The Gallows

Sleepy Hollow : The Tree of the Dead

2010-11-21T07:51:00.002-07:00

FLATLINERS : BACCHANAL

2010-11-11T08:11:00.000-07:00

ARSENIC AND OLD LACE : JACKO & TOT'S

2010-11-11T08:08:00.000-07:00

A & C MEET FRANKENSTEIN : OPENING CREDITS

2010-11-11T08:06:00.003-07:00

SLEEPY HOLLOW : SCARECROW

2010-11-11T08:06:00.002-07:00

DRACULA : WEBS

2010-11-11T08:01:00.001-07:00

FRANKENSTEIN : DEATH IN THE GRAVEYARD

2010-11-11T08:00:00.001-07:00

SLEEPY HOLLOW : PUMPKINHEAD SCARECROW

2010-11-11T07:57:00.001-07:00

2010-11-02T00:33:00.000-06:00

WILL-O'-THE-WISP
by Orville Henry Leonard

I know that across those mountains
Lies a country about like this,
And I know that poisoned fountains
Fringe the way, and the rattlers' hiss
Is sibilant on that blistering trail,
    And the sand is like the sea,
But the Will-o'-the-Wisp of the desert
    Is a-beckoning to me.

I know that others both skilled and bold
Have taken this trail before,
Hunting long for the yellow gold,
Only to come back worn and sore —
That is, if they ever came back at all —
    And though all this I know,
When the Will-o'-the-Wisp of the desert calls
    I pack my jack and go.

The cactus grows and flaunts its rose
Beside the trail my burro takes.
The hot day comes, the hot day goes,
Desert night wind the whole world shakes.
Then a dancing light in the velvet dark
    Afar on the waste I see,
And I know that the desert Will-o'-the-Wisp
    Is flashing his light at me.

His elfin light is of fancy made.
Yet he jeers at me like a clown
By flashing scenes of liquid shade
On the noon sky, but upside down,
For he carries slides with his lantern by day
    To tease me maliciously.
Though I know he's the Will-o'-the-Wisp, yet I swear
    That he's holding a cup to me.

He has no form, he has no face,
He has only a dancing light
To lure me on from place to place —
To every place but the right.
Though I stumble and faint and burn with thirst,
    I follow hopefully,
For the Will-o'-the-Wisp of the desert
    Is waving his light to me.

HALLOWEEN AT THE GALLOWS, 2010

2010-11-01T01:55:00.006-06:00

2010-11-01T01:37:00.000-06:00

ALL SOULS' NIGHT
by Louisa Humphreys
Canice the priest went out on the Night of Souls;
    "Stay, oh stay," said the woman who served his board
"Stay, for the path is strait with pits and holes,
    And the night is dark and the way is lone abroad;
Stay within because it is lone, at least."
"Nay, it will not be lone," said Canice the priest.

Dim without, and a dim, low-sweeping sky;
    A scent of earth in the night, of opened mould;
A listening pause in the night—and a breath passed by—
    And its touch was cold, was cold as the graves are cold
Canice went on to the waste where no men be;
"Nay, I will not be lone to-night," said he.

Shades that flit, besides the shades of the night;
    Rustling sobs besides the sobs of the wind;
Steps of feet that pace with his on the right,
    Steps that pace on the left, and steps behind.
"Nay, no fear that I shall be lone, at least!
Lo, there are throngs abroad," said Canice the priest.

Deathly hands that pluck at his cassock's hem;
    Sighings of earthly breath that smite his cheek;
Canice the priest swings on, atune with them,
    Hears the throbbings of pain, and hears them speak;
Hears the word they utter, and answers "Yea!
Yea, poor souls, for I heed; I pray, I pray."

Lo, a gleam of gray, and the dark is done;
    Hark, a bird that trills a song of the light.
Canice hies him home by the shine of the sun.
    What to-day of those pallid wraiths of the night?
What of the woeful notes that had wailed and fled?
"Maria, ora pro illis!" Canice said.

2010-11-01T01:01:00.001-06:00

MOON MAGIC
by Pamela Grey

One day when Father and I had been
To sell our sheep at Berwick Green
We reached the farm house late at night
A great moon rising round and bright.

Her strange beam shed on all around
Bewitched the trees and streams and ground.
Changing the willows beyond the stacks
To little old men with crouching backs.

To-day the sun was shining plain
They all were pollarded willows again.
But at night—do you believe they're trees ?
They're little old men with twisted knees.

KING ICKY III

2010-10-31T15:46:00.000-06:00

2010-10-31T01:27:00.000-06:00

HALLOWEEN
by C. Jennie Swaine

Gay elfins flit under the holm's broad sheen,
As the first star rises on Halloween;
And goblins and fairies, a weird-like band,
Dance 'neath the shadow of sweet tryst-land.

They ride through the air in their chariots small;
They sail through the spray of the water-fall;
They float through the billows of moon-light sweet,
And glide through the forest with noiseless feet.

Sweet fairy band, whose footsteps unseen
Are lost in the frost-pearls of Halloween!
It is said that ye open, with mystic hand,
The gateway that leads to Arcana land.

What is the secret the future unfolds?
What are the gifts which its fairy-land holds ?
Are they all which a dream foreshows
When the rainbow of promise upon it glows ?

O Halloween, open thy vista gate,
And reveal through the rose-tints the lines of fate ;
Reflect in thy mirror our bloom-days bright,
And leave all the shadow-days veiled in night.

Give the hero the heritage for spoil,
Give the toiler the measure-meed of toil,
And thy dreamland glories, sweet Halloween,
The Elysium of meet reward shall seem.

Show thou to us the charmed life that lives
On the festal bounty of what it gives,
And we 'll learn that 't is better to write one's name
On the human heart than on heights of fame.

Weave your bright spell, elves of Halloween!
O'er a servile enchantress; but work is queen.
And no better can be the sorcerer's wand
Than the laurel's green and the palm-tree's frond.

THIS TIME LAST YEAR . . .

2010-10-30T22:58:00.000-06:00

. . . OVER AT GRIM HOLLOW.

I love this haunt.

2010-10-30T01:29:00.000-06:00

HALLOWEEN
by Henry Lee Fisher

Among the bonnio winding banks
Wnere Doon rins wbimplin clear;
Whore Bruce once ruled the martial ranks,
And shook his Carrick spear.
Some merry, friendly, countra folks
Together did convene
To burn their nits an pou' their stocks
An' baud their Halloween
Fu' blythe that night.
—Burns.

