When they speak…
Category Archives: Poetry Work
A collection of various poems I have written in relation to horror, fantasy or the supernatural
What say you?
Wee moments stuck in thought
stuck in the thought
of too many thoughts.
Where does life go when you let it go?
Does it strap on sneakers and have a run.
Not caring the road its on.
Well I care for scenic, something with a view,
a journey,
challenging but not reckless or cruel
to the soles of my shoes.
Mountains peaked, craggy and windswept,
leading to dreamy sittings on precarious ledge,
fertile valleys , dark and deep, muddy and froggy with
all the chirps and burps to be offered in the sun
either draped in shade, or tinkled on
by a rainy day.
What say you?
What do you really say?
As you crouch upon your porch
seeing the world run away?
Ah, you have no sneakers?
A poor excuse.
Grab your slippers, or those
old flip flops.
And simply start out for a little walk.
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Stingy Jack
Good Old Jack,
walks in the twilight between our world and what you would
call the other.
Into the out of, on paths that only he can see
with Fool’s Fire held in a hand-carved gourd to light his way.
A Ne’er-do-well if ever there was.
Cursed to wander the earth.
Never to know heaven or hell.
You may see his spook light bob in a graveyard or two as you pass,
especially on All Hallows Eve and on through to all Souls Day.
Wise men say, Old Jack’s looking for a way into heaven or hell
on such nights as these when the veil is thin.
If you see him, it’s best to keep on walking.
He has anger in him, a deep abiding bitterness swells.
like the ebb and flow of time that has trapped him.
He will have no hesitation to collect your soul should
you cross his path.
So beware or you may find yourself dead or a mindless
freak.
by Philip Wardlow
Life in Death or is it Death in Life
Death appreciates life , just as life appreciates death.
Both are impartial to the other.
A cold touch caresses the
beauty which flits to and fro
with seemingly
chaotic intention.
How are we to interpret the horrors of this vitality
when we ourselves are trapped in a purgatory
of our own design?
Perhaps a small light
shall lead the way for each of us
in our final hours as we lay
in our deep dark
grave.
By Philip Wardlow
Its Halloween Haikus!
Blade of souls passes,
from old to young hands gladly
to cut future fates.
A friend to shadows.
Tracks of misfortune follow
feline on the prowl.
I see you creeping,
Big eyes, sharp teeth, wicked smile
Waiting for a hug
Witch Hunt
Sister, sister, you’re dead now.
known as only ashes buried deep in a cold shallow
grave at the top of a lonely hill…
I saw you burn hotter than the sun, tied to a stake
worse than a dog was ever done.
Sister, your shrieks still fill my ears from
that day, as they continued to pile on the wood to your funeral pyre.
I saw them laugh as the flames rose ever higher and higher.
I could only salt the earth with my tears for I was far too young.
Far too young to save a lighted soul such as yours being wronged.
My own darkened that day,
blacker than a shipbuilder’s pitch.
A witch you never were, but now
a witch I have become,
and tonight I hunt.
Hunt for the many ones,
and oh they will surely see a witch
tonight of the like they
have never seen.
By Philip Wardlow 2016
My Killer Girlfriend
I knew the moment I spied you
that the devil lived behind those blues.
How long ago did you trap him, for
I see he’s itching to play.
It’s clear from our encounter,
your a girl who can handle her boomstick
when it goes off with a kick.
Your grip on the gun is tight but loose as
silver bullets fill it, along with a gleam.
You smile that smile that I could die for as the
full moon rises, and
the day descends to glorious night.
My hand takes yours as we roam
the dank castle far beneath in the catacombs.
I’ll take the hammer, you take the stake
as we take out a vampire or two on our first date.
When other monster’s wish to interlude upon
our first kiss your casual air and
sadistic flair with an axe
cannot be denied as the crimson droplets fly
in the midnight air….Oh, I think I’m in love!
Let’s not dawdle, let’s not hesitate in our fate.
For we have a rendezvous, me and you, and it involves
Frankenstein and the Wolfman’s heads
on a plate.
by Philip Wardlow
Hellhounds – A Dark Poem near Halloween Time
Hellhounds –
Known by many names,
Gwyllgi, the Dog of Darkness,
Black Schuck, the Dog of Doom,
Dip, the little black hairy one who likes
to drink blood.
All hellhounds, demon dogs, omens of death
cast from the same malformed
misbegotten blackened molds.
An acrid, odorous smell precedes them,
brimstone wafts in their wake as they stalk
lost souls in the great hunt.
Paw prints burned into cold dead stone
give away their passage.
Eyes yellow of burnished bright gold.
or eyes of red, glowing like hot coals
Eyes that seek and search.
Be you the one?
Lost?
If so ,they shall drag you down and through
Hell’s doors where in your
new home you shall dwell
evermore.
By Philip Wardlow
Killer Pumpkins – Poem #13
Killer Pumpkins
Ba dump…ba dump…ba ba dump.
Bump…
Bump…
They roll.
They stroll
down the streets;
orange and angry.
Why do they roll?
Why are they not in bed,
with green leaves as blankets
To cover their orange ripply heads.
I suppose they’re pissed off
for being left behind
in the patch.
What the fuck was wrong
with them, they ask.
It’s Halloween and they’ve
waited long enough.
Knives in hand with
grins carved in,
ready to show
the little tricker-treat bastards
a real killer
pumpkin.
So they roll
and they stroll
down the street.
Ba dump.
Halloween Shorts (Haikus)
The Dark needs my Soul
For it is feeding time now,
it’s always hungry.
********
I think it sees you,
I am sorry that is so
He kills very slow
*********
Think driven by the wind?
A lonely swing in the dark.
When alive, her friend.
*******
by Philip Wardlow 2016
Ain't no rest for the Wicked - Philip Wardlow - The real and the sensual sides to life in all its facets.. 