'Neath the Willows, cloaked in brume,
as streams the night time a deepening.
Enshrouding all in shadows womb,
I espy true loves awakening.

Eve tide slumber found a youth,
within the mead, where I do dwell.
Wont was I, to bespell, forsooth,
tis truly, one thing I do well.

Mazed, stands young swain, aside his bay,
embracing nymph, of flaxen hair.
Bedewed, were eyes, by impish fay,
for it be a swine, he holds there.

Of deep laughter, I do partake.
As disenthralled, young swain awakes.

When we err, it is of human design.
Words spoken unhindered, without forethought,
deeds are done, not meaning to undermine.
Are we that perfect that we err not?

Yet still, our honor, is then redefined.
To offer forgiveness, true from aloft,
it is two souls you have realigned.
Are we that perfect that we err not?

Bringing closure to all those thus entwined.
Not just the transgressor, relieved of a black spot,
you placed yourself on the side of divine.
Are we that perfect that we err not?

Sitting in the moonlight, clad in a soft white gown,
blood running from her fingers, to drip to the thirsty ground.
You feel her eyes upon you, beckoning you near.
You try to turn and runaway, but your frozen there with fear.
The remnants of her last meal, lays ravaged about her feet.
The ground is slick with blood and gore, you wish you had not seen.
She lifts her arms out towards you, to take you in her embrace.
You start to sweat and you feel your heart begin to race.
Her mouth, it is an ugly **** of pointed teeth and torn flesh.
It makes a sickly smacking sound as she smells your blood so fresh.
Suddenly, she's there beside you and hitting you with a plate.
You blink your eyes and shake your head, a smile comes to your face.
Now comes the messy task of cleaning up from all the food action.
You are just an average teen, with an overactive imagination.
It wasn't a ghoul or vampire, out to make you ****** confetti.
It was just your little baby sis, eating her spaghetti.

I wiggle my toes in the sands of time,
sifting through the grains and the years gone by.
Lamenting those years I was in my prime.
How fast, they seem now, to have flown by.

Sifting through the grains and the years gone by,
I recall the adventures in my life.
How fast they seem now, to have flown by,
through childhood, teen years, to become a wife.

I recall the adventures in my life.
Of scars and bruised ego's, that brought me here,
through childhood, teen years, to become a wife.
It seems I really had nothing to fear.

Of scars and bruised ego's that brought me here,
I realize now how they did mold me.
It seems I really had nothing to fear,
except for a future, I can not see.

I realize now, how they did mold me.
I relive my life, as the scenes unfold,
except for a future I can not see,
yet looking forward, to what my future holds.

Reliving my life, as the scenes unfold,
lamenting those years I was in my prime.
Yet, looking forward to what my future holds,
I wiggle my toes in the sands of time.

An echo of your breath,
softly sets upon my ear.
Lays within my very depths,
resonant words I can hear.

Softly, sets upon my ear,
the lyrics of our souls tune.
Resonant, words I can hear,
heartbeats join the gentle croon.

The lyrics of our souls tune,
sings of velvet bonds that bind.
Heartbeats join the gentle croon,
of a love that transcends time.

Sings, of velvet bonds that bind,
the essence of what we share.
Of a love that transcends time,
life has nothing to compare.

The essence of what we share,
lays within my very depths.
Life has nothing to compare,
an echo of your breath


Written in Pantoum Form

Your cool as frost stare,
while coyly playing peek-a-boo
from behind a fan of clouds,
has kept your wanton visage burned
upon mans imagination.
You have mystified for eons,
with a slowly batting eye.
Drawing upon our souls,
as a tree draws moisture.
Slowly, yet surely siphoning our lust.
Men have stepped a kiss upon
your delicately powdered face.
You have left them craving more.

Courtship walks a perilous rope,
seduction and proposal.
The Rake that alludes to chivalry,
balances the act with sin.

Coincidental meetings.
At gatherings of their peers.
A dance asked with gallantry,
speculations run wild.

Carriage rides alone at night,
curtains pulled over windows.
No destination in mind,
except what the Lady allows.

And so the game has begun.
Take what is given, give nothing back.
Promise the moon, deliver promises.
Yet, the hazards of the heart rule.

Now, captivated by charms.
Caught unaware by hearts pull,
the Rogue must bow his head.
Concede to beauty and destiny

Keeper of the past, Mother of the future,
reclaiming death, so as to offer rebirth.
Embracing us all in your nurturing womb.
A living organism, that holds us,  Earth.

Carrier of whispers, spoken by the stars.
Mercurial mind set, as you do portend,
changes of the seasons and of coming storms.
The very breath of our atmosphere, the Wind.

Giver of light and warmth, to our darkest nights.
Within your dance, renewal on a pyre.
Hypnotic temper, fuels cycle of re growth,
ashes to ashes, we rise from the Fire.

