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Cole Strangeee Nov 2020
The night I met you, it wasn’t the first time.
In another lifetime I knew you.
Instantly warmed, I moved closer to you which I have never done to someone before.
It was was on the night of October 31st, the second full moon in the month.
The irony in it all.
The way you touch me,
Kiss me,
Caress my frame and face.
You feel like home
And for once I do not feel like the doormat.
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2020
Guarding the door,
like a bulbus Heimdall,
a blank pumpkin sits,
internally unhallowed,
without gashed gaping maw,
nor knife-notched nose,
nor eyeslits: triangular and odious.

Its inertia, serendipitous,
not for a moment did it greet
children asking
Never a one did it glow for.

Encased within, like
those stringy pumpkin guts,
is the puckish Pagan spirit,
craving bones ablaze in a fire;
Lost Loves manifested as moonlit
flaxen apparitions,
finding them Angelic
(yet unchanged),
easily as a ring
found in barmbrack.

A return to the turnip.

Ambling along ferns
rusted that same shade of pumpkin,
pondering the dead, and where
I long for them to reside now;
Rose, with her heaven,
Ryan, his Valhalla.

To each their Kingdom
of eternal inviolate peace.
Barmbrack, also often shortened to brack, is a quick bread with added sultanas and raisins. The bread is associated with Halloween in Ireland, where an item, normally a ring, is placed inside the bread, with the person who receives it considered to be fortunate.

On all Hallow's Eve, the Irish hollowed out Turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. These were the original Jack O'Lanterns.
Robert Watson Nov 2020
There once was a hoary miser,
Who believed himself the wiser.
He hoarded his money
And divorced his honey,
Sly Liza, buries rich fertilizer.
andTilly Nov 2020
they died
or they helped the dying
become a puzzle, to not merge
they cried
and run to protect
their own life on the thinnest verge
then hid
up there, the wooden cabin
over the trees, schoolhouse of rust
of scary, of their own hands
bathed in blood and strange lust
a deep fall
a Noah wronging no arc
and love that ends up in the dust
I’m lost
in so much red and darkness
kneeling with them, kneading past
at five
I’m leaving, it was hard
how to clean up a soul in mud?
I was walking
Through the edges of night
Whispering my wishes
To the full moon in slight
Watching carefully the clouds waving
I asked them:
Could you please stop my heart raving?
My shadow
Freezing by my breathing
Take a step away,
I found a rose fallen on the street beatless
I asked it:
Could he be mine?
Happy Halloween & Full Moon!
Ken Pepiton Nov 2020
Intense news, from so many vectors,
personal, spiritual, usual
challenging arrogance,

wanna vet? Ve bery  War-ish, we
children of pride,
and proud to be.

Mask off here, ask us if we hear and answer,
and we say,
define answer… is that counted as an answer?
long before we set those hooks fore and aft,
I'm apt to think in my realm of living words
quests acceptable by the asking at the end,
those ought be marked as asking not answering.
¿Okeh? upper and lowercase have less significance,
once those were powerful tools holding early
readers to solidified writer rules,

now you must ask first your self, be true, do I know?
Prior to any urge to ignore and grunt i-gnew.

"Liars prosper", I heard. First idea,
if this is where your power lives and your mortal mind
wonders in senescence at the wheezing
in the chest, sniffle, scratch, bluetooth feed back
it was not fame we get,
it is fifteen minutes in an andy war,
holy cow,
this could wax exciting, and juvenile, if there were any
worth in juvenile any thing, no
the best is last, that peace
past reason, just is,
because, I said
enough, no mas, I surrender. I learned to read and read.
While watching a fine sunset, and appearing to not be at home.
Jim Davis Oct 2020
Love... hanging on a thread...

©  2020 Jim Davis
Will it break?
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