Mist In The Devil's Den...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	10/17/2001 11:42:04 PM 10/15/2006 11:04:59 AM	539

Mist In The Devil's Den:

So they talked you into it,
These silly friends of ours,
We're going on a haunted hayride,
Out on old Cobblestone Road,
Past the abandoned estate,
With it's blasted trees and long grass behind stark stone walls,
At the witching hour on All Hallows Eve,
Past the ancient barrows up in the misty moors,
You've dragged me along under the edge of the Harvest Moon,
The amber orb is rolling along the horizon,
And was that a howling wolf I just heard?

Now these chicken livered scoundrels have taken off,
And left us two my Sweet,
And you with a twisted ankle hobbling,
In this foggy darkness we must stride,
And every way we turn in the lost woods,
Leads only to the next ominous leafless tree,
We're so lost we're chasing brambles on game trails dear,
Under the gaze of hooting owls,
I can barely see your shawl over your shoulder,
Much less the eyes in your head for the thickening fog,
This all pervading dark grey mist is chilling me to the bone,
And what is love for anyway,
To drag me on such a night from my warm lamp lit home?

What is that rustling in the leaves,
I hear upon the forest trails?

We've come upon a stone wall of some twenty feet,
It's obvious age marked with chips and cracks,
In places of disrepair,
And I see the edges of a manse's gates,
With the dead McAvigeiy coat of arms upon it's fallen timbers,
And the old estate on Cobblestone Road,
Our traveler's respite this Hallowe'en,
Find you in the haze of fog a broken window free of bars,
For the great iron doors never were breached,
It's rumored the entire clan died starving under siege,
Their poor remains might greet us now,
These two hundred years after meeting their Saints.

Pardon my Sweet,
For these cobwebs and this dust,
And the ramshackle of this place,
This night has brought unto us,
'Tis dark and the wall sconces hold few candles,
In this wicked forsaken place,
Where there were evils unspeakable,
Before the kinsmen had conquered,
The clan of this keep were rumored to be shape shifters,
With a strong appetite for human flesh,
I'd as soon build a fire in the great hearth there,
And sleep in your arms at it's flagstone foot,
Where our bones might finally find dry and light and warm.

What's that you say my love,
There's a skittering in the pitch black halls?
'Tis only mice and spiders,
Or small creatures living in this ancient hall,
And now that I've kindled flames in the great hearth,
It seems a strange thing of wonder,
For I've never seen quite this color of flame,
This wood has stood awaiting sparks,
For some two hundred years,
It seems some purple cast to the air,
Fighting against such a strange shade of green fire,
And these dancing sparkles of pale silver light,
Are just the tired creeping from my bones,
I wonder why this dizzy feel has come upon me here in the dark?

Let us lay our weary heads upon the flagstone's now soft warm,
Yes rest your head upon my cradling arms,
I'm sorry for the black earth beneath my nails,
I can't quite remember it's origin's details,
And the red glow you say you see within my eyes,
Must be some trick of this strange wood we fired,
Lay aside your cross of gold my love,
Let me kiss your sweet nape and cheek to sleep,
Now that we're settled all alone,
That moaning it's just the foggy wind,
Upon the ancient walls of stout stone,
And yes , my eyes are an unusual shade,
Of green and black this All Hallows night,
What's that my love,
You say your head is growing light?

I can't quite fathom dear,
This deep hunger your beauty inspires,
Or what it is that makes you fade so pale,
The mist is invading this broken old house in the moors,
And I'm feeling very strange,
As my damned soul melds with yours,
My teeth it seems won't let go,
Of your beloved pulsating flesh,
And the coo of your soft moans,
Echo yet in the mist in this Devil's den,
My love you're still right now,
But in a fortnight you'll be hale and walk the Earth,
Forever your pale beauty,
In Moonlight will show it's wondrous worth,
And as we wraiths McAvigeiy are now black bride and groom,
We'll now share our tearful feasts forever,
Under the edge of the pale full Moon.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/18/2001



By: Daniel A. Stafford

Author's Comments

Happy Halloween, all!