How gay and jolly was the night—
Of many an old-time Halloween ;
A feast for saints, all-holy, all,
Yet very seldom, if at all,
A sober saint was to be seen
At such a feast, for, little meat
There was prepared for saints to eat.

On Halloween in other lands,
From whence our worthy fathers came—
Among Auld Scotia's storied hills,
Along its babbling brooks and rills,
So rich in rare poetic fame,
Witches and wizards, elves and de'ils
Joined in the merry mid-night reels.

But true and honest country-folks—
Folks young and gay and single—
Those true and honest country-folks
Once played their charms and cracked their jokes
Around the cheerful, blazing, ''ingle,''
And pulled and ''shouthered runts o' kail''
And cracked their nuts and drank their ale.

A youthful couple, hand in hand,
And very closely bandaged eyes,
Would, thus, into the garden walk,
And, blindly pull a cabbage-stalk
Whose form and features, shape, and size
'Twas understood, were true to life,
Of future husband or of wife.

So, were the tedious hours beguiled
By many a merry lad and lass :
In kail and flax, in nuts and yarn,
In midnight winnowings in the barn,
Or looking in the magic glass,
The airy being sought and feared,
In some mysterious way appeared.

O, many were the strange mishaps
Of many a rude and luckless wight;
And many were the tricks and charms,
And many were the wild alarms,
On that wild, weird mysterious, night!
And many an ancient legend tells
Of fairy dance and wizard-spells ;

Among the rugged rocks and caves,
Dim lighted by the friendly moon—
Upon the weird winding banks
“Where Bruce ance ruled his martial ranks”—
The storied banks “O, Bonny Doon,”
As every reader knows who turns
The mellow leaves of Robert Burns.

In this unstoried land of ours
Not such was merry Halloween;
No random pulling of the “kail,”
No roasting nuts, no foaming ale,
No dance upon the homestead green;
No sowing of the hemp or flax
Nor pulling straws from oaten stacks.

With far less rev'rence for the saints
Or faith in charms or magic spell—
To superstition less inclined,
In magic arts, all unrefined—
Our old time Halloweens but smelled
Of cabbages, which by the scores
We hurled against the neighbors' doors.

The battering-rams of ancient times,
Or modern arts and arms of war—
The mortars, bombs, and bursting shells,
With union shouts and rebel yells
And angry, belching, cannons' roar,
All were but tame and quiet scenes
Compared with our old Halloweens.

A rustic regiment of boys,
And rustic girls as brave as they,
Well armed with sturdy cabbage-heads
While honest folks, all in their beds
In peaceful dreams and slumbers lay,
In rude, but old-time—honored sport
Assailed the undefended fort.

One such bombardment I recall—
At good old neighbor Johnny Brown's ;
To see what all this was about,
Old Johnny and his dame came out
In their nocturnal, nether gowns,
When lo ! a well-directed runt
Struck Johnny in—well, not in front.

Dumbfounded, he, a moment stood
Beneath the overhanging eaves ,
While '' bursting shells '' their fragments threw,
And all around the pieces flew—
Runts, broken hearts and shatter'd leaves ;
What wonder he should run in fear
From such hell-fire in his rear.

Though many more as stout as he,
Such furious fire might not withstand ;
Yet, fearless, valiant, Mrs. Brown,
More brave than Johnny, stood her ground,
With broomstick in her sturdy hand—
She'd break the first one's head, she said,
Who'd throw another cabbage-head.

And now, old Johnny re-appeared,
A looking quite subdued, though grieved
'Twas Halloween! was our excuse,
Inscribed upon a flag of truce,
And so respected and received
By Johnny, and his valiant dame,
Whose honored guests we now became.

We gathered up the kail debris
That lay about the porch and door ;
We gathered 'round the blazing hearth,
And there we swore, for what 'twas worth,

That we would do so, never more ;
But understood, “no more” to mean,
No more 'till next year's Halloween.

Of this our mental reservation,
Nor John, nor Betsy ever knew,
Their house and hearts were open, wide,
And of their best they did provide
And sent not far—for fiddling Joe;
For, Joe was never far away
When there were tunes or tricks to play.

And in the great old fire-place—
That heaven for darkies here below,
Upon a block he sat him down,
Unenvious of a monarch's crown,
And rosin'd up his ready bow,
While itching toes and buoyant heels
Stood ready for the rustic reels.

And soon the merry dance began
As over the oaken kitchen floor
We danced with all the young Miss. Browns—
Clad in their linsey-woolsey gowns—
Until our very toes were sore ;
While old folks, freed from care and toil
Sat, smoked, and quaffed their cider-oil.

And while the dance was going on,
A panel of the kitchen door
Flew out; and thereupon a runt flew in
And hit old Johnny on the shin !
What wonder that he cursed and swore
By all the saints, “the devil was loose
And riding on a tailor's goose.”

But maugre all, the dance went on—
No hitch nor halting in Scotch reels ,
The more old Johnny cried, "aye! aye!"
The thicker did the cabbage fly—
The faster went the clattering heels;
'Till John and Betsy, both, cried out,
"There's witches, elves, and de'ils about] "

In came another company
Of merry boys and merrier girls,
Alert with playful pranks and freaks—
With sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks,
And O, what waving, flowing curls,
To add new beauty to the scene,
On that good old-time Halloween.

“More water on our mill!” we cried,—
And then, again, the dance went on;
And many a runt was kicked around,
And many a heart was crushed and ground,
And many went where more had gone—
Across the fence to feed the pigs,
Whilst we kept dancing reels and jigs!

Old Betty sezied the poker, then,
And stirred the dull and waning fire ;
Ten thousand sparks arose and flew,
Like meteors, up the chimney-flue—
And swift as meteors they expired ;
So do our merry times and friends—
So we, when death the pageant ends.

At length, the old folks went to bed—
To speak politely, they retired ;
But we danced on till past midnight,
And sang and played till near daylight,
But never, never, were too tired,
Nor ever thought it sin or harm
To put Smith's wagon on his barn.

