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

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The Wanderer in the Woods.

Curtains of October mist hang in the musty air

Thick on the ground, cold to the touch, heavy with despair Underfoot, the earth is damp, each spongy step a chore

Moisture clings; it climbs and seeps into each unguarded pore

Is he lost? This errant soul, who wanders through the wood? Is he lost? Or does he seek out that which bodes no good?

The way ahead is veiled; unclear, its mysteries enshrouded

Hidden, but beguiling yet, all rhyme and reason clouded

All at once, the curtains part, the grey light lifts a shade

In the clearing in the woods, there stands a leafy glade

The wanderer, against all reason, steps into the space

A hundred floating spider webs drift across his face

It does not teem with myriad life, there’s no disturbed intrusion No moths ascend, no birds take flight in avian confusion

Here, a certain stillness lies, like frost upon the ground

Though nothing here is caked in white; no frozen atom found

In the centre of it all, a mound of blackest soil

Rises up to draw his eye like a fetid, festering boil

Amongst it, creatures writhe and squirm, they burrow out of sight Beetles dig, worms devour, bugs collide and fight

There is no headstone to discern, no inscription to be read

No chiselled words in memory of the dear departed dead

The wanderer draws in a breath, no longer sure or brave

He had not thought to come so soon upon the lonely grave

The ground now hard beneath his feet, the man goes closer yet Falls to his knees, bows his head, his eyes shining and wet

Fancies he hears a heartbeat, low, subdued, in his head

Reaches out to rest his hand upon the earthen bed

There comes a pulse to match his own, a tremor rocks his hand It grows in strength with every beat, he begins to understand He sinks his hand deep in the soil, crushing creatures with the pressure

Something below pushes back, the earth moves; creates a fissure

A waft of smoke and steam issues; sulphur shaded brown

Fingers meet his, they grasp his own, to pull him firmly down Too late he recalls the pointed nails, the cruel hand that grips his skin

Too late he remembers the sharp, bared teeth behind the wicked grin

‘You took your time,’ her dry voice rasps, full of bitter spite

‘Better late than never. Now we can put things right.

You left me to face my fate; you were always weak and scared No matter: now you face it too, and this time will not be spared.’

Her grip tightens about his throat, he feels himself begin to smother

And with his last breath, the wanderer pleads;

“But I came to find you, Mother."

S P Oldham

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Desperandum

The doors are locked and bolted, the shutters all made fast Not even the soughing wind can persuade its cold way past The house is made all darkness, each candle flame snuffed out But for the candles in the parlour, casting shadows all about

The cat curled on the cushion is not asleep, as you might think It has an amber eye wide open; it gives a languid wink To the figure by the fireplace, seated patiently as fate As dry-eyed and as brittle as the kindling in the grate

There is a rattling at the windows, the shutters hold their own An unseen nail rakes the wood, there comes a mournful moan Shadows flit by unbidden, but the figure does not stir; The cat stretches out its spiteful nails, gives a muted purr

There comes at once a knocking, insistent at the pane The moan becomes a wailing screech; a soul in dreadful pain It worries at one window; shifts to seek passage elsewhere There is a moment’s respite; then a footfall on the stair

In the chair beside the fire, the figure gives a blackened smile To show not fleeting happiness, but intent to defile Spirits, urgent at the window, pull the shutters free Claw flatly at the slickened glass; hammer uselessly

The parlour door swings open wide, a draught comes sweeping in The witch’s rictus widens into a malformed grin There is a sound of sobbing; of helpless, lost despair It comes as if from distance, though it fills the cold night air

The candles gutter; threatening to die a violent death Caught as they are suddenly, in a gale of rotten breath The house, besieged, joins the fray; its’ old frame bends and creaks But all falls still and silent, when at last the old crone speaks

“There is no use you beating or pounding at my door; Nothing to be gained from dragging chains across my floor Curse you for being unwary! You should have learned to look about; For now that I have you here, I shall never let you out!”

Silence falls heavily; sharp and hard as the headsman’s axe But there is no solace offered here; no pretence at pax The witch settles by the fire again; the cat coils and sleeps As they slink away, defeated; those captured souls she keeps…

S.P. Oldham

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Ode to October

 

 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

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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

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