The moon hung low and the owls hooted in tandem,
Then come the chill, so cold and sudden;
The mist seemed to have me wrapped in its embrace,
And from afar, the stone cherub hid its serene face.
High up above the hill stood a house,
And so I crept up to it, quiet as a mouse;
It loomed tall and foreboding in the night,
And then I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
All I saw was a piano silhouetted by the pale lunar light,
And believe me, oh, what a sight!
Around me were furniture draped in white and covered with dust,
All of them whispering tales of its terrible past.
From afar I heard a noise,
“W-Who is there?” I demanded in a squeaky meek voice,
I chased the sound up the stairs and caught a glimpse of a shadow,
And there she sat, shied away from the moon’s pretty yellow glow.
It is a girl of about seven or eight,
And quite bravely you told her that it was getting late,
Where were her parents and what was she doing there,
She stared at me and the sound of her tinkling laughter reached my ears.
“My parents are dead,” she told me then,
“Shot in the chests by very bad men”
“They were asleep, and so was I”
“And the moon had been round and full, just like tonight.”
I remembered then, all those stories that they had told,
About a family, surrounded by silver and gold,
I heard that on one cold night they were all shot dead
By several men, driven by jealousy and hate.
A mix of feelings settled in, fear being the worst,
“What are you?” I whispered, “Are you a ghost?”
Instead of answering, smilingly she said, “All I have left is my piano”
“Would you like to hear me play before you go?”
She floated to the piano and began to play,
Her eyes were merry and her laughter so gay,
And then from far ahead lightning lit up the sky,
And the wind howled and the skies began to cry.
I leapt a mile when the thunder boomed,
As I watched from the stairs another figure loomed,
It was a woman, her hair dark as the night,
And when she smiled at me, I stood there, frozen in fright.
Her lips were tinted blue and there was blood in her left eye,
And when she gazed at me her look was sly,
In a soft, raspy voice she whispered, “It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear Olive”
And she told me then, “You must stay here, you cannot leave.”
She swept down the stairs cackling mad,
And then with a scream I spun and fled,
Something caught my ankle and I fell to my knees,
And when I looked up there she was, right in front of me.
I pinched my eyes shut and began to cry,
As I prayed to God that I didn’t want to die,
If it weren’t for the stupid, stupid dare,
I wouldn’t even be inside here, I swear.
For a moment all was silent, all was still,
I crack open one eye to find myself standing at the bottom of the hill,
The tall and majestic house loomed in sight,
Bathed in an ethereal glow, blanketed by the night.
I gaped and blinked; was it nothing but a dream?
I must have stood here and zoned out, so it seemed.
Remembering now, I shivered and turned away,
But not before I spied a little girl standing by the doorway.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:38 AM UTC
between worlds
I have died over and over hoping
to find myself again
at the edge
of every
silent battlefield.
armours clashed
in tandem with the thunder of the beating heart racing
towards the unknown:
the enemy stood twisted and grotesque
silent and unmoving
and every one of them
has my face.
between worlds
I have died over and over seeing
nothing but a stranger
where my reflection used to be.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:30 AM UTC
the path down to the stream
was exactly how I remembered it to be.
there was a stillness in the air
one that I used to love.
the trees twined its limbs
its gnarly branches
squirming and twisting
zigzagging
like contortionists in repose.
the tiny brown lizards
scampered for cover
and the rays of sunshine
chased the mossy grounds
where we used to lie;
it was as if I’d never left.
memory assailed me
with a grotesque
slideshow of love and lost
of famine and war
and of pain.
there had been tears, too
the last time we were here:
broken farewells whispered
in the dead of the night
amidst muffled explosions
and pained cries;
“promise me”,
you had said,
“come home.”
the stench of death
and gunpowder
overpowered the honeysuckle
That always reminded me of home
and the boy I used to love.
the decades that passed
felt almost like a dream
as the ghosts of my past
beckoned.
...
...
...
the trees were older now
and spring scatters the air
there were more lines
on my face now
but I’d like to think
I am the same.
lizards still peeked from the foliage
and the sun still warmed my skin;
not for the first time since I got home
I wept as I sat myself
at the ****
of the tombstone
that bore your name.
“I am home,”
I cried to the wind
“where are you?”
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:11 AM UTC
Self control is like
A straightjacket of emotions
that run amok—
When I spoke to you
of love and trust
and about the price of tea
in China
and about the carnivorous plants in my country
You smile patiently and
patted my head
like you would a child—
And all I can think about is
how different your face looks
in the dark
with my fingers
wrapped around your neck.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 11:00 AM UTC
Life ***** you want to end it
But you DON'T KNOW HOW?
Prefer to spend the last of your days alone?
We know dying needs careful planning, that's why we have the
Grim Reapers Suicide Made Easy Special.