In fact, this was the final act
In serio-comic Halloween;
Nor was the play esteemed complete
Without this mad, Herculean feat—
And foolish, final midnight scene;
And who, but neighbor Johnny Brown,
Should help Smith get his wagon down ?

Farewell to dear old Halloween—
To merry song and dance and play;
To home and hearth and back-log-fire—
The torch that did our hearts inspire
When life was young and spirits gay;
Farewell to all the hallowed scenes
That blessed and cheered our Halloweens.

But, still, the world is better, now—
O, Progress! O, Reform! Reform!
Instead of throwing cabbage-runts—
Against our neighbors' French plate fronts,
The boys and girls throw grains of com
And I sing in these homespun rhymes
The cultured manners of the times.

2010-10-30T00:19:00.000-06:00

I'm a big believer in the notion that poetry belongs to the reader. Actually, I'd like to expand that to the world belongs to the individual. Interpret and enjoy at will. To that end, in my world, this poem is about a burgeoning banshee.

THE WAIL OF THE BETRAYED
by Francis S. Smith

Come, night, sad night, and let me hide
My wretchedness in thee! 
Nurse in thy gloom my woman's pride,
My heart's deep agony!
Thy sombre shadows suit me well,
My trouble and unrest
Are suited to thy darksome spell—
'Tis night within my breast.

The flowers that bloom at early morn
To some may beauteous be, 
But those that ope at night's approach
Are dearer far to me. 
The first like sunshine friends may smile
In fortune's happy light,
The latter will our griefs beguile
In sorrow's gloomy night.

Though bright the glorious orb of day,
It has no charm for me;
I would not have a single ray
Shine on my misery.
Like the crushed flower upon the plain,
Dust-covered from the sight,
So would I hide my loathsome stain
In everlasting night.

I love the dark-robed night, for she
Shares all my bitter grief;
She has a sigh in every breeze,
A tear on every leaf;
And while the moon looks sadly down,
The stars shed, as they glow,
A ray of sorrowing light that seems
Like sympathetic woe.

2010-10-29T09:09:00.000-06:00

THE GHOST
by Walter de la Mare

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful,
Beyond all dreams to restore,
I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither,
And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I,—once was my speech
Sweet as the bird's on the air.
When echo lurks by the waters to heed;
'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold."
"Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?"
"Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain."
"Long dead these to thine...."

Silence. Still faint on the porch
Brake the flames of the stars.
In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand
Over keys, bolts and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night
In chaos of vacancy shone;
Nought but vast Sorrow was there—
The sweet cheat gone.

2010-10-29T01:34:00.000-06:00

THE HALLOWEEN ELF
by J.B. Tabb

There's a funny little elf man,
In a funny peak-ed cap,
And he cuts such funny capers I
Such a merry little chap !
And he goes out on a frolic,
And he shakes his little wings,
When he thinks how very funny
Is the little song he sings !
“Halloween Night!
Halloween Night!
In the cold bright rays
Of the old moon's light,
Elf men and brownies !
No time to be lost!
We will frolic around
Till we freeze up the ground,
And the children will think
It's Jack Frost.”

2010-10-28T01:35:00.000-06:00

HALLOWEEN
by William Howe Cuyler Hosmer

I.

I had a vision:—in my dream
I looked on Doon's enchanted stream, .
The moonlight glinted forth its beam
On hill, and cairn.
And one I saw who reigns supreme
Apollo's bairn.

II.

The bard, renowned in distant climes,
Sighed for the sports of other times
When bells rang out their merry chimes,
And lads were seen
With lassies singing quaint old rhymes
At Halloween.

III.

“These customs of an elder day,”
He said, " should never pass away,
Till flowers should wreath the pole in May,
And on the green Nymphs from the Doon, and Ayr and Tay
Should choose their Queen.

IV.

“Hearts, leal and warm, old manners hail !
Braw lads in Caledon will fail
When, as the evening shades prevail,
No more are seen Blythe lassie pulling plants of kail
At Halloween.

V.

“With them in soul, on sic a night,
Your minstrel, Burns, still takes delight,
And though unseen by mortal light,
His spirit glance Sees on the lawn, with moonshine bright,
The fairies dance.

VI.

“At ingle-neuks on every farm
Let witch and warlock wake alarm,
The burning nuts still work a charm
At Halloween,
So loved when arm I locked in arm
With Bonny Jean.

VII.

“By, on the wind while spirits pass,
Rustling the leaves and withered grass,
Still let the pale and trembling lass
Her apple eat,
And in the haunted looking glass
A husband greet.

VIII.

“Indeed will Scottish hearts be cold,
Her glory like a tale that's told
When ancient rites and customs old
Are loved no more,
And only worshippers of gold
Crowd Albyn's shore.”

IX.

Deep silence fell upon the place,
The poet's noble form and face,
Fled in my dream and left no trace,
Like vanished smoke ;
I heard Doon's waves each other chase,
And I awoke.

Mcpherson Lodge, Oct. 31, 1865

2010-10-27T10:49:00.000-06:00

HAUNTED
by Don Marquis

A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain?
Then why do you start and shiver so?
That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?
But it sounds like another noise we know!
The heavy drops drummed red and slow,
The drops ran down as slow as fate—
Do ye hear them still?—it was long ago!—
But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!

Spirits there be that pass in peace;
Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole;
And the hour that your choking breath shall cease
I will get my grip on your naked soul—
Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole—
I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate:
To me, to me, ye must pay the toll!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

The dead they are dead, they are out of the way?
And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind?
Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day
When ye heard a voice in the calling wind?
Why did ye falter and look behind?
At the creeping mists when the hour grew late?
Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

Drink and forget, make merry and boast,
But the boast rings false and the jest is thin—
In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost,
Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within,
Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,
Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
Ah, a weary time has the waiting been,
But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

2010-10-27T01:37:00.000-06:00

HALLOWEEN
by Arthur Peterson

Out I went into the meadow,
Where the moon was shining brightly,
And the oak-tree's lengthening shadows
On the sloping sward did lean;
For I longed to see the goblins,
And the dainty-footed fairies,
And the gnomes, who dwell in caverns,
But come forth on Halloween.
"All the spirits, good and evil,
Fay and pixie, witch and wizard,
On this night will sure be stirring,"
Thought I, as I walked along;
"And if Puck, the merry wanderer,
Or her majesty, Titania,
Or that Mab who teases housewives
If their housewifery be wrong,

Should but condescend to meet me"—
But my thoughts took sudden parting,
For I saw, a few feet from me,
Standing in the moonlight there,
A quaint, roguish little figure,
And I knew 'twas Puck, the trickster,
By the twinkle of his bright eyes
Underneath his shaggy hair.
Yet I felt no fear of Robin,
Salutation brief he uttered,
Laughed and touched me on the shoulder,
And we lightly walked away;
And I found that I was smaller,
For the grasses brushed my elbows,
And the asters seemed like oak-trees,
With their trunks so tall and gray.