Elixir of life, able to move mountains.
Drop by drop, your  are natures perfect sculptor,
the very essence of deadly gracefulness.
Undulating rythym, that we call Water

Earth, Wind, Fire, Water, does not stand alone.
Working together, they make this planet home.

Tonight is for reflection.
Not the kind found in a mirror.  
Which of course I have none.  Mores the pity.  I would love to see how splendid I look in my new shirt with French lace and ruffles.  Under my sapphire blue waist coat and buckskin riding breeches.  All I can clearly see full of, would be my boots.  The softest leather and a shine to see ones reflection in.  Sigh, But not mine.

Where was I.. Ah yes,  I was waxing philosophical.
One can never be too busy to better ones self.  Thus
my new clothes.

Let's see...reflection.  

While looking back upon my long lived life as the Prince Of Darkness.  I realize, I have been selfish.  Not
once have I invited others to my humble home.  Not once have I hosted a party.  Not once have I allowed others to witness my grandeur.  

Tonight, I vow to remedy that.  I will have a party.  One to outdo all the others which I have had the privilege to crash.  

Hmm.  Perhaps I should start a bit smaller.
A dinner party!
For the intimates of intimates.

Let me see.  Who to invite?

Reginald Wadsworth!  He's a jolly chap.  No.  He was a late night snack a few days ago.

Hortense Mayweather!  She is always in good humor and a fair conversationalist.  No.  She had the misfortune of crossing my path last month while I was woozy from battle blood loss.  A fight with a tresspasser left me a bit worse for wear.  But Hortence fixed me right up.

I've got it!  General Clayston!  He makes for such a fun curmudgeon.  Oh,  He died of old age.

Hmm........

Oh look!  The Carlstayton's are hosting a party tonight.

Looks like I will be dining out.

~Lord Kellington

Sprinkled 'round is the shade
beneath the dieing tree.
Leaning to the left a bit,
almost upon it's knees.
As if begging for the water,
that from its crown it can see.
The home now vacant, foreclosed,
the landscape left thirsty.
it's not just families that suffer,
in this upside down economy.

With the moon, as our chaperone,
for miles, the beach, is ours alone.
Your hands, rest, within my hair,
holding me, enraptured there.
While you feast upon my lips,
waves, about our ankles, slip.
Their caress, is smooth and soft,
while yours, leave me wanton, lost.
The ocean breeze, cool and light.
Yet, I am afire, now, this night.
Time, stand still this night, I plead.
For more of him, I do greed

This, the first time, beneath moonbeams,
of summer love, I feel the steam.

There came a tapping at my door
as evening shadows crossed the floor.
Upon my throwing of the latch
a wind the door blew from my grasp.
On my stoop why there did stand
A strange enigma of a man.
his ruddy lips were quite out of place
with the paleness of his face.
His head did sit on a long elegant neck.
He wore impeccably well his suit from Strohm & Beck.  
His feet were incased in the finest red leather.
With golden threads they were sewn together.
When he did ask if he might enter within
His voice was gravely as though in use it had rarely been.
I bowed and bade of him to warm himself by my fire.
For to deny his request I instinctively knew would be dire.
I offered up a glass of Bond,
Which I am well known for being very fond.
He raised his hand to politely refuse.
I noticed he was looking slightly amused.
I grasp my glass of double scotch neat
and tried to look calm as I took a seat.
He then sat back relaxed deep in my favorite chair.
What he said next did on end stand my hair.
"I am Death." he simply stated as fact.
I must admit, I tossed my double Bond straight back.
"I see". I replied trying my nerves to quell.
"I have heard about you." There! I thought that sounded quite well.
A grating chuckle he then did give out.
"I have come for you Sir." I then passed clean out.
Upon my regaining my senses I saw,
sadly I had not been dreaming after all.
There the man Death did simply sit.
Just looking at me as though I were a half wit.
"You misunderstood me dear Sir,
I come for conversation, as it were."
Well now that just befuddled me all the more.
I covertly judged my distance to the door.
"As you may well imagine as happening,
the ones I collect aren't up for chatting."
Well I could surely understand
I doubted I would have want to talk as a dead man.
I decided I might as well go ahead and ask.
As it seemed of my senses, I was suddenly lack.
"Why did you happen to select me?"
"When more scholarly men I know there to be."
His bottomless eyes gave nothing away
as the ends of his mouth slowly curved he did say.
"You have a certain... shall we say flair" He stated while he chuckled
"For being a man who stays in his cups." Oh, now that did rankle.
"So no matter how much you swear tonight the truth
no one will believe, they'll assume you were....juiced."
he settled back deep into the plush chair whileI rankled.
Stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankle.
"Do you like my boots?" Wiggling his feet and gestured with his thumb,
all the while acting as if we were the best of chums.
"Why yes, they are the finest made I'll wager. Where did you get them?
No! I don't need to know. But I bet I can guess not from some beggar."
And so the night continued on with a storm ragging
and our idle conversation never went lagging.
We spoke of books and fishing holes.
Lovers lanes and Political moles.
He beat me in a game of chess.
But it is at cards, that I cheat best.
He inquired of the widow Clarke.
I told him about the neighbors dog that barks.
he said he couldn't help me there,
The dog wasn't slated in until next year.
Slowly dawn began to rise.
I could barely hold open my eyes.
When finally he rose to take his leave,
A cold kiss on my forehead he gave to me.
I am sure I stood there in open mouthed shock
While he faded from sight calling "See you tonight at 10 O'clock.
Now for the rest of the day I have a full on quandary to fear.
When the clock strikes ten, was he coming to converse or to collect me from here?

