Super-sized Series

 Happy Halloween 

 

Two poems by Lynn White

Magic

Now is the season of magic,
from the witches of Halloween
to the fairies and elves of
Father Christmas.
Only for children, 
though.
Magic for adults has Pagan qualities
referencing the myths and legends 
that made sense of earlier times,
though 
some still invite their ancestors
to picnic with them on the Day Of The Dead.
Only for children,
though 
are the fairy stories and fantasies
of yesterday and today.
But children know
that these are only the building blocks
of magic.
Yes, children know
that magic is something you make
and celebrate.
Sometimes adults forget.

First published in Blognostics

Jack

It was a turnip long before it became a pumpkin,
pumpkins weren’t grown here back then
and, after our little party together
I surely needed protection
to keep the devil at bay.

It had seemed a good idea
to invite him for a drink
and a good opportunity
to part him from his cash.
I thought robbing the devil
would keep me in drinks all my life!

But I was a fool, a mean and stingy fool
now forbidden from both heaven and hell.
And hell would have been kinder to me
than this eternal wandering,
my way lit only with a devilish lantern
glowing grotesquely with my fool’s fire.

So spare a kind thought for me on Halloween
and let me close my eyes
and sleep.

First published in Medusa’s Kitchen Ekphrastic



My Guy by Martha Ellen

“Grammy, I want to be my guy.”
Liam was nine. His “guy” was 
some video game warrior I had 
never seen before nor knew 
anything about. Not Robin Hood. 
Not a tiger who permitted the loud, 
aggressive, in-your-face roaring 
he loved so much but could never 
justify in an ordinary day bookended
by a dainty big sister and a baby
sister everyone had to look out for. 
And certainly he could never again 
be the adorable pea in a pea pod
from his very first Halloween.

No. He wanted his “guy.” And 
of course “Grammy” would figure 
it out even though it was new to me
and I worried about the latent violence. 
[But then I was a Flower Child. Peace 
and love and all that.] I alway stitched,
sewed, knitted for crocheted their 
costumes. Naturally, his insufferably 
sweet big sister was either a lacy fairy 
fluttering all around as if she could take off 
into a magical realm at any moment, 
or a fairy princess with sparkly, glittery 
“dust” to scatter on the unsuspecting. 
[He escaped.] No scolding, either. 
Simply getting out the vacuum later.

Or his boring little sister already 
differentiating herself from silly, girlie stuff. 
“Do you want to be a fairy, honey?” 
I asked five-year-old Clairey. “No way!”
No wands, No wings, No fairy dust. 
Only a witch. Threatening, the cutest pink 
fingers clawed. And highest soprano:
“He, he, he, my pretty!” Disappointed 
in the end. “I wish she was blacker, 
Grammy.” [Not easy being the baby, or a girl.] 
Before that she was a ghost. The lightest 
most ethereal cloth purchased from 
the bridal department at Fabricland. 
Layer upon layer. Delicate. Two peep-holes. 
Assured it was just right, I floated it over 
her head only to hear the tiniest words from 
beneath the divine creation. “It itches.”

But the “guy” was a challenge. Liam 
gave me a minuscule picture, literally a 
thumbnail sketch he was certain was 
all I needed. A human form but cast 
from metal, maybe silver, like the Tin Man, 
but not kind. Menacing, with a helmet
and flames emanating from his chest. 
[He’s on fire? Or his aggression cannot
be contained?]  There would never be an
existing pattern to modify well enough. 

I scoured fabric stores and found some
metallic cloth. Silver, smooth, not too
shiny. The leg lengths could be cut to fit 
without fraying giving away an underlying 
most non-metallic weave. Found some 
orange, red and yellow sheer cloth in the 
bridesmaid section. [Liam need not know.]  
It could be clipped ragged to make flames.
Winter gloves could be wrapped with 
strips of silver cloth. Those things would do.
But the helmet was a challenge. A rounded 
cap form to cover was required. And then
I found something. Liam loved the final piece.
He never knew the helmet of his fierce 
warrior hid a [peace and love, baby] 
Mickey Mouse hat, the ears removed. 
[And yes I did think Van Gogh, briefly, 
but then I was a Fine Arts major.]  