Swiftly as the wind we traveled,
Till we came unto a garden,
Bright within a gloomy forest,
Like a gem within the mine;
And I saw, as we grew nearer,
That the flowers so blue and golden
Were but little men and women,
Who amongst the green did shine.

But 'twas marvelous the resemblance
Their bright figures bore to blossoms,
As they smiled, and danced, and courtesied,
Clad in yellow, pink and blue;
That fair dame, my eyes were certain,
Who among them moved so proudly,
Was my moss-rose, while her ear-rings
Sparkled like the morning dew.

Here, too, danced my pinks and pansies,
Smiling, gayly, as they used to
When, like beaux bedecked and merry,
They disported in the sun;
There, with meek eyes, walked a lily,
While the violets and snow-drops
Tripped it with the lordly tulips:
Truant blossoms, every one.

Then spoke Robin to me, wondering:
"These blithe fairies are the spirits
Of the flowers which all the summer
Bloom beneath its tender sky;
When they feel the frosty fingers
Of the autumn closing round them,
They forsake their earthborn dwellings,
Which to earth return and die,

"As befits things which are mortal.
But these spirits, who are deathless,
Care not for the frosty autumn,
Nor the winter long and keen;
But, from field, and wood, and garden,
When their summer's tasks are finished,
Gather here for dance and music,
As of old, on Halloween."
Long, with Puck, I watched the revels,

Till the gray light of the morning
Dimmed the luster of Orion,
Starry sentry overhead;
And the fairies, at that warning,
Ceased their riot, and the brightness
Faded from the lonely forest,
And I knew that they had fled.

Ah, it ne'er can be forgotten,
This strange night I learned the secret
That within each flower a busy
Fairy lives and works unseen.
Seldom is 't to mortals granted
To behold the elves and pixies,
To behold the merry spirits,
Who come forth on Halloween.

2010-10-27T00:58:00.000-06:00

THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS
by James Whitcomb Riley

They all climbed up on a high board-fence—
Nine little goblins, with green-glass eyes—
Nine little goblins that had no sense,
And couldn't tell coppers from cold mince pies;
And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat—
And I asked them what they were staring at.

And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws in his hair so red—
"This is what this little arm is fer!"
And he scratched and stared, and the next one said,
"How on earth do you scratch your head ?"

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge—
Laughed and laughed till his face grew black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
Till the breath came back to his lips so pale.

And the third little goblin leered round at me—
And there were no lids on his eyes at all,—
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
"What is the style of your socks this fall?"
And he clapped his heels—and I sighed to see
That he had hands where his feet should be.

Then a bald-faced goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And paste them over his upper lip;
And then he moaned in remorseful pain—
"Would—Ah, would I'd me brows again!"

And then the whole of the goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row, hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know—
Singing the songs that their grandsires sung
In the goo-goo days of the goblin-tongue.

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare—
Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise,
And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair,
And I felt the heart in my breast snap to,
As you've heard the lid of a snuff-box do.

And they sang: "You're asleep! There is no boardfence,
And never a goblin with green-glass eyes!—
'Tis only a vision the mind invents
After a supper of cold mince pies.—
And you're doomed to dream this way," they said, —
"And you sha'nt wake up till you're clean plum dead!"

THE SILENCE OF THE PUMPKINS

2010-10-26T22:11:00.001-06:00

Re-posted by request. I admit, I'm a little surprised someone remembered this.

2010-10-26T01:40:00.000-06:00

HALLOWEEN
by Ignatius Brennan

To-night's the night the fairies dance;
Hobgoblins strut in classic style;
Weird banschees stoop to do their prance,
Though lying dormant, such a while.
We now keep watch upon the green;
In ghoulish costumes all are seen;
This happy night—“All Halloween.”

Old and young, (no old ones there,
The old are young this special night)
Play every prank—they're all so fair —
To keep the spooks in chill affright.
All cares are tossed to windward—they
Have no place this night to stay
When all's a merry-making way.

We'll make the windows all aglow
In brilliant splendor everywhere;
We'll burn the bonfires high and low,
To show the fairies we are there.
We'll bite the apple on the string;
We'll eat our taffy, nuts, and sing;
We'll make old pumpk' a hideous thing.

And why not celebrate this night?
To-morrow, and the saints are here;
To do them honor with our might
Is why we spend this night in cheer.
Then following the "All Saints" tread,
Next day "All Souls"—our cherished dead
Who ask that goodly prayers be said.

We'll sing the praise of Phocas, he
Who gave to Blessed Boniface
The Pantheon—(when Rome was free)—
To be a Christian playing-place.
We'll ever keep his memory green
And celebrate in proper mien—
He gave us place for Halloween.

2010-10-25T02:43:00.000-06:00

THE BELEAGUERED CITY
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I have read in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral band was seen,
And with a sorrowful deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum nor sentry's pace,
The mist-like banners clasped the air
As clouds with clouds embrace.

And when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarméd air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled:
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And then the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

2010-10-25T01:53:00.000-06:00

ALL-HALLOWS EVE
by Francis Ledwidge

The dreadful hour is sighing for a moon
To light old lovers to the place of tryst,
And old footsteps from blessed acres soon
On old known pathways will be lightly prest;
And winds that went to eavesdrop since the noon,
Kinking at some old tale told sweetly brief,
Will give a cowslick to the yarrow leaf,
And sling the round nut from the hazel down.
And there will be old yarn balls, and old spells
In broken lime-kilns, and old eyes will peer
For constant lovers in old spidery wells,
And old embraces will grow newly dear.
And some may meet old lovers in old dells,
And some in doors ajar in towns light-lorn ; —
But two will meet beneath a gnarly thorn
Deep in the bosom of the windy fells.
Then when the night slopes home and whitefaced day
Yawns in the east there will be sad farewells ;
And many feet will tap a lonely way
Back to the comfort of their chilly cells,
And eyes will backward turn and long to stay
Where love first found them in the clover bloom —
But one will never seek the lonely tomb,
And two will linger at the tryst alway.

