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Francie Lynch Oct 2023
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.

But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.

It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.

Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.

Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.

They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften  stools.

They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.

They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.

The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”

The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.

They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.

When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.

They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Wrote this for my twin grandaughters, Brig and Ophelia. Ciaran is my grandson. The girls hate spiders. Probably moreso now.
Andy Chunn Aug 2023
In shadows deep where darkness hides
There lies a bag of eight-legged horror
A bag of spiders where dread resides
Creeping and crawling, causing sorrow

With nimble legs they dance and sway
Each spins a thread, a delicate art
A web of wonder, they work their way
To weave their silk and do their part

They scuttle and scurry, never at rest
Their beady eyes, like gleaming gems
Silent whispers in a world obsessed
Reflecting secrets, known only to them

Oh, the bag of spiders, a curious sight
But hidden within their fearsome guise
Eliciting shivers, invoking fright
Lies nature’s marvel in miniature size

A bag of spiders, misunderstood
For spiders, in truth, are nature’s aide
Not causing harm, but doing good
Keeping balance, so be not afraid

So let us ponder with open hearts
A bag of spiders, for if you did
You’d see how nature plays her part
And applauds the bag of arachnids
Anais Vionet Apr 2023
Were in the (study) trenches, but we don’t mind,
in the trenches, you aren’t really aware of time,
I’ve talked with a lot of my classmates,
and the citadel lights are burning late.

Ever startle awake because a spider’s on your face - but it’s only your hair?

Sunny’s been infected with the writing sickness.
She keeps saying “listen to this.”

Orthography might just be the death of me - seriously.

I dreamed Peter (my BF) was leaving.
I saw him behind the wheel of a car,
waving from the deck of a ship,
and blurred in the window of a bullet train.
It was like a wheel of misfortune.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Orthography: “Spelling correctly”
Isaace Dec 2022
I waited for The Monolith Spider on his denizen web,
In the silk-drained air!
In the silk-drained night!

His legs must be coarse and onyx.
His eyes must move many to tears.
Scorpions must hear his name and pince at the moon,
Locked in prison cells,
Shrouded by the haunt of night.

The Monolith Spider.
The silk-weaver.

How do we remeber the strands?
How do we cross them?
GaryFairy Mar 2022
I have created a new breed of spiders. They are so tiny that you can barely see them. They enter the human body and eat you cell by cell. I call them cell dwellers. I do not need any more test subjects to prove this...I just need to feed my little friends...
They breed fast
MsRobota Sep 2021
I've got spiders crawling inside my head
They've got me like a moth struggling against their webs

And it's so hypnotizing the way I suffer
And it's so comforting the way I punish myself
Nat Feb 2021
The skylight tints the afternoon grey
And some dull, dusty oranges
Perhaps there's fire, somewhere far away
Somewhere far beyond the creaking shelves
The time-varnished brown, rusty door hinges

The air is thicker than the oldest tomes
Sticky as the darkest aisle
Where long-dead spiders once made their homes
Minds caught in paper, minds caught in webs
I think, if I think, I'll sleep for awhile
As I stare at the verses,
I must seem so still.
She casts a web
from where she sits
and I smile,
but knowingly,
lower her body
down to the table.
She scatters again towards
the page I have just
turned and together we
weep for beauty
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