	Library Home
Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
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Daniel A. Stafford

Broom Rider...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	9/15/2004 3:10:59 AM 9/17/2020 11:52:19 PM	498

Broom Rider...

I've often wondered if it was a cackle of glee,
Or a twitch of black cat claw on the backside,.
That lifted the first broom off the cauldron lip.

Perhaps the long green stockings,
And whippy black cloak,
Just trappings to hide picking broom splinters,
Out of something "nether" or such.

What they don't show you in corn bristle assembly class,
Is how to wrap milkweed fiber over toad skins,
So you can cling to an upside down spinning yew spear,
After you blast up the chimney in a puff of soot and sparks,
Big screeching black tom spike hackled and all.

The big question of the day,
Corn strings or long straw,
Batwing leather or worn old scalps,
The best method of cleaning black wax off cracked skulls,
Which type of toadstool stew to use for broomsores,
Or the best angle from which to cross an ambered gibbous moon.

Just remember to tip the vampire valets,
After you finish landing in the pumpkin patch,
Never let them catch you out racing ghosts,
And make sure you have a solid supply of sandpaper,
Before you set out for any spell casting match,
Standing naked and green under the stars,
There in the pentagram of a Druid circle.

There's a reason Fall brings out slang like,
Cold as a witch's...well,
Considering the entry fee is getting kicked in the face by a unicorn,
Is it any wonder you'll eat only small things stewed?

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/15/2004

Author's Comments

For some ghastly reason, I'm looking forward to Fall and Halloween

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	9/15/2004 3:10:59 AM 9/17/2020 11:52:19 PM	498

Author	Email	Web
Daniel A. Stafford	aqmstaffo@mailbag.com	www.whizzyrds.com

Candlejack's Night...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	10/7/2004 5:16:33 AM 9/26/2020 11:32:59 PM	402

Candlejack's Night...

It was deep in a moonlit night,
Amber was writ large in Luna's face on the horizon,
Even as she danced in and out of a veil of thin black cloud,
Frost was gilded like white on grass and stone,
Deep in the woods even the magical Little People stayed far from,
The occasional star peeping through the night,
Peering down through shadows upon a long cold trail,
Overgrown nearly with ripping brambles,
Flush in the rustling of flaming October leaves,
If it were daylight you'd see the red,
Now just a black cowbell of announcement for lost feet.

She wandered between groping black oaks,
Wicked buckthorn dressed in black cloaked night tearing the sky,
Stones now began lining the sides of the path,
A soft green glow tracing the lines of ancient characters upon them,
A language she didn't know at all,
But the path was clear now,
Even cobwebs had fled the darkness of this place,
And in the eerie glow of Stonerune light,
She could feel every drop of crimson pulse in her veins,
Every beat within her shivering chest was amplified,
Spine chills and hackle-raising tingle flames on the back of her neck,
Yet she couldn't bear going back into the woods,
Hearing the rustling of some creature back at the first stones,
Pawing and huffing and a mournful howl thrown into the long night,
Resigned she stumbled on and on.

Set now upon smaller stone pedestals that danced the sides of a monolithic valley,
Giant pumpkins with glowing red candle faces carved in them,
Pools of softly glowing light illuminated leaves fallen from the heights,
The only thought of life and bounty to drift into this bleak place,
Save her and her wayward lost feet that wouldn't stop cold,
Something daylight's more rational tone might have stressed,
Far more so when the first pile of small creature bones appeared,
There in the candles' puddle of orange-yellow glow,
Feet that carried her unasked,
As each candle stand claimed it's own bony pool.

