dark cold tomb the weeping gravestone wreckers were driven,
with blood running from their wounds; they were not to be forgiven.
The moaning, groaning, spirits of the dead followed them into the crypt,
slamming shut the heavy door so hard it made one of the vandals shit.
The ghosts and spirits encircled the living, and raised in them pure hell,
and by daylight the following morning no one was alive to yell, or tell.
It was several days later that seven heart attack victims were discovered,
with tormented faces, mouths wide open, and eyes with coins covered.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Related quotes
Spirits Rebellious
I can't do right when all I wanna do is wrong
My conscience sounds alarm like the waning of a Chinese gong
I know about the punishment, I know about the law
My sins cut deeper than the teeth on a saw
My attitude is bad and my nerves are raw
I'm a shotgun snake, I'm a jackal with claws
I was born with a chip on my shoulder on a stormy night
Alright
My spirits rebellious, you tell us everything's okay
No way
Spirits rebellious, we won't do anything you say
It's a hard, hard world with a black corroded heart
There's a livin', breathin' devil trying to tear my soul apart
In a cold, cold grave on a dark, dark night
Eternity is black, I'll never see the light
Never listen to advice, I was never that bright
Couldn't walk away, I was lookin' to fight
I was born with a chip on my shoulder on a stormy night
Alright
My spirits rebellious, you tell us everything's okay
No way
My spirits rebellious, we won't do anything you say
No Way
My spirits rebellious, you tell us everything alright
Tonight
Spirits rebellious, all we gonna hear is lies,lies, lies
Lies...
My spirits rebellious
I can't do right when all I want to do is wrong
My spirits rebellious
I know about the punishment, I know about the law
My spirits rebellious
My sins cut deeper then the teeth on a saw
My spirits rebellious
I'm the teenage curse of the monkey's paw
song performed by by Alice Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Street-Side Elergy
In the night,
If you walk through
This soggy street
Where virtuous spirits
Have gone to bed
And evil spirits roaming,
You will wrench yourself loose of joy
And wail for this street.
If you hear
The hear-renting shrieks
Of victims in this evil night,
You must wail, you must wail
Publicly, for this street.
If you know
How brotherhood is spent
And how humanity is broken
In this broken street,
You must scream hard
To dance away the evil spirits.
If you see brothers
Treating brothers with
The ferocity of jungle beast,
These tears must drop.
These tears on the eye lids
Must drop.
If you walk through this street
In the foggy day light,
You will see broken spirits
All existing and ghostly.
Scream hard and hard
For the living dead,
For the living can still be dead
I found that in this street.
Scream to invite good spirits
To dance away the evil spirits,
If you want to mask,
You can mask
For the night is horrendous.
poem by Stephen Kekeghe
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The Vanished
The Vanished
It was not a forest more like a few forgotten trees
by the road, they stood close together as seeking
protection from vandals. Inside the day was dark
and I heard twigs breaking off, but saw no birds or
squirrels. Perhaps it was the spirits of the people
who had lived here but had died out as the forest
gave way to farm land and was reduced to dismal
woods of evergreens that was helpless against
agricultural progress. A way of life, beyond repair,
as a dead language that is but whisper in the wind.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Dinner-Party
Fish
'So . . .' they said,
With their wine-glasses delicately poised,
Mocking at the thing they cannot understand.
'So . . .' they said again,
Amused and insolent.
The silver on the table glittered,
And the red wine in the glasses
Seemed the blood I had wasted
In a foolish cause.
Game
The gentleman with the grey-and-black whiskers
Sneered languidly over his quail.
Then my heart flew up and laboured,
And I burst from my own holding
And hurled myself forward.
With straight blows I beat upon him,
Furiously, with red-hot anger, I thrust against him.
But my weapon slithered over his polished surface,
And I recoiled upon myself,
Panting.
Drawing-Room
In a dress all softness and half-tones,
Indolent and half-reclined,
She lay upon a couch,
With the firelight reflected in her jewels.
But her eyes had no reflection,
They swam in a grey smoke,
The smoke of smouldering ashes,
The smoke of her cindered heart.
Coffee
They sat in a circle with their coffee-cups.
One dropped in a lump of sugar,
One stirred with a spoon.
I saw them as a circle of ghosts
Sipping blackness out of beautiful china,
And mildly protesting against my coarseness
In being alive.
Talk
They took dead men's souls
And pinned them on their breasts for ornament;
Their cuff-links and tiaras
Were gems dug from a grave;
They were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts;
And I took a green liqueur from a servant
So that he might come near me
And give me the comfort of a living thing.