 Two poems by Loraine Caputo

BLACK ECHOES 

I.
Large black moth
high on the
egg-shell wall
Silent       still
It tells no knowledge
except to those who
listen to its darkness

II.
Their conspiracy theories
& conspiracies
echo
Up stairwells
through salas
Their talk of death
& war
echo
echo

III.
Another day       another
black moth
I capture it in my
smaller hands
& let it escape
I speak to it
coaxing it onto
the broom straw
& carry it away to
the garden patio
It flies above the
third story
into the smoggy
afternoon

IV.
Their laughs
echo up stairwells &
through these salas
It’s all superstition
it’s all foolishness
The spirits listen
The crinkle of wrappers
the crunch       the melting
of chocolates
stolen from the ofrenda
Echo
up
& through

V.
Those laughs       those lies
no longer echo
The moths have disappeared
No-one is here who
will listen
to their darkness

first published in In-Flight poetry Magazine


DAY OF THE DEAD RAIN

Rain falls off the roofs
in cascades,
Rain moves across the street
like ocean waves.
 
A yellow dog stops
in the middle of the road,
looks around bewildered.
 
Beneath a bright green umbrella,
a mother cradles her child on her hip,
carries a plastic bucket with flowers.
 
The wind dies
for a moment …
the scents of marigolds
mums, gladioli drift by …
 
Signs swing,
their hollow tin-clang
is carried away.
 
Children huddle beneath
the roof eaves of the tortillería.
The smell of fresh tortillas
is lost on the strong wind.
 
Three piglets
trot across a dirt lot
seeking shelter from the storm.
Lightning slices the sky
like disappearing scars …
 
 
This morning
I found a dead scorpion
in the bath water.
 
Today
Families will carry the buckets filled with gladioli,
mums & marigolds to the cemeteries.
They will pull the weeds from the graves,
carefully place wreaths of paper & those flowers.
 
Tonight
The brujos will wander these streets—
everything will be closed against their presence.
Teenage students will disguise themselves
stop anyone out, demand money—or assault them.
 
 
Two teenage girls, huddled under a yellow tarp,
their sandals kicking up rain from the road,
carry home hot tortillas wrapped in pink paper.
 
First published in Mohave River Review:

 
DYING YUNGAS MOON

I.
The near-full moonlight
seeps through quilted clouds
raveling, revealing
a pure-white orb.
 
 
II.
The dusk thunder that
had rolled through these
deep jungle valleys
has silenced.
Its lightning still pulses white
from cloud
to cloud.
The eclipsing moon now
& again glimpsed
through the seams
of this night’s sky.
 
Until she is smothered
beneath a shower.
 
 
III.
All Soul’s Eve
I pirouette beneath
the waning moon,
a brilliant pearl
nested upon
rent cotton-wool clouds
silhouetted midnight blue,
billowing towards
the Amazon.
 
 
IV.
In the dead hours
On the Día de los Muertos
waifly fog drifts
through the village.
Phantom palm trees sway
in their swift
passage.
The moon, the stars,
the mountains invisible.
 
& once departed,
the light of this near-half moon
reveals mountain
silhouettes.
To the solitary song
of a cricket,
higher clouds
slowly thread
scant clouds.
 
 
V.
Lightning & thunder vibrate
through the cloud-
veiled sky
of stars &
half-moon.
The valleys, the
cobbles streets
echo with the music
of villagers feasting
with the dead.
 
First published in:The Moon Magazine
 
MIDNIGHT NAVIDAD by Lorraine Caputo
(Buenos Aires, Argentina)

In these narrow streets
of San Telmo
lit by a nearly
full moon
 
Midnight Navidad
erupts with the burst
of fireworks
set by boys & men
The sparkles reflect
in windows of
Gardel’s day
The cracks splinter the
mourning song
of bandoneón
 
In the shadows
of doorways stand
families shawled in
the cool of summer’s eve
 
& the spirits perished
from cholera & yellow fever,
of immigrants surviving
in cramped conventillos

first published in North Dakota Quarterly



 
Haunted House for Halloween by Rachael Ikins

Our barn, a haunted house. We threw ourselves into ghoulish delights, skinned grape eyeballs, cold wet pasta-brains. I had no friends, no boyfriend and October 1971 my parents must’ve seen me crying for a second.