Wide eyes and silent scream the Candlejack leapt out of the dark,
Towering stick body supporting a huge pumpkin head,
Vile purple glow in the carved-looking eyes,
The curl of bony fingers danced snakes across her soft throat,
She whimpered as her bones shrank back,
Her mind was beyond stopped,
Another spirit soared the sky as Candlejack,
Screamed and something lifeless fell,
There at the base of the pumpkin stand,
Harvest of another Fall and victim of her own fear,
For Candlejack's cold rest was again undisturbed,
The silent tomb was brushed with one more falling drifting leaf.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/07/2004

Author's Comments

Inspired by the season.

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	10/7/2004 5:16:33 AM 9/26/2020 11:32:59 PM	402

Author	Email	Web
Daniel A. Stafford	aqmstaffo@mailbag.com	www.whizzyrds.com

Dark Night Of The Pumpkin Gnarls...

 

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	10/28/2008 3:47:13 AM 9/24/2020 5:17:39 AM	461

Dark Night Of The Pumpkin Gnarls...

The King of Frost comes,
King Jack The Crystal Whisperer,
Blowing in on the night wind howling,
He rounds the corners of your house,
Stealing mercury from thermometers,
All the better for the crazy webs he weaves.

His armies steal the heat from everything,
Setting Summer to sleep,
Mimicking the twinkling cold lights in the sky,
He whites the grasses and leaves,
Ghostly for your awakening,
Leaving his stealth army waiting.

The Pumpkin Gnarls sit on sidewalks and porches,
Orange with green warrior's top knots,
Awaiting their birth in pain of the carvers' knives,
Dreaming of seedy earth and loam,
Seeping waters and worms and bees,
Frozen or tucked away tight from Crystal Jack's thieving reach.

Faces come alive as they spill their guts,
Spend their seeds in roasting ovens,
Fearing the threat of Bakers' pies,
They await their lighted fate.

Bats and spooks are their companions,
Witches cackle and howl,
With tea lights and candles the Gnarls live their brutal short lives,
Waiting for the darkening night winds,
When the lights flicker out that night beware,
For the Gnarls rise.

Filled with the darkened souls of a century of dead Lanterns,
The Pumpkin Gnarls twitch and twitter when the candles die,
Rising as fearsome Pumpkin Jacks to stalk the candied frozen night.

Frozen vine claws clench,
Become legs that skitter and skooch,
They search for anything living,
To taste their bright warm eyes,
Soul-stealers and flesh-slashers,
In a day or two they melt away,
In the rotted death of their wicked ways.

Keep clear your face from the Jack O' Lanterns,
Lest their light flicker out,
They see you then on All Hallows Eve,
A tasty treat all gore and warmth,
Waiting to scream out steaming last breaths,
All for the plucking of eyes,
Green and brown and blue and grey,
You see them then they see YOU.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/27/2008

Author	Date Entered/Modified	Views
Daniel A. Stafford	10/28/2008 3:47:13 AM 9/24/2020 5:17:39 AM	461

Author	Email	Web
Daniel A. Stafford	aqmstaffo@mailbag.com	www.whizzyrds.com

The Raven-Whisperer's Daughter...

 The Raven-Whisperer's Daughter...

In the dark ghost of twilight,

Silken fog with promise of frost,

She weeps shards of icicle tears,

For a father who speaks softly to harbingers of death,

Tall is he like a bare Winter Oak of five-hundred years,

With limbs like crooked branches and twisted twigs,

Her home is a stump-hollow pool,

Her bed a hummock of cobwebs' steel-silk,

And she dances under a moon-ring,

Full-moon bright shines on the empty longing of her heart.

In the innocence of her fragile mind

She remembers

Gentle whispers of shared moments

Wise advice spoken from her father’s soul

Only meant to protect her

Safe from the folly of man

"Listen my child

Carefully as I speak

Be careful of those who come

Professing great portents

For they speak of greed

Disguised as guidance

But that is not their way"

Serenata is her name,

"Night Song,"

Sweet she sings as Muse of Lullabyes,

Knowing the Ravens whisper secrets of the dead in her father's ear,

His word she believes,

She sees them perched on his shoulder,

"Kutcha, Kutcha, Kutcha!" they cry as they fly off,

Secrets delivered,

She shudders in the dim starlight,

Her lullaby turned sour and blue,

Yet still beautiful,

For she knows his dark words are true.