2010-10-24T10:37:00.000-06:00

THE GHOST
by Thomas Hood

A Very Serious Ballad

In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out—
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn
At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax;
And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing came thus about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!

"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.,
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame
To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My memory—like Rogers's—
Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt—
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not
With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger-joint
Another pledge should cling;
O Bess! upon my very soul
It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'

"A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return;
Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood
A-boiling in its urn!

"Remember, oh, remember how
The marriage rite did run,—
If ever we one flesh should be
'Tis now—when I have none!

"And you, Sir—once a bosom friend—
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider yourself kicked.

"A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plain,
Marry come up! you marry, ma'am,
And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow—and off he went
Like fowling piece at cock!

2010-10-24T02:51:00.000-06:00

THE BANSHEE
by John Todhunter

Green, in the wizard arms
Of the foam-bearded Atlantic,
An isle of old enchantment,
A melancholy isle,
Enchanted and dreaming lies:
And there, by Shannon's flowing.
In the moonlight, spectre-thin,
The spectre Erin sits.

An aged desolation.
She sits by old Shannon's flowing;
A mother of many children,
Of children exiled and dead,
In her home, with bent head, homeless,
Clasping her knees she sits,
Keening, keening!

And at her keene the fairy-grass
Trembles on dun and barrow;
Around the foot of her ancient crosses
The grave-grass shakes and the nettle swing
In haunted glens the meadow-sweet
Flings to the night wind
Her mystic mournful perfume;
The sad spearmint by holy wells
Breathes melancholy balm.
Sometimes she lifts her head,
With blue eyes tearless.
And gazes athwart the reek of night
Upon things long past,
Upon things to come:

And sometimes, when the moon
Brings tempest upon the deep,
And roused Atlantic thunders from his caverns in the west,
The wolfhound at her feet Springs up with a mighty bay,
And chords of mystery sound from the wild harp at her side,
Strung from the heart of poets;
And she flies on the wings of tempest
Around her shuddering isle,
With grey hair streaming :
A meteor of evil omen,
The spectre of hope forlorn,
Keening, keening !

She keenes, and the strings of her wild harp shiver
On the gusts of night:
O'er the four waters she keenes—over Moyle she keenes,
O'er the Sea of Milith, and the Strait of Strongbow,
And the Ocean of Columbus,
And the Fianna hear, and the ghost of her cloudy hovering heroes;
And the swan, Fianoula, wails o'er the waters of Inisfail,
Chanting her song of destiny,
The rune of the weaving Fates.

And the nations hear in the void and quaking time of night,
Sad unto dawning, dirges,
Solemn dirges,
And snatches Of bardic song ;

Their souls quake in the void and quaking time of night,
And they dream of the weird of kings,
And tyrannies moulting, sick
In the dreadful wind of change.

Wail no more, lonely one, mother of exiles wail no more,
Banshee of the world—no more !
Thy sorrows are the world's, thou art no more alone;
Thy wrongs, the world's.

2010-10-24T01:44:00.000-06:00

HALLOWE'EN
by Alexander McLachlan

Ev'rybody kens that spirits
Walk abroad on Hallowe'en,
And the little playful fairies
Hold their revels on the green;
Ev'rybody kens they're partial
To auld Scotland's bonnie glens—
No' a lintie o' the valley
Ilka green nook better kens.

Mony a shepherd at the gloamin'
Scarcely can believe his e'en,
Coming unawares upon them
Dancing in their doublets green;
Singing sangs, and drinking dew-drops
Out o' cowslip cups sae pale,
Or a' riding on the moonbeams
Doun the dingle and the dale.

Mony a chuffy-cheekit laddie
They hae wiled by birken-shaw,
Mony an' mony a bonnie bairnie
On that nicht they've charm'd awa';
Weel it's kent they watch o'er lovers,
A' their hearts to them are seen,
A' their quarrels and their matches
They mak' up on Hallowe'en.

Weel it's kent they're faithfu' ever
To the genius o' oor laun',
And in a' her cares and troubles
Send her aye a helping haun';
They it is, should Donald waver
'Mid the battle's loudest din,
That keep yelling thro' the bagpipes
Till he gars the foeman rin.

'Tis frae them the Scottish minstrels
Learn sae weel their melting art,
Get the magic words that open
A' the fountains o' the heart.
Nane can dance oor "Gillie Callum,"
Sing oor Scottish sangs, I ween,
Saving them wha've tippl't wi' them
On the dews o' Hallowe'en.

On that nicht, there's nae denyin't,
Mony a Scot, as weel's mysel',
Hae had munelicht dealings wi' them,
Gin the truth they like to tell.
Weel, ae Hallowe'en at gloaming,
Drowsy sleep bow'd doun mine e'e,
And to my surprise I wauken'd
Daundering on the midnicht lea.

There the big horn'd mune was glow'ring
Doun upon me frae the sky,
And the wee bit stars a' trembling
Like the tears in Beauty's eye.
Suddenly I heard a rustle
Doun beside the lonely spring;
Gliff't was I nae doubt to see there
Elves and fairies in a ring.

There they were a' sitting singing
Blithely on the velvet green,
And the owrecome o' the sang was
"Hey, for Scotland's Hallowe'en!"
Frae their lips ilk word was fa'ing
Sweet as ony dewy gem—
Kennedy himsel' ne'er warbled
Scotia's ballads like to them.

In the midst a hoary matron
Wi' auld Scotland's spinning-wheel—
"Scotland's auld, respected Mither,"
Oh, I kent her face fu' weel!
Gazing on her rugged features
What unutterable things
Stirr'd my spirit, while above me
Flapt innumerable wings.

Shades o' ancient Scottish worthies,
Heroes wi' the laurel crown'd,
Martyrs, patriots, and prophets,
Saints and sages, hover'd round;
A' the preachers and the poets,
A' the spirits great indeed,
Wha hae twin'd a wreath immortal
Round oor puir auld Mither's heid.