My Halloween offering for Oct. 10th



Eeeeeeeeewwwww!  Kind of like snot.
Communication between our world and the spirits.
Telltale sign of a ghostly presence.
Occupational hazard as a ghost buster.
Proof positive?  Or just the kids toy "Slime"?
Leaves a lasting impression when seen and felt.
Always makes for a great scene in a movie.
Scientifically, it is part of a cell.
Mysterious!

Love, transient as wind,
your fickle heart plays false.
Leaving bitter tears,
that stain trusting souls.

Leaving bitter tears,
filling an angry pool,
that stain trusting souls.
They then, shy from love.

Filling an angry pool,
with venomous hate.
They then shy from love,
missing out on life.

With a venomous hate,
eating away chances,
they then shy from love.
Left out in the cold.

Eating away chances,
leaving bitter tears.
Left out in the cold,
Love transient as wind.

Let's see, my oldest son was about seven years old.  The boys had to ride a buss to
school, which my oldest did not do well.  He has this way about him, that tends to have
women authoritative figures letting him off the hook, when he's been naughty.  I always
thought it was his eyes and devilish smile.  They both still get him into and out of
trouble.  But those are stories for another time.

This particular year, he was having a must difficult time behaving on the buss.  He had
discovered that he could be a real clown and the girls loved it.  Go figure.  The buss
driver gave him multiple warnings and "Buss Tickets" for misbehaving.  But, somehow,
he was always forgiven by the schools principal (a woman) and never got detention.  
Even when we insisted on it.

All except this one time.  On the last day of school, he decided to end the year with a
bang.  He came home from school that day and acted as though nothing had
happened.  Later that evening, I received a phone call.  It was the buss driver.  She was
laughing before she was even able to tell me why she called.  Although I was 100% sure
it was about my oldest.

Apparently, he was a little angel the whole ride home.  That alone made her suspicious.  
She pulled up to his stop.  Out he got.  Then he mooned her.  The way the buss driver
told it, it wasn't a quarter moon, nor a half moon.  But a FULL MOON.  He had hitched
up his pants and ran before she could get her wits about her.  She said she laughed all
the way home.

Well, I started to apologize through my laughter.  I assured her that we would most
definitely take this in hand.  But she stopped me and stated "Oh,  I'll handle this".  She
shared with me her plan.  I had the hardest time all summer, not telling him, that I
knew what he had done.

Next year, the very first day of school, my oldest went to catch the buss.  Oh, I had a
hard time waiting to see what would happen.  That afternoon, when he came home, he
was upset.  "Look what she did Mom!  I can't believe it!" he whined.  There in his hand,
was a bright red "BUSS TICKET"  The reason on it was marked in bold felt
pen..."Mooning".  Now, you would think that he would be upset about the mooning.  
Noooo, not my son.  His exact words were...."I can't believe someone that old would
remember what I did."

sigh  That boy has never changed

On a side note:  He and his Dad had a long talk about that Ticket.

I wake in a rage!  
A poacher has dared step foot in this,
my City.  It is just not done.  
The fool.
I will....extract....him tonight.

Are we that many, that we cannot stay at home?
He may be a rogue.  If he is, all the better.
They tend to put up a fight.

I will toy with him.  This rogue.  This interloper.
Give him a small chance.
In the end I will **** him of course.
I will simply behead him.

Not such a hard task.  But it is rather grisly.
Oh well.  Off I go.
Now, just what does one wear to a messy beheading?

~Lord Kellington





This is the second installment from the Diary of Lord Kellington
and my Halloween offering for Oct. 14th

While riding home after having beer, two,
a friend of ours ended up covered in poo.
He was tipsy and feeling quite queasy,
for an old man, he got drunk very easy.

In the back seat waited his wifes favorite dog,
who suddenly landed in his lap like a log.
She started to squirm and whine very strong.
Never did find out why he had taken her along.

His wife said "I think she needs to go *****".
He didn't care, he slurred rather spotty,
"I just want to go home and go to bed".
But, that pup had other ideas in her head.

Louder, the pup whined out her painful cause,
at the window she scratched with her paws.
Still there on the lap of our drunken friend,
one mile from home, he wouldn't give in.

Natural body functions, being as they are,
intensified by the rough ride in the car,
would not be held back, though she tried all she could.
Can you see where this is leading?  If not, you should.