My dad hid in a space between barn four by fours in shadow wearing a mask and his oldest work coat and jumped out at the nasty girls who bullied me in school. The girls who cornered me in the bathroom, blocked the way to the toilets with toothy gauntlets. Stole my sneakers in gym. Aimed at my dog with their car revved it into a snowbank again and again yet she managed to jump away every time.

How bad did it have to be to tear their eyes from their new son? I was groaning beneath the weight of my Spanish teacher, gagged, her tongue’s sand in my mouth. Only books and bags of chocolate’s slow melt after midnight until I read a story where a girl cut herself. One day I learned blade’s bite, a free hit of dopamine, the moment all noise stills, metal enters skin,
when heated coil burns a cheek with the lips of a vampire’s kiss.


 

But Some Of Us Are Brave by Lynn White

Scotland was not the place to be a witch,
it really wasn’t.
There were more than four thousand witch trials
in Scotland
putting Salem to shame,
the Witch-Finders boasted.

One would suppose that 
wise women did not become witches,
but it seems,
many did
and paid a hot and heavy price.

So not many would be dancing,
even on Halloween,
even in spirit 
few would rise
for the occasion,
not even the white witches.

But there will always be some,
some women
brave enough 
to celebrate.


First published in Brave And Reckless

Clown Act by Mary Ellen Talley

Clown white on my face
those years of Halloweens
at schools where I worked—
I’d beep a horn behind my back 
and jump when students touched
my round red nose.

Later, my own toddlers,
before I headed off to work, 
backed away as my face 
transformed so strange
Daddy had to take them 
to daycare.

Once, wearing white face,
red and yellow clothing colors,
plus a black bowler hat,
I visited daycare
at snack time, whereupon
even my child cried, and our sitter 
banished clowns forever.

There is a coda to this story:
Our adult son now loves clowns.
On one arm, full of tattoos,
an Emmet Kelly clown rises
from an old typewriter, 
sports a banner reading Mom & Dad.




Two poems by Joan Leotta

Halloween Moon Hijinks 
At the end of my street,
rising round and full,
I see that the moon
has arrived in grand form, 
as a grand white circle.
portal to other worlds,
so large it fills the end of 
our cul-de-sac
spanning from the houses
on one side to the houses,
on the other.
It is much taller than the houses, 
taller than the spindly pines
that quake in amazement at its size.
In awe of its beauty,
I step out onto the sidewalk,
move toward the moon.
My neighbor's houses are quiet
I am alone in the street.
Where is everyone? 
Am I the only one who sees this?
As I approach, Moon, quick and clever,
like a frighted bird hears my steps 
ascends rapidly, right before my eyes
rising higher and higher and higher.
Where he was, I now see a group of
goblins, witches, skeletons.
They are approaching me.
I glance up at the sky, where a now
smiling Moon winks at me.
The crowd continues toward me—
“Trick or treat?”
I step inside my doorway, grab 
a handful of Milky Ways
to pass out to these little Halloween
denizens who I hope are the 
children of my neighbors.


Full Moon Not Needed 

Jack-o-lanterns line the street
lighting paths to goodies
demanded by trick or treat.

Full moon may consent
or not to add his light 
but Halloween’s always bright
with the laughter of children
marching along in masks
parents smiling as each child grasps

candy offered at every door,
saying “thanks” even when
they wished for more.
When at last all is done,
children in bed, every one,
some parents (ME!) play thief 
reaching in their children’s
stash—no calories in what’s
stolen from trick or treat bags—
snuff the candles in the pumpkin heads
and in the dark find their own beds.


Two poems by Alarie Tennille

The Witch Turns 

Go back!  You think I can’t hear 
you swishing through the grass 
for the fierce wind – the very wind 

I conjured from screams of women 
left broken by your kind. Sarah 
Good, Rebecca Nurse, Susannah Martin – 

those poor innocents proved by death
they were not witches. Never
will I stand trial. Never. 

Your stench stalks me like a shadow. 
So be it. Even without trees or ravines
for cover, we’re secluded. I, too, 

am counting on that. Closer, closer, 
closer you come, never guessing 
this very ground is under my spell. 