A' the stalwart chiels wha perish'd—
Perish'd ! no, they never dee !—
Scotland, 'neath thy bluidy banner
Wha lay down their lives for thee.
Lovingly she gazed upon them,
Proudly claimed them for her sons;
And wi' a' a mither's fondness
Ca'd them " her immortal ones."

Then she turned, as to her children
Exiled far across the sea, Saying,
"Lads and bonnie lasses
That I nurs'd upon my knee,
Tho' the ocean rolls between us
Distance canna hearts divide;
Still in spirit ye are with me
By the Forth, the Tweed, the Clyde.

"Tho' amid Canadian forests
Or on Ganges' banks ye be,
Or in Afric's wilds, ye ever
Turn wi' longing hearts to me;
Tho' in distant lands ye triumph,
Still for Scotia's hills ye pine—
Ever thinking o' oor ingles,
And the Hallowe'ens lang syne ;

"And the quiet o' oor Sabbaths,
And oor psalm-tunes' solemn tones,
And oor altars, old and hoary,
'Mid the grey memorial stones.
Weel I ken my early lessons
Deep in a' your hearts are set—
Ah ! the Bible and the ballads,
No, ye never can forget!

"Ne'er be Fenian fules amang ye ;
Stick to country, kirk, and Queen,
And wherever ye may wander,
Aye keep up auld Hallowe'en !"
Even while she spoke, the grey cock
Clapt aloud his wings and crew,
And, or e'er I wist, the pageant
Past awa' like morning dew.

EDWARD SCISSORHANDS : STATUE

2010-10-23T18:26:00.001-06:00

At some point I need to try to replicate this for my haunt.

2010-10-23T02:53:00.000-06:00

ALL HALLOWS EVE
by John Davidson

(from "fleet Street Eclogues"—2nd Series.)

BASIL, MENZIES, BRIAN, PERCY.

Bri. Tearfully sinks the pallid sun.

Men. Bring in the lamps : Autumn is done.

Per. Nay, twilight silvers the flashing drops;
And a whiter fall is behind.

Bri. And the wild east mouths the chimney-tops, 

The Pandean pipes of the wind.

Men. The dripping ivy drapes the walls;
The drenched red creepers flare ;
And the draggled chestnut plumage falls
In every park and square.

Per. Nay, golden garlands strew the way
For the old triumph of decay.

Bas. And I know, in a living land of spells—
In an excellent land of rest,
Where a crimson fount of sunset wells
Out of the darkling west—

That the poplar, the willow, the scented lime,
Full-leaved in the shining air
Tarry as if the enchanter time
Had fixed them deathless there.

In arbours and noble palaces
A gallant people live
With every manner of happiness
The amplest life can give.

Per. Where ? where ? In Elfland ?

Men. No; oh no !
In Elfland is no rest,
But rumour and stir and endless woe
Of the unfulfilled behest—
The doleful yoke of the Elfin folk
Since first the sun went west.

The cakes they eat, and the wine they drink,
Savourless nothings are;
The hopes they cherish, the thoughts they think
Are neither near nor far;
And well they know they cannot go
Even to a desert star :

One planet is all their poor estate,
Though a million systems roll;
They are dogged and worried, early and late,
As the demons nag a soul,
By the moon and the sun, for they never can shun
Time's tyrannous control.

The naughty delicate style they keep,
Only the blind can see ;
On holy nights in the forest deep,
When they make high revelry
Under the moon, the dancing tune
Is the wind in a cypress tree.

They burn the elfin midnight oil
Over their tedious lore;
They spin the sand, and still they toil
Though their inmost hearts are sore—
The doleful yoke of the restless folk
For ever and ever more.

But could you capture the elfin queen
Who once was Caesar's prize,
Daunt and gyve her with glances keen
Of unimpassioned eyes,
And hear unstirred her magic word,
And scorn her tears and sighs,

Lean would she seem at once, and old;
Her rosy mouth decayed;
Her heavy tresses of living gold,
All withered in the braid ;
In your very sight the dew and the light
Of her eyes would parch and fade;

And she, the immortal phantom dame,
Would vanish from your ken ;
For the fate of the elves is nearly the same
As the terrible fate of men:
To love; to rue: to be and pursue
A flickering wisp of the fen.

We must play the game with a careless smile,
Though there's nothing in the hand;
We must toil as if it were worth our while
Spinning our ropes of sand;
And laugh and cry, and live and die
As the waft of an unseen wand.

But the elves, besides the endless woe '
Of the unfulfilled behest,
Have only a phantom life, and so
They neither can die nor rest—
Have no real being at all, and know
That therefore they never can rest —
The doleful yoke of the deathless folk
Since first the sun went west.

Per. Then where is the wonderful land of spells,
Where a crimson fount of sunset wells,
And the poplar, the willow, the scented lime
Tarry, full-leaved, till the winter-time,
Where endless happiness life can give.
And only heroic people live!

Bos. We know, we know, we spinners of sand
In the heart of the world is that gracious land;
And it never can fade while the sap returns,
While the sun gives light and the red blood burns.

2010-10-22T14:19:00.006-06:00

HALLOWE'EN
by Arthur Cleveland Coxe

The autumn wind—oh, hear it howl!
Without—October's tempests scowl,
As he troops away on the raving wind,
And leaveth dry leaves in his path behind,
Without—without,
Oh, hear him shout,
He is making the old trees bare;
Oh, cruel he,
To the old oak tree
And the garden hedges fair!
Oh, a wild and tyrannous king is he
When he playeth his frolic in every tree
And maketh the forest bare.

I know that a tyrannous rod is his
When he maketh the forest bow;
But worse, far worse are his tyrannies,
For he tameth the spirit now!
Without—without,
Oh, hear him shout,
October is going away!
'Tis the night—the night
Of the grave's delight,
And the warlocks are at their play;
Ye think that without
The wild winds shout,
But no, it is they—it is they.

The Spirits are pulling the sere dry leaves
Of the shadowy forest down;
And howl the gaunt reapers that gather the sheaves,
With the moon o'er their revels to frown.
To-morrow ye'll find all their spoils in your path,
And ye'll speak of the wind and the sky;
But oh, could ye see them to-night in their wrath,
I ween ye'd be frenzied of eye!