Home now in sight, the pup in a panic,
her functions cut loose, with all the organics.
Not just a mere plop of a log, but loose stool.
There our friend sat...in the car...in a pool.

Down the front of his shirt, filling the pocket,
where his cell phone resided.  I ain't gonna touch it!
Covering his lap in a sticky black goo,
it even ran down his pants, into his shoe.

He wasn't allowed into his own home.
Stripped out of his clothes, the hose, he was shown.
The pup stood right there just wagging her tail,
as if to say "AHhhhh!  I feel very well"

We still laugh at our friends adventure to this day.
But, when we go for pizza, from the beer he stays away.
He no longer rides with the pup in the car,
and the pup, we all panic, when she goes to ****.


*This is a true story.  The pup is a 65lb golden Retreiver named Candy.  Thin kabout that for a bit.

I have named it.

The kittens name is....Crystal.
It is an apt name, seeing as
she felt compelled to break
my crystal goblet.

The very one I "drink" from
on the occasions when someone
tries to break in.

One must see to use manners
when one is in his own home.

Crystal has not one.  
She has already used my coffin
as an outhouse.
We are working stridently on
that particular issue.

Last nights hunt was....well,
boring, to say the least.  I was
distracted.  My thoughts were of
home and what Crystal was doing now.

I need to take time.  
Feel the flavor of the hunt.  
Feel my preys fear.  
Or it is like drinking Ale,
instead of a rare wine.

Both will get you there.  
But, as I alwyas say,
One must always choose style.  It is
what separates us from...well,
uncouth mortals and such.

I am not a snob.
I may be pure evil, true.
But, I do have standards.
Few that they may be.

I believe I am fit now.
Tomorrows nights hunt will be
one of the most fun.
I am going to a party.

One I must crash, of course.


~Lord Kellington

She played one more time for Papa,
as to make the Angels weep.
His frail, arthritic hand,
upon the bed rail, tapped a beat.

His rhuemy eyes in sunken cheeks,
never waivers from her face.
His blue lips in silent tribute,
sang the words to Amazing Grace.

Her eyes closed to the rapture,
her Violin did sing.
She did not see, yet she felt,
when Papa stopped breathing.

'Tween the shades of gloam and night
roam shadows cold and deep
Cavorting along the garden walls
'neath the eves they do seep

Pulling life from which they touch
removing the essecense of being
Growing bolder and darker still
when clouds course over moonbeams

Roses quell beneath their touch
becoming grey and smolder
The ivy blends into the trellis
stone statues look years older

Inching along the spreading branches
of the tree that taps at window panes
Melding with the leaves and bark
becoming your night time bane

Shadows tease the back door catch
then move on to your window sill
Melting in to your own bedroom
sneaking about as they will

Dark mouths stretch on the walls
and yawn across your quilted bed
Teeth reach out for your toes
while fingers want your head

Shadows tickle the closet doors
and weep beneath the chair
Puddling underneath your bed
You swear hands are touching your hair

Courage you gather as you quake
bit by bit you garner strength
Off you cast the covers fast
your eyes you rub and blink

For there the sun is streaming in
and chasing the night shadows out
You can almost hear their angry screams
of defeat as the sun spreads out

Your brain gives a sigh of relief
as it realizes you are now sun encased
But then new panic does set in
as you recall night can't be escaped

Now this was way back in seventy-five,
when seat belts weren't worn, to keep you alive.
On a winding, ocean highway, we drove,
the weather, clear and sunny at the cove.

As we came to the spot that goes round,
my husband, then boyfriend, did slow down.
He reached for his seat belt, he never used,
then said, "Maybe you should put yours on too".

We drove round that bend, then it happened.
It was like a big hand was the weapon.
We were hit with such force we both did wobble,
in our seats, then we saw our new trouble.

We were sliding quickly across the lanes,
heading for a guardrail that would save us pain.
But we missed that saviour rail by quite a ways.
Down the grassy hillside we slid sideways.

At that moment, went by, two speeding big rigs,
trying to pass side by side round that bend.
One had been in our lane, coming head on,
the other, his bumper, along the guardrail, slid on.

Coming to a stop between a tree trunk and large boulder.
Our car had started to want to roll over.
Being held there, with two wheels in the air,
Railroad tracks, fifty feet were below us there.

We sat and took stock of our fortunate good luck.
We could have been mowed down by either truck.
As for hubby to have just then, used a seat belt,
something guided him, he was sure that he felt.

We both managed to crawl from the tilted car,
there were two dents in the door, we were jarred.
As we began our long climb up that hill,
we noticed the air go perfectly still.

The car moaned wanting to finish it's roll,
as a train flew by on the tracks just below.
At the top of the hill , we could only stare,
and relive, what had just happened there.

Our lives that day had been saved more than once.
Of evidence of what had transpired, there was.
The tree, where the rear of the car was seated,
was recently uprooted, falling just where needed.

The dents in the door were hand sized
and spread apart from each other, just right.
As though a divine source from above,
had given our car, a much needed shove.


