Halloween – Mac Hammond

The butcher knife goes in, first, at the top
And carves out the round stemmed lid,

The hole of which allows the hand to go 

In to pull the gooey mess inside, out –

The walls scooped clean with a spoon.

A grim design decided on, that afternoon,

The eyes are the first to go,

Isosceles or trapezoid, the square nose,

The down-turned mouth with three

Hideous teeth and, sometimes,

Round ears. At dusk it’s

Lighted, the room behind it dark.

Outside, looking in, it looks like a 

Pumpkin, it looks like ripeness

Is all. Kids come, beckoned by

Fingers of shadows on leaf-strewn lawns

To trick or treat. Standing at the open

Door, the sculptor, a warlock, drops

Penny candies into their bags, knowing

The message of winter: only the children,

Pretending to be ghosts, are real. 

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Thanksgiving – Mac Hammond 

The man who stands above the bird, his knife
Sharp as a Turkish scimitar, first removes

A thigh and leg, half the support

On which the turkey used to stand. This

Leg and thigh he sets on an extra

Plate. All his weight now on 

One leg, he lunges for the wing, the wing

On the same side of the bird from which

He has just removed the leg and thigh.

He frees the wing enough to expose

The breast, the wing not severed but

Collapsed down to the platter. One hand

Holding the fork, piercing the turkey

Anywhere, he now beings to slice the breast,

Afflicted by small pains in his chest,

A kind of heartburn for which there is no 

Cure. He serves the hostess breast, her 

Own breast rising and falling. And so on,

Till all the guests are served, the turkey

Now a wreck, the carver exhausted, a

Mere carcass of his former self. Everyone

Says thanks to the turkey carver and begins

To eat, thankful for the cold turkey

And the Republic for which it stands. 

Poem – When Love Fails

when love fails, and 
utter silence prevails, 

so a swollen fear shrouds my nerves frail.

Why dreams of mine

on this Valentine eloped 

like morning dews.

Is my love really waned? 

will I not be blessed again

with that beguiled boon.
Ah! like the northern gale

that cherishes the southern springs; 

such are feelings been pushed 

into an unending frustration.

Ah! In her last embrace, i left 

my whole being: 

my sinking heart and fancies fair.
when love fails, 

it creates a world around

where rainbow drowns and darkness dawns, 

and the tears it brings are 

sweeter than smiles

and surely the music wiles…

  • – 

Poem – What is a Poem 

A euphony 
rhythmically composed; 

through fresh Similes, metaphors, and analogies, 

help readers to conjure hi- flown imageries, 

but stick to cadence 

like flowers to fragrance, 

and it emphasises 

the aesthetic nature of fellow pals

with some wild weird 

conceits, that would elate

our so-so speech, 

if it crafts in care; will surely

heal our untrue fears, 

like a gentle breeze of the westward wind, or

a Beethoven’s symphony; that enliven

lives. 

Poem – Virgina Woolf: Her Last Words

I begin to hear the voices again, 
and I feel certain 

this darkness of times

and minds turns me insane.
I can’t fight any longer and

I am doing (what seemsthe best) –

the last Act of this life in vain, 

I am falling into a lasting sleep.
I owned all the happiness and joys

and can’t go on spoiling yours

anymore. Adieu my love, 

you could do better without me. 

Poem – Vere Homo

Be human, rather than divine 
living such life is truly a surprise. 
the world is for you, and

seek your worth and prize
what intoxicates our minds, are

the stories of doom and demise, 
so with these false theologies 

let’s unbind our trade and ties.
In search of god(s) 

don’t stare at the skies
just intuit (for awhile) and

feels others’ agonies and cries. 

Poem – Mariana in the South 

With one black shadow at its feet,
The house thro’ all the level shines,

Close-latticed to the brooding heat,

And silent in its dusty vines:

A faint-blue ridge upon the right,

An empty river-bed before,

And shallows on a distant shore,

In glaring sand and inlets bright.

But “Aye Mary,” made she moan,

And “Aye Mary,” night and morn,

And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down

Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew

Her streaming curls of deepest brown

To left and right, and made appear,

Still-lighted in a secret shrine,

Her melancholy eyes divine,

The home of woe without a tear.

And “Aye Mary,” was her moan,

“Madonna, sad is night and morn;”

And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
Till all the crimson changed, and past

Into deep orange o’er the sea,

Low on her knees herself she cast,

Before Our Lady murmur’d she:

Complaining, “Mother, give me grace

To help me of my weary load.”

And on the liquid mirror glow’d

The clear perfection of her face.

“Is this the form,” she made her moan,

“That won his praises night and morn?”

And “Ah,” she said, “but I wake alone,

I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.” 
Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,

Nor any cloud would cross the vault,

But day increased from heat to heat,

On stony drought and steaming salt;

Till now at noon she slept again,

And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass,

And heard her native breezes pass,

And runlets babbling down the glen.

She breathed in sleep a lower moan,

And murmuring, as at night and morn

She thought, “My spirit is here alone,

Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.” 
Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:

She felt he was and was not there.

She woke: the babble of the stream

Fell, and, without, the steady glare

Shrank one sick willow sere and small.

The river-bed was dusty-white;

And all the furnace of the light

Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whisper’d, with a stifled moan

More inward than at night or morn,

“Sweet Mother, let me not here alone

Live forgotten and die forlorn.” 
And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth,

For “Love”, they said, “must needs be true,

To what is loveliest upon earth.”

An image seem’d to pass the door,

To look at her with slight, and say,

“But now thy beauty flows away,

So be alone for evermore.”

“O cruel heart,” she changed her tone,

“And cruel love, whose end is scorn,

Is this the end to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn?” 
But sometimes in the falling day

An image seem’d to pass the door,

To look into her eyes and say,

“But thou shalt be alone no more.”

And flaming downward over all

From heat to heat the day decreased,

And slowly rounded to the east

The one black shadow from the wall.

“The day to night,” she made her moan,

“The day to night, the night to morn,

And day and night I am left alone

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” 
At eve a dry cicala sung,

There came a sound as of the sea;

Backward the lattice-blind she flung,

And lean’d upon the balcony.

There all in spaces rosy-bright

Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears,

And deepening thro’ the silent spheres

Heaven over Heaven rose the night.

And weeping then she made her moan,

“The night comes on that knows not morn,

When I shall cease to be all alone,

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.”