2010-10-22T03:00:00.000-06:00

SCARECROW
by Abbie Farwell Brown

Rags and tags of what he was,
Topped with straw and stuffed with hay;
Balanced tipsily askew,
It grins to scare the crows away.

I saw Him first in that old hat —
It seemed the crown of a king to me.
I liked his careless swagger then;
Lord! He was straight and fine to see.

He courted me in that same coat —
He could n't meet it now, I guess.
That gay vest was the one he wore
When I walked bride in my silver dress.

He seemed as proud as I, those days.
I never dreamed, when we were wed,
I'd think the Scarecrow a better man,
With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head.

Rags and tags of what he seemed,
Mocking me in the field all day.
What can I make a scarecrow of,
To drive the hungry thoughts away?

THE SCARY HOUSE

2010-10-21T15:47:00.000-06:00

I was out in the garage working on a prop when I heard some voices outside. I stepped closer to the garage door and heard a pair of boys daring (what I assumed to be) a younger boy to, "Go up and touch the scary house. Come on, just do it. I'll give you some gum." The younger boy wasn't interested. "All you have to do is walk up the driveway and touch the garage door." Still not interested. The older boys called him a chicken and made awkward bird sounds and finally one of them offered, "Look, I'll show you how easy it is." I heard his footsteps come closer. "See, there's nothing to be scared. . . ." Just as the garage door moved slightly at the touch of his hand I slapped it hard with an open palm . . . and then laughed my ass off at the sound of three pairs of feet whipping down the road and the little one screaming at the top of his lungs.

I don't know what's wrong with me but I can't stop laughing.

I love this [expletive deleted] holiday.

2010-10-21T01:54:00.000-06:00

THE WERE-WOLVES
by William Wilfred Campbell

They hasten, still they hasten,
From the even to the dawn;
And their tired eyes gleam and glistep
Under the north skies white and wa&.
Each panter in the darkness
Is a daemon-haunted soul,
The shadowy, phantom were-wolves,
Who circle round the Pole.

Their tongues are crimson flaming,
Their haunted blue eyes gleam,
And they strain them to the utmost
O'er frozen lake and stream;
Their cry one note of agony,
That is neither yelp nor bark,
These panters of the northern waste,
Who hound them to the dark.

You may hear their hurried breathing,
You may see their fleeting forms,
At the pallid polar midnight
When the north is gathering storms;
When the arctic frosts are flaming,
And the ice-fields thunder roll;
These daemon-haunted were-wolves,
Who circle round the Pole.

They hasten, still they hasten,
Across the northern night,
Filled with a frighted madness,
A horror of the light;
Forever and forever,
Like leaves before the wind,
They leave the wan, white gleaming
Of the dawning far behind.

Their only peace is darkness,
Their rest to hasten on,
Into the heart of midnight,
Forever from the dawn.
Across the phantom ice-floes
The eye of night may mark
These horror-haunted were-wolves
Who hound them to the dark.

All through this hideous journey,
They are the souls of men
Who in the far-dark ages
Made Europe one dark fen.
They fled from courts and convents,
And bound their mortal dust
With daemon wolfish girdles
Of human hate and lust.

These who could have been god-like
Chose, each a loathsome beast,
Amid the heart's foul graveyards,
On putrid thoughts to feast;
But the great God who made them
Gave each a human soul,
And so 'mid night forever
They circle round the Pole;

A praying for the blackness,
A longing for the night,
For each is doomed forever
By a horror of the light;
And far in the heart of midnight,
Where their shadowy flight is hurled,
They feel with pain the dawning
That creeps in round the world.

Under the northern midnight,
The white glint ice upon,
They hasten, still they hasten,
With their horror of the dawn;
Forever and forever,
Into the night away
They hasten, still they hasten,
Unto the judgment day.

2010-10-21T01:32:00.000-06:00

THE FORGOTTEN SOUL
by Margaret Widdemer

'Twas I that cried against the pane on All Souls' Night
(O pulse of my heart's life, how could you never hear?)
You filled the room I knew with yellow candlelight
And cheered the lass beside you when she cried in fear.

'Twas I that went beside you in the gray wood-mist
(O core of my heart's heart, how could you never know?)
You only frowned and shuddered as you bent and kissed
The lass hard by you, handfast, as I used to go.

'Twas I that stood to greet you on the churchyard pave
(O fire of my heart's grief, how could you never see?)
You smiled in careless dreaming as you crossed my grave
And hummed a little love-song where they buried me!

2010-10-20T01:39:00.001-06:00

THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND
by Philip Freneau

In spite of all the learned have said,

I still my old opinion keep;

The posture that we give the dead

Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands;—

The Indian, when from life released,

Again is seated with his friends,

And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds and painted bowl,

And venison, for a journey dressed,

Bespeak the nature of the soul,

Activity, that wants no rest.

His bow for action ready bent,

And arrows with a head of stone,

Can only mean that life is spent,

And not the old ideas gone.

Thou, stranger that shalt come this way,

No fraud upon the dead commit,—

Observe the swelling turf and say,

They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace,

(Now wasted half by wearing rains,)

The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,

Beneath whose far projecting shade,

(And which the shepherd still admires,)

The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen,

(Pale Shebah with her braided hair,)

And many a barbarous form is seen

To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er misting dews,

In habit of the chase arrayed,

The hunter still the deer pursues,

The hunter and the deer—a shade!

And long shall timorous Fancy see

The painted chief and pointed spear,

The Reason's self shall bow the knee

To shadows and delusions here.

FLATLINERS - JACK O' LANTERN & PAPER SKELETON

2010-10-19T20:05:00.000-06:00

2010-10-19T02:00:00.000-06:00

THE PHANTOM LINER
by Unknown

The fog lay deep on Georges Bank,
Rolling deep fold on fold;
It dripped and dripped from the rigging dank,
And the day sank dark and cold.
The watch stood close by the reeling rail
And listened into the gloom;

Was there a sound save the slatting sail
And the creak of the swaying boom?
Out of the dark the great waves crept
And shouldered darkly by,
Till over their tops a murmur crept
That was neither of sea nor sky.

"Is it the churn of a steamer's screw?"
"Is it a wind that sighs?"
A shiver ran through the listening crew,
We looked in each other's eyes.
No engines throbbed, no whistle boomed,
No foam curled from her prow,

But out of the mist a liner loomed
Ten fathom from our bow.
Ten fathom from our bow she grew,
No man might speak or stir,
As she leapt from the fog that softly drew
Like a shroud from over her.

We shut our teeth in grim despair,
Then, like one under a spell,
Right through her as she struck us fair
I saw the lift of a swell.
There was never a crash of splintered plank,
No rush of incoming tide,

There was never a tear in the mainsail dank
As her hull went through our side.
Unharmed we drifted down the night,
On into the fog she drave,
And through her as she passed from sight
I saw the light of a wave.

Was it some ship long lost at sea,
Whose wraith still sails the main?
Or the ghost of a wreck that is yet to be
In some wild hurricane?
Was it a warning to fishing boats
Of what the fog may hold,

As over their decks it drips and floats
And swathes in its slinging fold?
I cannot tell, I only know
Our crew of eighteen men
Saw the gray form come, and saw it go
Into the fog again.

2010-10-19T01:45:00.000-06:00

THE PHANTOM SHIP
by Henry W. Longfellow

In Mather's Magnalia Christi,
Of the old colonial time,
May be found in prose the legend
That is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven,
And the keen and the frosty airs,
That filled her sails at parting,
Were heavy with good men's prayers.

"O Lord, if it be thy pleasure"—
Thus prayed the old divine—
"To bury our friends in the ocean,
Take them, for they are thine."

But Master Lamberton muttered,
And under his breath said he,
"This ship is so crank and walty,
I fear our grave she will be!"

And the ships that came from England,
When the winter months were gone,
Brought no tidings of this vessel
Nor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to praying
That the Lord would let them hear
What in his greater wisdom
He had done with their friends so dear.

And at last their prayers were answered:
It was in the month of June,
An hour before the sunset
Of a windy afternoon.

When steadily steering landward,
A ship was seen below,
And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,
Who sailed so long ago.

On she came with a cloud of canvas,
Right against the wind that blew,
Until the eye could distinguish
The faces of the crew.

Then fell her straining topmasts,
Hanging tangled in the shrouds.
And her sails were loosened and lifted,
And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one by one,
And the hulk dilated and vanished,
As a sea-mist in the sun!

And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend,
That this was the mould of the vessel,
And thus her tragic end.

And the pastor of the village
Gave thanks to God in prayer,
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,
He had sent this ship of air.

ABBOTT & COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN - MASK

2010-10-18T20:27:00.000-06:00

ARSENIC AND OLD LACE - OPENING CREDITS

2010-10-18T20:26:00.000-06:00

NIGHT CREATURES - SCARECROW

2010-10-18T20:13:00.000-06:00

PUMPKINHEAD - SCARECROW

2010-10-18T20:07:00.000-06:00

FLATLINERS - TRICK OR TREATERS

2010-10-18T20:05:00.000-06:00

OZ - THE WICKED WITCH

2010-10-18T20:04:00.000-06:00

2010-10-18T02:09:00.000-06:00

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION
by Thomas Hood

A Pathetic Ballad

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"—Mercutio.

'Twas twelve o'clock by the Chelsea chimes,
When all in a hungry trim,
Good Mr. Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate and Jim.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup"—
When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A ghost came rising up!

"O father dear, O mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim—
You know when some one went to sea—
Don't cry—but I am him!

"You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your lonesome Jack,
But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back!

"From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs!

"The ship we pumped till we could see
Old England from the tops;
When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel's Chops.

"Just give a look in Norey's Chart,
The very place it tells:
I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'
We have at last a call,
The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate's parrot, too, and all."

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest
In Davy Jones's sod,
Till I've appeared to you and said,
'Don't sup on that there Cod!

"You live on land, and little think
What passes in the sea;
Last Sunday week, at 2 p. m.,
That Cod was picking me!

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,
They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters, then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave
They sucked my blood like imps!

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,
The brutes I used to pat,
They'll know the smell they used to smell,
Just try the dog and cat!"

The spirit fled, they wept his fate,
And cried Alas, Alack!
At last up started brother Jim—
"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
The little Kitten, too,
And down they put the Cod and sauce
To see what brutes would do.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,
But munched the Cod—and little Kit
Quite feasted on the Shrimps!

The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!

2010-10-17T02:12:00.000-06:00

THE DEAD COACH
by Katharine Tynan

At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
Heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time had come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track,
The coach and horses midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,
And him who hears, though sense be dim,
The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said,
How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
The dead coach climbs the distant hill.
Now, God, the Father of us all,
Wipe Thou the widow's tears that fall!

2010-10-17T00:28:00.001-06:00

WILL O' THE WISP SONG
by James Plaisted Webber

"Will, Will,
Will o' the Wisp,
Will you not wait for me?"
I called as I saw his eerie light
Under the swamp-oak tree.

Will, Will,
Will o' the Wisp,
"Will you not tell," he cried,
"Why I should wait in the summer night,
For you by the rank marsh side?"

"Will, Will,
Will o' the Wisp,
Will you not help me lift
Some pirate's jewelled treasure-trove
For a maiden's birthday gift?"

Will, Will,
Will o' the Wisp,
Wilfully flew along
With a merry laugh o'er the untrod fen,
But left with me this song.

2010-10-16T01:50:00.000-06:00

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP
by Thomas Moore
"They made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree,
When the footstep of death is near!"

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,—
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before!

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
"Oh, when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played,—
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed for many a night,
The name of the death-cold maid!

He hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore;
Far he followed the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true,
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

E.T.'S HALLOWEEN SUNSET

2010-10-15T16:41:00.000-06:00

2010-10-15T04:31:00.000-06:00

THE SCARECROW
by Walter de la Mare
All winter through I bow my head
Beneath the driving rain;
The North wind powders me with snow
And blows me black again;
At midnight 'neath a maze of stars
I flame with glittering rime,
And stand, above the stubble, stiff
As mail at morning-prime.
But when that child, called Spring, and all
His host of children, come,
Scattering their buds and dew upon
These acres of my home,
Some rapture in my rags awakes;
I lift void eyes and scan
The skies for crows, those ravening foes,
Of my strange master, Man.
I watch him striding lank behind
His clashing team, and know
Soon will the wheat swish body high
Where once lay sterile snow;
Soon shall I gaze across a sea
Of sun-begotten grain,
Which my unflinching watch hath sealed
For harvest once again.