Eleven O'Clock
The front door was hard and heavy,
It shut behind me on the house of ghosts.
I flattened my feet on the pavement
To feel it solid under me;
I ran my hand along the railings
And shook them,
And pressed their pointed bars
Into my palms.
The hurt of it reassured me,
And I did it again and again
Until they were bruised.
When I woke in the night
I laughed to find them aching,
For only living flesh can suffer.
poem by Amy Lowell
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Spirits?
Though I've never seen one exactly
I've encountered some evil presence
The very sense of it overwhelms me
But with God, Fear lurks in absence.
Spirits of dead are mere wanderers
Some are evil and utterly vicious
Some are more harmful than the others
And some possess humans for their use.
The spirits who protect us are angels
And the spirits who harm us are vile
Some in realms of government control
And some enthroned in fake piety's style.
Spirits of the dead they call 'ghosts'
They seem to avoid me and hide
They're the ones I would like to ask most
What they felt at the moment they died.
For you see, I am quite prepared
To meet that old man with the sickle
For Death is the one Jesus dared
Over which He proved He was able.
That Jesus Who now lives in me
Has power over all of these spirits
At the mention on His Name they flee
For they know there's just One Holy Spirit.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Floridian Nightmare
(5/12/11)
The spirits of the dead were flying all around
All you could hear was a screechy eerie sound
The coffins and bodies were taken and thrown into a ravine
One on top of another was all that could be seen.
A worker had notified the authorities of what had taken place
The news media heard of it and said it was a disgrace.
Loved ones came running as they heard of the news
Of how their loved ones had been abused.
Many people have said that they see the spirits
Searching each grave
Looking for a marker of where they once laid.
The people walking their dogs very late at night
Telling of a screaming as their dogs jump with freight.
Now this is a true story and not a Halloween tale
Till this day you could hear the spirits wail.
You can hear the wailing more on Halloween night
As the other spirits join and scream of their plight.
poem by Louis Rams
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The Grey World
Grey nights in the wind,
And the grey-faced dead.
Grey hairs in my head,
And grey eyes in my mind.
Grey mists in the morn,
And grey waves that rave,
Grey mould on my grave,
And grey eyes forlorn.
Grey clouds in the sky,
And the grey world asleep,
Grey ghosts that sigh,
And grey eyes that weep.
poem by Leon Gellert
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samhain for M lady Marianna Jo
The veils grow thin on all souls eve
and vengeful ghosts are free to leave.
The kingdom of eternal night
to seek revenge and vent their spite.
On erst while relatives and friends,
Who have not tried to make amends.
Insults offered before they died
long brooded on and magnified.
Although you may not be aware
you were the cause if their despair.
To them it makes no difference
because they chose to take offence.
At something which you did or said.
For this night only they can tread
amongst the living once again
They are intent on casing pain.
Some call it superstition.
Not me I keep an open mind
It is an old tradition
although it is not well defined,
Though when the veils are torn aside
to let the vengeful spirits through
I much prefer to stay inside,
It seems the wisest thing to do
I am afraid that’s why I hide
behind stout walls which can protect
and keep the wrathful ghosts outside
That way I show them some respect.
10-Oct-08
Http: // Blog.myspace.com/poetic piers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Windspirits Triolet
Spirits in the wind are dancing.
The wind spirits are playing flutes.
They play heavenly and gracefully.
Spirits in the wind are dancing.
They are prancing wood fairies.
Spirits in the wind are dancing.
Thesw happy spirits are just dead.
The wind spirits should just go to bed.
Spirits in the wind are dancing.
poem by Vega Destiny Star
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The Allegory Of Good And Evil
i made a cottage
of nipa and bamboo
and rattan
by the side of the
sea
it is not that
luxurious
any common man of this
village may come and
rest
i put the sign that any
tired man may sleep there
any traveler may use it
for free
i was away for three days
when i visited it
the vandals drew a big penis and
a vagina as big as a platter
poured black paint on the floor
and scattered drift wood
in the center of the floor
how unkind are these unknown
vandals?