Caught unawares even within the walls of nature's protection

The love of a human reaches out to her,

Careful he is in his approach,

Time is on his side,

For what he desires is worth the effort,

But she remembers,

Torn between what she knows,

And the newness of desire,

She must decide.

A brace of ravens swoops down,

Circling above her head,

"Kutcha, Kutcha, Kutcha caw!" they cry,

She hears whispers but cannot understand,

Burning with a new ache,

She wends her way through wood and glen,

To the secret place she first saw him,

A lone raven following,

Branch to bramble,

She is wary of bear or lion or wolf,

Yet driven in a way she doesn't understand,

Her sweet song a burning whisper,

Pulling a shadow of night in her wake,

Her foot reaches a damp stone,

Burbling creek between her and the sheltered glen she seeks.

A final warning

From the raven who refused to leave her

“Remember, who you are

Your legacy

The future lies in you. . . .”

And then she saw him

With a bow and arrow in hand

Aimed at . . .

...Her father's heart,

And she froze,

A firestorm of raging emotions new,

His words then pierced her surely and deadly,

"Whisper me Ravener, did my dead wife love me true?"

Serenata broke then,

Hearing her father's simple answer - "Yes."

The hunter's bow dropped,

His tears echoed on her face,

She knew her love defeated by a ghost,

Raging and grieving was her lullabye,

As she sang it hunter climbed a tree and found a bough on which to sleep,

As Serenata reached the lines,

"If the bough breaks, the cradle will fall,"

Down came sleeping hunter to break on earth,

Raven flew to steal his dying breath,

"Kutcha! He loved you too..." first whisper she understood,

She turned and ran far to the cold North,

Ravens following,

And young mothers remember the song of her heartbreak,

Still gentle with horror today.

AquarianM ( aquarianm.u.yuku.com/ ) & Dracula's Woman ( draculaswoman.u.yuku.com/ )

(C) 10/09/2011 (Poetry only)

By Daniel A. Stafford and Alexis Williams

Footnotes:

(1) "Serenata" is Italian for "serenade," but the literal translation is "night song."

(2) "Kutcha" is the healing raven spirit of Siberian Koryak shamans.

Rowan's Promise...

Rowan's Promise...

Rowan had long locks of hair,
The color of Autumn fire,
Streaked through with chestnut brown.

Her eyes like amber and cinnamon were filled with an easy smile,
Warm like morning embers,
Easy to rekindle the bright light of laughter.

Rowan was the first-born daughter of Summer,
Her childhood filled with yellow dandelions and their seed-children flying on soft breezes,
Tickle-chin and bumble bees,
Butterflies and clover,
Beautiful lilac bushes and fireflies.

Soon enough came cool days,
Grasses grown tall and tufted,
Rabbits hiding abed and birds in big swooping black flocks,
Milkweed bursting with soft white and acorns falling,
Their caps like lost hats,
With breath hanging in the air like magic.

The leaves on the trees were mimics,
Vivid mirrors of Rowan's bright hair or her mother's,
Brown and red and orange and yellow,
Like cartoon fire decorating the land.

In what seemed like only a breath of time,
The air turn ed shimmering white as young Rowan exhaled,
Ponds became dark reflecting sheets of the soft charcoal-gray skies,
White flakes fell to Earth,
Days shortened into long and dark nights,
The stars became sharp and bright,
And drifts of snow rolled across the open fields,
Tufted by the tall locks of tawny-gold grasses and dark leafless trees.

Rowan and Summer lit candles and watched the Hunter dance across the cold dark nights.

It was one these long dark nights that Summer began to teach her daughter of their family:

"Rowan,
My love,
The time we just passed with the turning of the leaves,
The harvest and the falling of seeds,
The flight of the milkweed seed and the seeds of tall grasses on the wind,
The time of first breath steaming the air and first frost upon the prairies and windows,
That time was your time,
Your beauty lavishing the Earth."