Nothing can touch me here. Nothing.
You’ll learn soon enough. 
I half turn, cast my one-eyed curse. 

You smirk just like the others. 
I say nothing, for your kind cannot hear. 
One step closer – a shriek of wind 

your last memory.


A Vampire Takes My Bus

I sit on one of those side-facing seats 
just behind the driver – good feng shui
for a woman who works nights.
I catch the 57 at 6:12 p.m. heading
downtown. Vlad, well okay, I don’t actually 
know his name, gets on two blocks later –
only in winter. He works on sunset’s 
schedule. I’m curious what seasonal job 
supports him all year. I’d like to apply.

I wouldn’t call him handsome,
but charismatic, mesmerizing. You 
should see that black cashmere coat worthy
of Cirque du Soleil. He sweeps past  
me in a one-man cold front. Sits near
the rear. His eyes shoot gold flares
from passing headlights.

Know what really creeps me out?
The nights he rides, no one else
gets on.

First published in I-70 Review.


Horror-ween by Shelly Blankman
  
The horrors of Halloween don’t always come
in the form of haunted houses, where people 
lurk in shadows to shock all who dare to enter,

or in movies where monsters’ mouths drip blood.
and demonic spirits haunt villages, leaving people
screeching at the unknown, laughing at the relief.

Sometimes horrors come in the form of a little girl
curled into a ball outside her nursery school, her clown
costume crushed against a rusted fence, jamming

her trembling fingers into her ears to mute the screeching
and squealing of pint-sized pirates and princesses, dragons 
and Draculas, chasing each other around the playground,

mud from their shoes splashing her with shredded leaves
of red and gold, coating her costume like confetti. She has
never understood the fun of Halloween. Ghost stories,

moms and dads who loved scaring kids and kids who loved
being scared. Why would any mom pour so much time into
creating a costume to be worn for only one awful day? That 

scared little girl knew her mother had done so with love and 
pride. Her tears had to be invisible while she sat curled against
that rusted fence, waiting desperately for school to end, 

leaving behind her the horrors of Halloween.

previously published in Spillwords


 


Two poems by Sharon Waller Knutson

You are my Pumpkin

even though you show up
on Halloween Eve
as your sister and brother
try on their costumes.
.
On your first Halloween,
we dress you as a pumpkin
and you ride like a joey
in my kangaroo pouch

as the kids knock
on doors and collect candy
that you grab with grubby
hands and gum.

I watch your plump legs
pumping up the hill
to the Pumpkin Patch.
You return with an orange

gourd bigger than you
and carve a funny face
on your new friend
who lights up the dark.

The last time you sit on the sofa,
you promise you’ll pick out
a pumpkin and carve a smiling
face on your 45th birthday.

But that day never comes
and on Halloween I see your
glowing face in all the jack-o'-lanterns
in the windows and front lawns.


At the Halloween Carnival 

I remember the giant
washtub filled 
with apples floating
like red boats in the bay.

But I don’t remember
getting on my knees
hands tied behind 
my back and trying
to catch an apple
in my teeth. 

I don’t like putting
my face in water
and getting germs
from apples with teeth
marks so I am pretty
sure as others bobbed
for floating apples, 

I was a spectator
holding a stick
and my teeth were busy
chewing on a sweet
caramel apple.


Two Halloween haiku by Elaine Sorrentino. 

fake teeth
waxed treat
or Grandma’s dentures?

trick-or-treaters asleep
I Google what wine
pairs with Snickers

first published on Haikuniverse


Even Though the Whole World Is Burning This Halloween by Shaun Pankoski
(with a nod to W. S. Merwin's Rain Light for the title)

Someone is sitting on a front porch,
stroking their dog's grizzled head,
both of them content.
And someone else is giddy with joy
at the prospect of a new job,
a new love, a new baby.

Someone is laughing that familiar laughter,
amused at the retelling of an old joke
by an old friend.

Someone is thankful, someone is inspired,
someone is awestruck
by the night sky.

Small ghosts and cowboys and witches are roaming,
clutching pillowcases and pumpkins,
so hopeful.