but we cannot be outdone
we clean it again
repaint it with green and beige
to cover the obscenity
i guess, what devil destroy
God is never tired repairing
because we have promised
to be instruments of good
then we must all comply
now the cottage stands clean again
welcoming still a tired traveler.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Come The Dawn
The darkness crept in-slinking
'Cross the creaking maple floors
And in the distance the wind 'twas groaning
While the blackbirds were cackling at the doors
The trees in the forest black were whispering
Branches were snapping at vampire bats
Dracula came out of hiding in a lust for blood
And the grounds of the estate were covered with black cats
'Round the corner came a forboding
A lost and most frightening glare of a stare
'Twas the wolf of 'Oberon's Ghost'*
Howling at the full moon with care
And as the night progressed to dawn
But before the first light of day
The undead ran for daytime cover
As the world turned a bleaker shade of gray
Slowly disappearing 'tis the Sun
The ghouls have worked their vile spells
Preparing the Earth for a 24/7 place of darkness
Inviting in all of the evil spirits of Hell
* Oberon
The wraith from my dark poem
Called The Castle on Starlitecafe
June 7,2009
From: The ***Attic Of My Heart
poem by Theodora Onken
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Faith II
THROUGH the long night, the deathlong night,
Along the dark and haunted way,
I knew your hidden face was bright--
More bright than any day.
And when the faint, insistent moan
Rose from some weed-grown wayside grave,
I said, 'I do not walk alone;
'Tis easy to be brave.
I never turned to speak with you,
For all the way was dark and long,
But all the shadows' menace through
Your silence was my song.
I never sought to take your hand,
For all the way was long and rough;
I taught my soul to understand
That love was strength enough.
Then, suddenly, the ghosts drew near,
A ghastly, gliding, tomb-white band;
I called aloud for you to hear,
My hand besought your hand.
No voice, no touch--the thin ghosts glide
Where in my dream I dreamed you were--
Night, night, you are not by my side,
You never have been there!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Feed On The Weak
Spirits call, spirits rise.
Desolate sky, spirits die!
Haunting for the silence
As the sickness falls within.
You've got your strays,
The mice are killed.
It stems between the sick.
Spirits call, spirits rise.
Desolate sky, spirits die!
Haunting for behind them
Finds us meaning on the way.
The words fill, the chapters come.
It dissipates, it stays.
Spirits call, spirits rise.
Desolate skies, spirits die!
Falling hard, arriving fear.
Feeding on the weakest core.
song performed by by Obituary
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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This Desirable Mansion
THE long white windows blankly stare
Across the sodden, tangled grass,
Weed-covered are the pathways where
No footsteps ever pass;
No whispers wake, no kisses die,
No laughter thrills the dwindling flowers,
Only the night hears sigh on sigh
From ghosts of long-dead hours.
None come here now to laugh or weep;
The spider spins on stair and hall,
And round the windows shadows creep,
And loathly creatures crawl.
Cold is the hearth; the door is fast;
No guest the silent threshold sees
Save ghosts out of the happy past,--
And one who is as these.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Darkness Sets Upon Her
Dark as ebony, dark as night
Dark as the raven in mid flight
Dark as the grave doth her heart grow
Cold and silent as the dead of night
Oh sweet angel of mercy, sweet angel of light
Beckon to her before she takes flight
Speak ever so softly, breath life back into her soul
That she'll not tread life's pathway
A hollow, empty shell full of darkness so foul
That eats away at the radiant light
Which once from the windows of her soul did flow
For quickly doth darkness set upon her
Stealing away what little remains pure
Blackening her heart, blotting out the light
Nevermore to shine, cold and silent as the dead of night
poem by Jennifer Batch
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The Darkest Black Rose
THE DARKEST BLACK ROSE
The darkest black rose lying by a gravestone.
Another love lost, another love dead.
The darkest black rose lying by a gravestone, I wonder how many tears you have witnessed spilt on holy soil.
The darkest black rose lying by a gravestone. Cold on the ground.the eerie quietness of the grave yard make this the most peaceful place on earth for the living and the spirits of the dead
“copyright 2009 Kerry Green all rights reserved”
http: //thepaganshop.co.uk/KerryGreen.aspx
poem by Kerry Green
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A Haunting Fright
'twas the middle of fall
on a cold spooky night
the fog and the moon,
such an eerie sight!
witches with cats
flying in the air
broomsticks at hand
they give quite a scare!
Goblins and ghouls
put a shiver down my spine
as do skeletons
while they hang from a vine
wherewolves howl
at the sheen of the moon
as skeletons dance
to the awful tune
so just when you thought
that all you could see
the spirits are haunting
their silent plea
so i leave you to ponder
upon this dreadful thought
you think its all over
but i think not!
poem by Nicolette Anna
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Madmen
They say you can jinx a poem
if you talk about it before it is done.
If you let it out too early, they warn,
your poem will fly away,
and this time they are absolutely right.