He sees a Titanic woman perched
at the top of the world, her eyes closed, her mouth agape.
On her head poured forth
the midnight chasms of hell and from her open
cave-like mouth, Death rode out on his pale horse.
Curling my lips in disgust
I held out my hand.
"Come," I hissed in the language of the dead.
"Your time is up."
Friday, Oct 13, 2009:
DEATH: THE NEW WAY TO MAKE A STATEMENT.
Come to the talk by the
Grandkeeper of Eternal Sorrows:
Peter R. Maghire *
For many Cairenes the City of the Dead is a mysterious, foreboding area. Among these cemeteries lives a community of Egypt's urban poor, forming an illegal but tolerated, separate society. The historic belief in Egypt is that the cemeteries are an active part of the community and not exclusively for the dead.
ARE YOU A GOOD MORTICIAN?
DO YOU FIND PEACE WITH THE DEAD?
DO YOU ENJOY TACKLING THE DECEASED?
STENOGRAPHERS WANTED: JOBS GUARANTEED FOR LIFE.
The Lady of the Grey
rides into the night sky
carrying with her the ghostling
of Sara-Mae.
May their souls and the souls of the faithful departed through the mercy of God, rest in peace, Amen.
* Peter R. Maghire is the anagram of The Grim Reaper
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 10:37 AM UTC
Afterlife for sale: items not refundable. In the eternal void where every soul is ****** my currency is Death.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 10:24 AM UTC
it's funny how much damage
a .338 Lapua Magnum can cause
to the person wielding the
weapon of death.
the pain sliced through me
quick, merciless
and death came slowly.
PERRIE GRAM, the plaque
on my desk
mocked me:
ACCOUNTS CLERK.
by night, my name card read
ASSASSIN FOR HIRE
although between the lines
****** SUBMISSIVE
PART-TIME LOVER
GRIM REAPER
hovered in silence.
hundreds have died
by the barrel of my gun:
politicians, mob bosses
past lovers, business competitors
but your thirst for blood
and revenge
still blinds you.
"I love you," you tell me
but the absence of
feeling in those three words
troubles me so.
tell me: why am I still
not good enough?
Jul 13, 2020
Jul 13, 2020 at 2:28 AM UTC
I like him
and despite the mixed signals
I think he likes me too
I can't be too sure of anything these days
what if he's playing me
just like the other guys -
like the one who told me he loved me
right before he had *** with my brother
or the one from my poetry class
who enjoyed Keats and Tennyson with a healthy
dose of *******
or the one who told me he was in a band
(he didn't tell me he was in a marching band)
what if I am a stand-in
for love, for what's yet to come
what if I'm second best
what if.
what if we started going out
what if he vowed to only be mine
what if he loves me so much
he can never leave me
or let me leave him
oh my god
what if he goes crazy
and starts hitting me
and insists my friends are a bad influence
and insists we get married
and have kids
****
if one day I feel like I'm ready to be in love
I will probably never see my friends and family again
but back to the story
He likes me
and I think I like him too.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 7:17 AM UTC
Dear Malaysia:
I’m embarrassed that it has taken
me so long to love you; it’s usually
the toughest when politics begin to fill
most of the pages of the newspaper.
I’ve never been sure if
this was the place for me
like a flutterby I flit, never to linger
and ever since I packed up my bags decades ago
I was afraid of the memories that will come back
as soon as I returned to the chaos of your streets.
But you know what, I surrender
to your murky politics and sluggish services
to your bright lights and friendly smiles
as I often wonder to myself –
What makes you tick
amidst the strings of lights
That shone down the path of the dark, filthy streets?
I can no longer keep you at arm’s length
though your imperfectness is glaring
amidst harsh whispers and constant ridicule;
Being a permanent resident at my favorite hotel
is like being a tourist
With a startling realisation that I think I’m staying for good.
A friend told me I didn’t quite like it this time around
and I don’t understand you at all.
But today, white blossoms would fall
From an old tree with its own love story to share
Onto the feet of those with an unspoken pact
and the same bittersweet melancholia.
Malaysia, I will learn not to feel lost
and I will learn to hang up my flighty shoes;
Let me make it up to you:
I cannot promise I won’t wince and shut my eyes
during a live telecast of the Commonwealth Games
but I promise
I will be behind you
every step of the way.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:23 AM UTC
You fell asleep on our way home
and left me in the company
of Adele crooning about
making you feel my love.
But that's all right -
You look so peaceful and lovely:
I'll just swerve to avoid the holes
just so I didn't wake you.
Sometimes I feel nothing but love
for my country
other times,
utter disgust.
Tonight it was the latter
and as I drove I couldn't help
but curse
my government
for not using my tax money
to fill the potholes with more cement.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC