Witches' Brew - Diane Scantlebury

Around a steaming cauldron
On their haunches they perch
Cackling, wizened faces smothered with woad,
As into the bubbling mix they toss
Dismembered newts and slimy toads,
And with bony fingers they scratch and claw
At the still pulsing entrails of a young jackdaw,
Licking their lips, they chomp their chops
As each wriggling morsel into the pot they plop,
Then rub their bloodied hands in glee
While the noxious ingredients
Slowly braise and stew,
To concoct their grisly witches' brew.

Diane Scantlebury

ZOMBIEPHOBIA - Richard Fleming

Others, they call us The Undead
and everywhere we go, they flee;
if trapped, they shoot us in the head;
they simply cannot let us be.

For we can’t help the way we are:
with rotting skin and clothes not fresh.
It’s hardly our fault if we all
enjoy the taste of human flesh

and clump around on shaky legs
or claw at people that we meet,
so you should not discriminate
and keep your distance in the street.

We tore the postman limb from limb?
Hands up, we did that: a mistake.
But these things happen, life’s not fair.
We only kill when we’re awake.

So what, if we smell of the grave?
Most days we are polite and good.
We are not the repulsive bunch
portrayed on screen by Hollywood.

Okay, we ate your Mum and Dad,
and maybe others, quite a few,
but you must make allowances
for Zombie folk are people too.

Compassionate society
should make us welcome and be fair,
enjoy diversity, be cool.
Embrace a Zombie, show you care.

Richard Fleming

Witch - Richard Fleming

Black shawled, she gathers sticks, views you aslant.
Her cat is black, it has an evil eye.
We tread an extra mile, though we are tired, to avoid her gate.
Our children, in their sleep, cry out in fear
while pregnant women shy away when she appears.
O’Riley cursed her in a drunken rage
and afterwards
his cattle ceased to milk, his horse fell down and died.
They say she rides a broom on summer nights
when shadows cross the moon like ravens’ wings.
Dark toads squat wetly on her windowsill
and croak the Devil’s name in foreign tongues.
No luck, no luck for us while she remains.
She must be gone, like others of her kind:
first by the ducking-stool and pins
while priests intone their cleansing Latin spells,
then by the fiery stake, where she will burn
and burn
and burn
and burn
and burn
and burn
and burn.

Richard Fleming

The Pumpkin Beast - Kathy Figueroa

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in October 2012

In the blackest hours of Halloween night
Stir creatures that moan and wail
Such sounds can give a soul a fright
And cause your heart to fail

But there's one that makes the other bunch
Sound as innocent as a birdie's chirp
When it goes CRUNCH, CRUNCH
MUNCH, MUNCH, SLURP, SLURP ..BURP

"Oh, tell us, please, what is this beast?"
Hoarse, hushed whispers query
"On what does this monster feast
And make noises that are so scary?"

Listen carefully to what I say
Make sure my words you mark
Things transpire in a mysterious way
On Halloween, after dark

Behold yon pumpkin, with an eerie face
Lit by a candle from within
It's to keep bad spirits from that place
That's why it has a hideous grin

But people give nary a thought
That, inside, the pumpkin is being toasted
The candle flame burns so hot
The pumpkin becomes roasted

Certain epicureans of the quadruped kind
Esteem this squash 'cuisine'
And, in abundance, it's easy to find
On the night of Halloween

There's one with which I'm acquainted
That has a legendary appetite
And I nearly fainted
When I first saw the following sight

Only scraps of rind lay on the floor
The Pumpkin Beast had struck behind my back
And he was still looking around for more
After his initial snack attack

'El Perro Gordo de Paudash'
Is the name by which he's now known
And he'll choose pumpkin in a flash
Any day, instead of a bone

Kathy Figueroa

Mean Old Crones - Kathy Figueroa

Mean, old crones
Rattle their bones
In the middle of the
Dank, dark night

A buffet of pills
Won’t cure their ills
It just whets
Their appetite

With sighs and moans
Wails and groans
They crave pity
For their plight

But chortle with glee
When they can see
They’ve hurt someone
For sheer spite

Mean and bad
Or maybe just mad
Hate fills them
With delight

They like to lie
And get high
...Without a broom
They still take flight…

Kathy Figueroa

Mean Old Crones was published in The Bancroft Times newspaper on October 8, 2015.

The Buriers - Richard Fleming

A Rhyme For Halloween

A barking dog, somewhere nearby,
alerts us to strangers’ presence.
We draw curtains, secure both doors,
duck behind chairs, crouch on all-fours.
Such precautions make perfect sense.
We do not welcome those who pry.

We do not welcome those who pry.
People who stray within our fence
are made to stay to settle scores.
We bury them beneath the floors
like treasure. Then we burn incense
and pray and wait for them to die.

Richard Fleming