Take the night I mentioned to you
I wanted to write about the madmen,
as the newspapers so blithely call them,
who attack art, not in reviews,
but with breadknives and hammers
in the quiet museums of Prague and Amsterdam.
Actually, they are the real artists,
you said, spinning the ice in your glass.
The screwdriver is their brush.
The real vandals are the restorers,
you went on, slowly turning me upside-down,
the ones in the white doctor's smocks
who close the wound in the landscape,
and thus ruin the true art of the mad.
I watched my poem fly down to the front
of the bar and hover there
until the next customer walked in--
then I watched it fly out the open door into the night
and sail away, I could only imagine,
over the dark tenements of the city.
All I had wished to say
was that art was also short,
as a razor can teach with a slash or two,
that it only seems long compared to life,
but that night, I drove home alone
with nothing swinging in the cage of my heart
except the faint hope that I might
catch a glimpse of the thing
in the fan of my headlights,
maybe perched on a road sign or a street lamp,
poor unwritten bird, its wings folded,
staring down at me with tiny illuminated eyes.
poem by Billy Collins
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A Bedtime Story
It was just after midnight and I’d been reading in bed for an hour
when a sweet sickly smell wafted in, which turned horribly sour.
Cursing, I got out of bed and opened the window some more,
which seemed to cause a draft that slammed shut the door.
I reopened the door much wider this time and returned to my bed,
a draught blew the pages losing the place to where I’d read.
The temperature dropped so I again got out of bed and closed the door,
and also the window slightly, but it was still cold, so I closed it more.
Large goose bumps formed along my arms as I got back into bed,
I picked up the book and tried to find the last page that I’d read.
It was warmer now, but I still pulled the covers up to my chest;
I found my page and carried on reading with keen interest.
The atmosphere in the room seemed somehow unusual and strange
with an unpleasant smell and sudden coldness change.
Above the top of my page I saw a movement at the foot of the bed
and I saw someone standing there, so I raised my head.
The hairs on the back of my neck stiffened and sent a shiver down my spine,
for a second I was speechless; it was an apparition the colour of lime.
Motionless he just stood with his face towards the floor with nothing to say,
his lifeless body sagged wearing a worn out coat that had seen a better day.
“Who the Dickens are you and what do you want? ” I nervously said.
He stared straight through me when he slowly raised his head.
His aged gaunt tired face seemed to stare far beyond my body,
so I turned to see, but there was only the wall behind me.
“Why don’t you answer me, ” I said, “are you unable to speak? ”
Then with a voice that was deep and certainly not meek,
said, “Oh yes I can speak when and if it suits me to,
but what makes you think that I want to speak with you? ”
“Well excuse me, you came into my room and stood by my bed
and you looked as though something just ought to be said.”
“You don’t mean anything to me, I didn’t even notice you
until you broke my spiritual flow, like all you living do.
I don’t think you living realise that restless spirits come and go,
we roam the dead space of time just as the four winds blow.
We didn’t ask to be here, abandoned to wander forever more,
we’re trapped and forgotten spirits behind heaven’s door.
And don’t bother to ask me how I got here because I don’t know,
I never harmed anyone when I was alive and that is truly so.
I freely admit that some of the spirits have become evil and sour
and like the living, insanity becomes worse by the hour.
You the living remind us of how it was when we were there,
but we are enraged by the many who abuse and don’t care.
It is possible that you could end up here in this dead space,
and then with me you’ll be wearing my kind of face.”
As I was about to ask a question he quickly faded out of sight,
the smell and coldness went with him into the night.
I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I know it’s true
and perhaps one day a similar experience might happen to you.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Why Be A Bukowski Or An Emily? They Are All Dead
hey friend, dear poet
why be an emily dickenson or a charles bukowski
or a walt whitman or an ezra pound
look man, they are all dead
they're great, they have given themselves
extraordinary fames
commensurate to their extraordinary works
but they are all dead
and they have no more possibilities
they are all impotents
and faded and (forgive the word)
gone, gone, gone, gone.
let them be but part of our memories,
nothing but maps, guides, to the roads that we must now
take,
ghosts, famous ghosts, but ghosts just the same,
spirits, their poems are here with us
as a legacy
but we are alive, we are the possibilities
we are more than miserable with our
search for meaning
our quest to justify our insignificances
these little cravings for light
and scent and color
these little lives we have
if true to our miseries
as they were true to theirs
we can even be more
than what they had in their own time
in their own lives
have become......
sail on man, sail on, in the ocean of possibilities
in the vast space of our potentialities
we can be ourselves, truly ourselves,
that to me,
is greatness enough
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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