Horror Poetry
Suspendery
In the depths of the woods, where nothing good goes
A twisted tree, gnarled and ancient, grows
Its spindly boughs reach out, like arms
To bear the weight of its eerie charms
For the rotten limbs of this forsaken tree
Are the purpose of the Suspendery;
Here hang things that twirl and spin
That rock and twist; that spit and grin
Here a bloodied horse tail whips
Frowning beneath, a brace of lips
See over there: that shred of lace?
That mourning veil still hides a face
A withered nerve rotates an eyeball
Like some gory Christmas bauble
And over there, a wreath of hands
Makes signs that no one understands
Bunting, made from blackened hide,
Strings tinsel-like all round the side
Whilst down the trunk in dark, wet trails
Blood oozes like the slime of snails
There is a fence of teeth and bones
A gate of skulls, a bell of moans
A ‘Welcome’ sign, with the ‘L’ scratched out
A warning to the wise? Or word to the devout?
Yet no one knows who visits this spot
Who hangs the offerings; who leaves to rot
The flesh of the dead, the parts of the defiled;
Who glories in what should be reviled
All you will discover, should you be fool enough to go
Are words clawed into the bark, many moons ago:
“You are come to the Suspendery; weary traveller, bear in mind;
That ere you go from this place, you leave part of you behind…”
S P Oldham
Came across another old poem of mine, published in Gold Dust Magazine of Literature and the Arts Calendar 2007. Very appropriate since it was written for the month of October. A bit different to my usual style. I was obviously in pensive mood when I wrote this! The accompanying photograph was taken by Karen Inskip-Hayward.
Ode to October
October dripped in; dribbled in
Like a new-born season, or an old one
Crept in; like some furtive monk
Cowled and shadowed, all secrets lost
Dead and alive; a Voodoo month
A constant dusk or a haunted felon
Dreary and crouched, dreading discovery
Worn down with the approach of winter
The saturated air too heavy for mists
The sodden ground too replete to care
You stood in the shaded margins, cloaked and grey
But I saw you, October; I recognised your hand
S P Oldham
The Ghost House
It stood on Burford Road, set a little back
Half-hidden by hedges but not off-the-beaten-track
It had a wooden five bar gate and a gravelled drive
and windows that stared at you as if it was alive
Its red-tiled roof had darkened and begun to slide;
People swore they saw strange shadows flit inside,
Though the house was long since empty, left to rot and die
Like the face seen at the window by some luckless passer-by
All the children relished the scary stories told
About the Haunted House that was ever dark and cold
Even the adults gave a shiver, pulled their collars close
As they passed it by, sitting brooding and morose
They miss it now it’s gone, taking its spirits with it too
The road is bland and boring, the houses dull and new
It had character, charisma, a charm-all of its own
With its wooden five-bar gate and its hedges overgrown.
S. P. Oldham.
This was first published as introductory poem in 2012 in Frightening Fables and Freaky Fairy Tales - http://www.scribd.com/doc/34729110/Frightening-Fables-and-Freaky-Fairy-Tales-Anthology
It’s right to warn you, gentle reader, before you turn another leaf,
that these tales will entice you, but they are tales of grief.
These stories will enthral you, though you yearn to look away,
they will have you jump at shadows in the middle of the day.
These tales are not for children, they are not simple, fabled guides;
they will lead you just to horror, and churn your cold insides.
For the once imagined faces you first saw when you were small,
and the dreamed of far-off places that were home to them all,
become the faces of your nightmares, the places of your dread,
and the good and kind and innocent, the rancid, rotting dead.
The woods are dark and shadowed; the sun is weak and hidden,
the world is cursed, the folk are worse, their morals are a midden.
So take heed, if you will, and turn back now while you may,
or else move on and luck be with you, if even luck dares stay.
S P Oldham