Note:  This is a true recounting of what took place
while hubby and I were driving
along the Oregon Coast Highway 101
in August of 1975

The clouds cry for me once again,
expressing what I cannot say.
Helping release, from deep within,
a sadness that seems to invade.

Since it is my eyes run dry,
the clouds cry for me once again.
Falling just for me, from the sky.
Such gentleness upon my skin.

Upon my window, rain peers in,
just stopping by to say hello.
The clouds cry for me once again,
comforting me when I feel low.

So when it is my tears I've shown
and the healing can now begin,
so that I shed tears not alone,
the clouds cry for me once again.

Blissful night of death.
Watching the blood run thick, wet.
As rats start their feast.

Stains upon my eyes.
More stains, worse, upon my soul.
And do I care?  No.

Tell me why should I?
Is it not my true nature?
Am I not to live?

Ha!  But I am wind.
So you see, there is no harm.
You only die once.

I fear not prison.
I have no fear of gallows.
They must catch me first.

And that, they will not.
I exist within shadows,
for I am the night.

The night is for death.
The perfect time for dying
and my enjoyment.

The prey is willing
or they would not be out here.
They love a good hunt.

And hunters, they are.
They hunt the weak and infirm.
And I?  I hunt them!

Is it not as grand
a profession as gambling?
When they are alike.

A toss of the dice,
a decision to walk here.
A gamble on death.

Such as you just made.
But the house will always win.
Now, let us begin.



Halloween offering for Oct. 9th

Acrid tears have dried upon my soul.
Their tracks painfully erode
the partition I hold before myself
and the world I need escape.

Thin as rice paper, are my emotions.
A false step rips the calm I hold.
Displacing my hopes of normalcy,
one step closer to losing my precarious balance.

Which, in and of itself, is a lie.
As I slip from one side to the other.
The Pendulum never stops its movement,
never giving rest to my anger and fear.

I am no more who I was,
when I was a person, whole.
Pain has shaped and molded my life,
while usefulness died under its weight.

Forgiveness, I am not ready to pour,
as I drink from the well of bitter remorse.
Had not the Corporate Viper bitten,
I might not be filled with the fear of snakes.

Lies told.  Lies held.  Lies that burn
behind my eyes, scald my outlook on life.
Leaving a scar that I always see,
when I look at myself and what has been stolen

I waited in one of the cities dark and dangerous alleyways.  The vile odors.  The Gads knows what forming puddles around my best leather boots.  The ones with the shine to blind the eye.

There she was.  A common strumpet.  Drunkenly making her way towards me.  Jingling her purse of meager coins.

Blood money.

Obtained by logging men on the heads whilst they took their fill of her.  Only to have her sell them to sea Captain's that do not ask questions of where their crew came from.  Or whether they were willing.

I could feel the evil in the air about her.  I heard her heart beat and felt her blood pulse.

She was delicious.

Not a drop wasted.  

As I sit here, the thought comes to me, that I shall
be ******.

But wait!  I am already ****** and I thrive within it.  I not only thrive...I revel in it.

Now where is that odious, rangy, mouse burping kitten gotten off to.
GADS!  She is up the draperies once again!

I will calmly go get the ladder, which I had to buy just for these occasions.  I will place it up against the drapery staff.

I will climb up.  Gently coaxing the little flea bitten darling to me.  She will hiss and claw like the ***** she is.

But, alas.  I adore her so.


~Lord Kellington

Roses from his garden,
grace the bedside table.
Resting there just in case,
her situation becomes stable.
He holds her hand, gently speaks,
of things he's done that day.
A tear drop slips down his wrinkled cheek,
afraid she'll stay this way.

A petal drops from a bloom,
as her breathing alters.
Buzzers sound, nurses rush,
her situation alters.
He stands aside, as they work,
the roses in his arms.
Suddenly there is too much silence,
as a nurse turns off the alarms.

Roses from his own garden,
sit in a green plastic vase.
Above the marker that bears her name,
as sunsets on his face.
He's told her that his work is done,
and soon he would be coming home.
As daylight wanes he shuffles off,
to die at home alone.

A petal drops from a bloom,
as he turns to leave.
He bends down to pick it up,
and tumbles to his knees.
He reaches out to the roses,
his heart, it stops a moment too soon.
Before he can pick her out a rose,
as a petal drops from a bloom.

Speculations abound, on the news and Internet.
Doomsday prophecies, when the planets alignments set.
But I have my theories, that I will share with you,
might as well accept it, there's nothing you can do.
Twenty-twelve is coming, that is a simple fact.
Just sit back and read along, have yourself a laugh.

I believe on that day:

That the aliens that abducted Elvis,
to be their king, will bring him back to us.
Their ship will land on the White House Lawn,
a whole lotta shakin', will be goin' on.

I believe on that day:

Man will find chocolate is a miracle drug.
They'll melt it down and use it, as synthetic blood.
Saving the lives of thousands of women on the verge.
They will find that P.M.S., finally is cured.

I believe on this day:

Jerry Springer will announce his intent,
to run in the next election to be our President.
He has a sure fire way, to end all the wars,
let the leaders fight it out on his shows stage floor.

I believe on that day:

All manner of nonsense will ensue.
I don't think it is a day, that we will come to rue.
Bets in Vegas will still be laid,
our nest payday's we will still want paid.
The Earth will turn upon it's axis,
there will still be, death and taxes.
No.  2012, should not be feared.
But, I have my seat reserved, on the next ship outta here.

Bringing up a child, can be difficult,
Especially one with an vivid imagination.
Constantly doing things that get him into trouble,
Always wanting to know "Why can't I".
Usually having band-aids on his knees and elbows.
Supposedly doing what he was told,
Even when no one is watching.

Instigating Trouble!

Sassy attitude towards danger,
Always the first to take a dare.
Immediately, regretting decisions while airborne.
Dirt encrusted jeans and shirt his daily uniform.

Setting sights on the next big adventure with,
Ooops!  That didn't go as planned, as his next words.

Today you bear the scars of yesterday.
Holding court, showing them off
Attention from the girls who want the bad boy.
Trouble should have been your middle name.
So, I just wait for the next call from the E.R.

Would have thought you'd have learned the first time.
However, you do make me proud.
You will always be my baby boy.

Aged and mellowed, golden whiskey in a wide mouth Mason jar.
Poured over sweet rock candy, was the guaranteed cure,
of ticklish throats; sprained ankles; hair loss; hang nails and more.
Always kept on hand, for times of desperate need,
of which Grandpa had a profound proclivity for.
No glass nor tablespoon was needed to dispense this elixir.
Just twist the ring, pop the lid, up end the jar and let it slide
down your parched throat..ummm, I mean,  soar throat.
I remember well, my first bout with laryngitis at the age of seven.
Grandpa hurried off, to get the magical jar of homemade "Cure".
Minutes later, he came in, carrying the jar like a precious jewel.
Pouring some of that honey hued nectar into a large serving spoon.
Tasting it first, making sure it hadn't gone bad, of course.
Then he slipped the spoon edge between my lips.
Boy-howdy, my eyes watered, I coughed for a spell.  
Then slept like a baby.

I am a pandora's box.

Let loose upon an unsuspecting society.
Once my night life begins,
complications arise.

Let me pen an example.
Keep in mind, it was not my fault.
well, not entirely.

I awoke in my usual good humor.  
I dressed with my usual care.
I gave more than adequate time to
the choice of parties to crash.
I fed Crystal.  Picked up her toys; dead mice and a human ear she had gathered from some unsavory alleyway. Kissed her upon her flea ridden cantankerous little head.

Then I stepped outside of my crypt.

Pandemonium ensued!

Young lads running hither and yon.
Screaming!  ****** functions letting loose.
Not mine, I should add.

You see, it was all quite innocent.
Upon my stepping into the moonlight, one of the young bucks, at that exact same time, jumped out from behind the bushes.  Which flank my lair.

He had on the most ghastly costume.
Red cape.  Black tie and tails.  Fake fangs!  
Fake blood dripping from whitened lips.

I may have over reacted....a tad.
My preternatural instincts erupted.
I saw, briefly mind you, a rival in my territory.
I went from the Gentleman of night time adventures, to my full Monstrous glory, in the blink of an eye.

I dropped six inches of battle fang.  I bulked up to three times my normal, quite muscular, size.
Ruining yet another splendid jacket.  
Oh, what to tell my tailor?

There you have it!
Young men, out and about, on an All Hallow Eve's lark.
Running about as if the Devil himself were after them.

When it was only I.


~Lord Kellington


I hope you have enjoyed our little journey with Lord Kellington.  In what must be just a snippet of his long lived life.  
I grew to love his wit, his charm, his devil may care attitude and his kitten..Crystal.
But, the time has come.
I now close the cover on this dusty Tome, to place it, reverently, upon my bookshelf.  Maybe, on a stormy, wind swept night, I may take it down, to open it once again.
Or perhaps, Lord Kellington, is at this very moment searching for his lost Diaries.  To save them from prying eyes, such as ours.  Wanting to **** all who now know his secret.
He could be in your home right now.
Hear that sound?  It wasn't a floor board, nor the house settling.  Nor the wind.
As you are now engrossed with your reading of my warning, he could be standing behind you....right now.
Reaching out with hands like claws.  Fangs, ready to rip out your throat...
                    LOOK OUT!!

Happy Halloween  
Bwwwwwaaahahahahahaa

Musty, salt smell, of a deserted home,
sitting by the seawall, viewing sand and foam,
assails the nostrils when you open the door.
See dust motes fly, spiders scurry on the floor.
Curtains hang as tattered rags and swaying,
in the breeze, through the cracks, like old flags waving.
As if wearily, signaling for a truce,
between the sea and the decay induced.
Sand comes down from ceiling beams as proof,
as to the storm worn holes, in the roof.
Of shingles blown off, during cold winter blasts,
sand trickles down, as if from an hour glass.
Time and the elements have dulled the shine,
of the woodwork and trim of knotty pine.
Cast iron water pipes, rusted out in places.
The claw foot tub, rest on it's Eagle braces.
Porcelain surface, chipped and cracked,
lath and plaster of the walls needing patched.

The little house sitting by the seawall,
that leans to the left and ready to fall.
Bulldozer sits ready, engine at idle,
to be let loose, push it into a pile.
Along with others like it in a row,
that once held town folks and saw children grow.
A new hotel made of metal and glass,
sterile exterior, no style nor class.
Will take their place, sitting by the sea wall.
Years ago, an oil spill caused the fall,
of this sleepy tourist town full of charm.
No one realized, the long arm of the harm.
They filtered the sand, skimmed off the water,
it was to late, the economy faltered.
Waiting out there, like vultures that scavenge,
was the Corporations, watching it happen.
When the town gasped, gave it's last dying breath,
in they did swoop, living off a towns death.

He wears his halo with a bad boy attitude,
Walking the line between Saint and Sinner.
Oh, what it is his crooked smile does to you.
To your mind, he's a prizewinner.

His wings are tarnished, not meant for flight.
Before he was angel, he was a hellion.
Standing now, on the side of right,
yet, still capable of rebellion.

Holding open doors, he does with style.
He moves with the grace of a Tiger.
In others shoes, he would walk that mile.
He wears leather better than any biker.

His kisses are fire, that always linger.
His come hither eyes melt your knees.
It tickles your fancy when he caresses your fingers,
He always says thank you and please.

His romantic side, he's not afraid to show.
He can be a mechanic, carpenter or plumber.
He enjoys eating dinner in a candles glow,
he's even willing to snuggle when you slumber.

But!

Is he there for you faithfully when it isn't fair weather?
Does he appreciate the time you spent cleaning?
Will he conveniently forget plans you made together,
when a buddy, with a new toy, calls for help wrenching?

Will he let you drive his truck he calls "Baby"?
When sick, will he allow you to smother?
Does he like cats, yes, no or maybe?
Does he even like your Mother?

Will he take out the trash without being reminded?
Does his ***** socks even get near the hamper?
When out with you, to other girls is he blinded?
Does he understand, camping to you, means in a camper?

Does he eat the dinners you cook without ketchup?
Does he throw his wet towels on the floor?
His own kitchen mess, is he willing to clean up?
Is he even willing to help with house chores?

Your internal clock is ticking under the gun.
You have used all of your feminine wiles.
Is he the man you can call "The one"?
Can you get him to walk down the isle?

Ominous thunder clouds build higher, as if on steroids.
Advancing as a single unit from the mountain range.
As a joke, the unrelenting sun, hides now and then,
offering a brief relief from it's sweltering heat.
Wildlife now lies low, knowing what nature does send.
The farthest range, gone from view, behind a deathly veil.
Devouring hill and valley, the storm presses forward,
torrential rain trails along as if a wedding trane.
Thunder reverberates, pulsing through the veins with fear.
Rattling windows, shaking the smell of rain from the air.
As if one, dogs barks turn to a mournful wail, then stop.
A raindrop lands on the softened blacktop.  It is here.

Actions speak louder, overtime.
Remaining unspoken between two hearts.
When souls, mated as one, entwine,
small gestures, will play their part.

Remaining unspoken between two hearts,
a need, that will fill the void.
Small gestures will play their part,
in keeping the romance deployed.

A need that will fill the void,
in an otherwise cold existence.
In keeping the romance deployed,
you break down all the resistance.

In an otherwise cold existence,
your faith in each other will hold.
You break down all the resistance
and learn what the heart's always known.....

Your faith in each other will hold,
when souls, mated as one, entwine
and learn what the heart's always known,
actions speak louder over time.

Shame
remains
with me still.
Even after
forgiveness given.
My eyes still see the truth
written on my reflection.
If I could get past self loathing,
to accept that I can not change this,
then perhaps, I could, once again love life

Just the other day I was there,
running, laughing once again with no cares.
I was playing tag around the old pear tree.
I'm the one with Band-aids on my knees.
There's my mom helping grandma tend the yard,
while grandpa's in his hammock, snoring hard.
The journey isn't very far for me
I go home every now and then in my memories.

There's my friend who with secrets I could share.
Oh!  The fragrant roses between our yard and theirs.
Whose thorns left me this scar upon my hand.
See my brother, his Tonka trucks in the sand.
On the sidewalk my sister rides her bike.
That's the phone line that always ate our kites.
Going home is not that hard for me,
I go there every now and then in my memories.

Dead Man's Alley was a place we could dare,
each other to go down, if they weren't scared.
The neighbors driveway, we always thought so steep.
It's funny, the mental images we keep.
Our front porch, home to Barbie's and Troll Dolls.
The hours grandma spent sewing outfits for them all.
To visit once again, for me, is so easy,
I go home every now and then in my memories.


The stereo my brother touched so that he could "hear"
the music through the vibrations, the big smile he would wear.
The walks with grandpa to the Rexall Store.
Roller skating round the tiled basement floor.
The hearth with the huge mirror hung above
All the happiness, especially all the love.
Yes, coming home again is a treat for me,
I come here every now and then in my memories.

My love lies 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine, within yon stand of trees.
Where upon a bed or ferns he did deeply drowse,
whilst locks of hair were tickled by the breeze.

I sat near to count the seconds pass,
till he would wake and espies my vision there.
Then into his arms I would fall at last,
loving away the longing of these past years.

Silver moonlight contrasts a God like form,
in leather breeches and shirt of linen.
Four years he was gone, I had been forlorn.
There he lay so close to home and kin.

Lashes rest upon sculpted cheeks of bronze,
hiding from me eyes of liquid brown.
Eagerly I awaited the sun of dawn,
to show me more of the marvel I had found.

Yes, my love lies now 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine within yon stand of trees.
Now eternally he does drowse,
as I fatally grieve down upon my knees.

For as the sun rose upon his stubble face,
I saw the lines of pain and of bloom erased.
Of life, my frantic hands, could find no trace.
What game is this so cruelly played by fates?

One must give credit out to one and all,
humans are, after all, territorial.
A gold star, pat on the back or sing their praise,
sets a parameter around their stage.
So thank me, for getting your projects done,
I realize your dating the bosses son.
To climb the ladder of success you must,
tread firmly upon the rest of us.
But, remember the steps will work both ways,
The time may come, I'll be your boss one day.

I awoke early this evening,
Just as I had planned.
I wanted to see a sunset.
I wanted....to feel.

As I sit and contemplate
the blisters upon my hand,
I realize the truth.
That ****** hurt!

What was I thinking?
What was I wanting?
What did I expect?
Why did I even seek the sun?

Am I wanting true death?
I don't think so.
Have I outlived my usefullness?
Perish the thought.

I must chalk it up to my love of beauty.
My love of all things mystery to me.
I know my tailor sews my clothes,
but how he comes up with the designs,
is a mystery.

I know my cat is hidding mice
within my lair.  I can smell them, hear them.
This is a mystery as to why she does so.

My latest cloak is mystery itself.
So dark an indigo, as to be night.
The lining so dark a red, as to be blood.
With pockets of every shape and size
sewn within.  Each pocket lined with
butter soft leather.  
There are even places to obscure the presence of a knife.

I have decided it will be my new Mourning cloak.
Worn when dining.  Perhaps a small souvenir tucked here and there within those lovely pockets.
No!  That I will never do.  There are rules and etiquette to be followed.

Ah, the moon shines now upon my desk.
The clock is ticking.  My night time
fun ends quickly.

A last stroke of the quill.  A last kiss upon a mangy, rat smelling head of crystal
and I am off.

~Lord Kellington

Being that I am a philosophical being.  I find myself pondering many unique thoughts, as I sit and stare off at the night time sky.

Earlier, I dined upon a sweet, young flower seller, down at the Square.  She wore a shawl about her shoulders ,that were stooping too soon on someone so young.  As though the weight of all her thoughts, rested upon her delicate shoulders.  Well, she has no need to worry now.  After I sampled her blood, I slipped a thousand Pounds into her skirt pocket.  It always does good for a shepard to tend his flock.  

Ah yes!  Pondering thoughts.

I wonder what would happen, if  were to awake to be mortal once more?
What if I were to conceive an allergy to blood?
Maybe I should allow myself to fancy myself in love and marry?
What if I were to enter a church in all my monstrous glory?  What fun!
Or, what if I was no longer welcomed by Polite Society?
What if my tailor quit!?
Or say, if I were to reach out to you, the reader of my night time missives, right now.  Grab you 'bout the throat and drink deep?  Ha!

But, what nonsense I ponder and write of.
For I will always be welcomed among Polite Society.  I am far too charming not to be.
My tailor, although routinely vexed with me for the late night hours I employ his services, would never quit me.  I pay his exorbinate fees without qualms.
The rest of my meanderings. Ha!  I fear not a one.

But, the mere thought of Crystal having kittens herself....GADS!

~Lord Kellington

The battlefield long now cleared
of corpse, blood and gore.
Belay the epic truth they tell,
knee deep in history and wars.

Dead stacked like cords of wood,
burnt on unsanctified fires.
Log by log of rigored souls
sent the flames up higher.

years later make shift morgues sat 'bout
to hold the fallen heroes.
Kept in dungeons and deeper colds,
till springtime thaw for burials.

Those that live on to build
and keep recording life.
Never thought once and all
war would end their daily strife.

So it goes, axe to sword,
Cannon to machine gun.
Scud missles to nuclear.
Who will be left to say they won?