Rowan smiled and remembered the beautiful colors,
And the feeling of the Spirit World close to the world of the living.

Summer continued the education of her daughter in her soft and warm voice:

"The time before that when all was green and hot,
When bees were busy and flowers turned to seed,
When leaves were emerald and creatures were swimming,
When dandelions showed their yellow heads and nights were warm and soft,
When birds raised their chicks,
That time was my time,
My beauty lavishing the Earth."

Rowan closed her amber eyes and remembered her youngest days,
When she roamed barefoot and waded in ponds chasing pretty dragonflies.

Summer continued on by the flickering light of candles,
As the snowy winds howled strong and frigid outside their house of stone and thatch,
An ancient abode made warm by the fire in a large hearth:

"Now we are in the time of my Grandmother Winter,
And this is her time,
And she will lavish her beauty upon the Earth."

Rowan's eyes opened in colorful surprise,
Full of doubt and disbelief.

"Mother,"
Said Rowan in a voice of dry leaves rustling in the tree tops,
"How can you call such as this beauty?"

Rowan gave depth to her question in a voice like a honking flock of geese and the flapping of many birds' wings:

"I can not bear to move far from our front door,
The trees look dead as sticks,
The paths I ran upon are treacherous with ice and snow,
The birds and bees and butterflies are all gone away,
And even the spiders,
Every pond is a sheet of ice as black as night,
And if the frozen winds do not chill my bones,
Then they howl and shriek about our door,
Worse if they are gone all is silent and dark as the days are short!"

Summer smiled as a wolf howled at the bright full Moon somewhere across the fields.

She replied to her daughter in the tones of a babbling brook and gently-rustling grasses:

"Look in the morning at the silver and crystal of the icicles in early sun,
And hear tonight the quiet inside,
For this is the time of rest and reflection,
Of learning and stories and tales of things long-gone and grand,
The time when old things pass and are either forgotten or woven into legend and songs,
As all the world makes ready for the arrival of my Mother,
The ever-lovely and new Spring."

Summer went on in the voice of bees buzzing and birds singing in the rustling boughs of trees:

"My Grandmother Winter is the source of all that is or ever will be,
She is the cold and the night,
The great void in which the Sun and Stars all nest,
She is the endless river of Time that allows the emergence of all which is new."

Upon these words a knocking came to their front door,
As if a sheet of snow and ice were flung at it,
And Summer smiled when she reached to open it for her dear Grandmother.

With a chill draft and a swirl of flurries,
Winter stepped over the threshold,
And the fire leapt and crackled as a burst of cold air rushed into the hearth,
Thereby feeding the burning of the logs stacked within.

She was beautiful,
With long and pale white hair trimmed in glittering ice crystals,
Her eyes as pale a blue as twinkling starlight,
Her hand like gnarled tree-bark clutching a staff of long-dead oak,
Her shawl of frost lace,
Covering the shoulders of her long black dress of deepest night,
Clasped together with the Moon as her brooch.

Winter looked down at her stunned great-granddaughter,
And she smiled like moonlight peeking through the dark clouds of a snowstorm in the night.

She spoke then,
And it was like the thunder of a distant avalanche accompanying carolers singing:

"Granddaughter,
You are lovely,
Born to herald my coming to the World,
The color before my pale and dark presence,
And I give you your True Name with love,
Autumn you will always be,
And a tree with red fruit will bear your child-name,
For all to remember your first season."

As Winter spoke,
The first rowan tree appeared,
In the ground at the foot of the path leading to Summer's door,
Just in the place where Autumn had first played as a toddler,
Its red fruit blended against the deep green of the pines,
And so we have the colors of Yuletide,
To remember the passing of Autumn's time to that of Winter.

Autumn's amber eyes danced with delight,
However Winter had further to tell her lovely great-granddaughter.

Winter's voice this time was the shrieking howl of a gale upon the frigid sea:

"When the wheel turns past my time,
Will come my first daughter Spring,
With flowers and new creatures born,
Early rains and new leaf-buds upon the trees,
Though you will never meet your lovely Grandmother,
Nor she you,
I shall tell her of you dear,
And you must tell all the World each year that I am coming,
So that All may be renewed."

"I will and I shall dear Grandmother!"
Autumn promised in a voice of a scythe singing among stalks of wheat.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/24/2018

Night Of The Pumpkin Mystic...

Post by AquarianM on Sep 24, 2011 at 6:21am

Night Of The Pumpkin Mystic...

ia700709.us.archive.org/10/items/ShamansTrek/Shamans-Trek.mp3

Walking the Hollowed Hills on a thin-misted night,
Stars glitter in and out of view,
Shadowed trees reach dark limbs,
Leaves rustle underfoot,
Dried grasses rustle the soft breeze,
Chills tingle spine,
Steps beat time,
Entranced,
Treading to the Underworld,
The place of pumpkins and candle smoke,
Where a faded flower dwells,
Seeking whispers and secrets,
Seeking the roots of time.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/24/2011

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
---------------------------------------
All of my published poetry is at:
www.lulu.com/spotlight/coloringbookforallages

Sight Of A Season...

Post by AquarianM on Sep 11, 2010 at 3:46am

Sight Of A Season...


I saw red leaves today and my eyes joined in,
Summer is winding down and it leaves me melancholy,
It always does.

I'm another Summer farther,
Off from those golden days of youth,
Young loves bygone and flown,
Young friends and old grandparents,
Pictures that flake away to dust.

Every sunset notches my heart,
Whittling it down to a match stick,
Still it burns bright and heavy,
While I hold my breath as the sun slides off the world.

Summer, Summer,
Leave me not,
For it's hard to bear the sentiment and ghosts,
That play like faded children in Autumn leaves.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 09/11/2010

Words are the mind's bridge - it's connection to the universe.
Love is the heart's bridge - it's connection to all other souls.
Loving words can work miracles.
---------------------------------------
All of my published poetry is at:
www.lulu.com/spotlight/coloringbookforallages

Boxtrolls…

Boxtrolls…

I loved this movie! The artwork is right up my alley. Some of the subject matter should be kept at least pre-teen and above, but the art and heart are adorable. 9/10

Pass the popcorn.

Dan

Click to enlarge pic

Dan Stafford October 22, 2014

Even A Peanut Knows…

Even A Peanut Knows…

I’ve never seen the Great Pumpkin,
But I’ve seen great pumpkins,
Whether or not the Doctor is in,
The football gets pulled,
Leaving you nothing to punt,
So haul your blanket to the piano,
Get ready to sing while you freeze,
‘Cause even a child knows,
What happens after the coloring of the trees.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 10/17/2014

Dan Stafford October 17, 2014

The Great Pumpkin Is Real...

The Great Pumpkin Is Real...

I saw it in plain sight,
It was three hundred pounds,
No joke,
No boast,
The Great Pumpkin landed in our front yard.

Funny thing,
He always had his back to us,
In daylight that is,
Wouldn't show his face,
Not to a single ghoul,
Ghost,
Goblin,
Skeleton,
Vampire,
Nor witch.

No magic was powerful enough,
Not even when the veil was thin,
Not until kissed by the rays of Harvest Moon,
For at night that Great Pumpkin,
He came alive!

I heard his secret late one Halloween night,
Long after children were abed,
Thrashing in candy throes,
Trying desperately to sleep.

"I believe in Linus you see,
I must visit a different pumpkin patch each year,
For some day,
There will be a little boy,
With a blanket and a girl,
It will be up to me to save her faith."

I wish I could believe in the Amazing Linus,
Who could make a toy piano sound like Mozart,
With one thumb still in his mouth.

I hope the Great Pumpkin finds him someday,
Only to save her faith.

AquarianM

By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 10/25/2016