Today, we have two poems from one of our patrons. Paul Wandra, 19, is going to be a terrific horror writer. Be sure to keep an eye out for his work. He does have plans for a day job, too. He’s going to be a Librarian!
Dear Mother
Dear mother,
Happy is the child who knows he is a miracle.
The child who, upon looking out into an auditorium full of faces, sees only one a face alit with pride muttering, “That’s my boy.”
The child who, when confronted by tears, feels a warm embrace and the tender words of, “Mommy’s here, Mommy’s here.”
The child who, even in hard times, even when the pressure seems too much to bare; he can count on the words of, “I’m always here for you.”
The child who knows that there is no other love stronger, than the love of his mother.
A child who knows the truth behind the saying, “Mother is the name of god on the lips and hearts of all children.”
In a crepitating wood
In a crepitating wood, the arms of an ancient oak rake at the gray sky.
In a crepitating wood, the wind blows hymns so sad they make you cry.
In a crepitating wood, the angel tore his wings off just to fly.
An antediluvian vault, the crepitating wood holds nightmare and dream.
In the crepitating wood is where beasts and demons scream.
From deep within the crepitating wood come creatures so obscene.
Canopied deep in the abhorred thickets, a fissure erupted and broke.
The phosphorus and brimstone the smell of a spirit evoked.
The demons and beasts gathered around the billowing smoke.
A winged beast of hatred spawned from the crepitating wood.
A hatred inspired beast face shrouded behind a hood.
So vile was the creature if espied you would fall where you stood.
Prying open it’s wings with a flit and a flutter.
The wings were gilded with infants that shudder.
Their lips are drawn shut, not a word do they mutter.
“Tonight in this crepitating wood,” the specter said with glee.
“Tonight I shall have a small child on which to feed.”
“No not on it’s flesh, no, only its soul.”
“I need a young child to take to my hole.”
So out ran the beasts, the demons, the ghosts,
the zombies, the gargoyles, the viruses and hosts.
A swarm of malignancy, a plague upon the land,
for the horde, blood was on demand.
Traveling with violent delight through city and parish,
When blood was on demand there was nothing left to cherish.
Slaughter as they did and capture as they would
Nothing would please the deity in the wood.
“None of these are fresh!”
“Look at it’s face, look at it’s flesh!”
“Not fresh at all, not fresh indeed.”
“The product of a bad breed.”
.
He tore off his robe with a wicked cry.
Threw long probing nails on up to the sky.
With a bolstering crash and rainfall around,
The master of the woods flew up off the ground.
In a fit of rage, a blur of buckled knuckles.
Infants were snatched as sure as they suckled.
Red in his eyes he tore through the peasant countryside.
For the poor and the dirty there was nowhere to hide.
Sinisterly smiling, although in dismay.
These dirty little children are not fit for display.
So drop them he did from the silence of night.
The cries of the infants and the teardrops of fright
Was a sound that made the specter squeal in delight.
“What’s this I do smell with my hooked nose?”
“A fresh baby, a new baby. It smells like a rose.”
So off he flew to coiling castle to the east.
It stood statuesque. It stood holding his feast.
He landed so softly and scaled its walls.
Looking in windows at arched narrow halls.
When enter he did the tallest of spires.
He looked at a cradle at a soul he admired.
“Ahhh, fresh as can be, fresh just from the womb,”
A fresh little infant to beset in the tomb.”
In his hands as cold as ice,
and his grip tight like a vice,
The infant would demise
in a whorl of other worldly cries.
In a crepitating wood, if you dare to step inside.
The monsters and the ghoulies will tan your human hide.
In a crepitating wood, horror and fear juxtapose reality.
In the crepitating wood, creatures take pride in their insanity.
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