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Adam Latham Aug 2022
A cold oppressive malice fell
Upon the room as outside roared
A howling gale, a soundtrack to
Three girls beside a Ouija board.

Three little sisters, six, eight, ten,
Up past their bedtime, dead of night.
Sat in a circle bleary eyed,
Their faces washed in candlelight.

The elder sibling's trembling hand
Dropped on the planchette, slowly met
By four more fingers from her kin
Each coated in a film of sweat.

A sharp intake of breath and then
"Are any spirits present here,
We seek a soul we lost too soon
Our now departed mother dear."

One voice turned quickly to a choir
As all three children without pause
Demanded from that rosewood board
A peek through otherworldly doors.

Five minutes passed, so too five more
But still the planchette would not slide,
The youngest child now fighting tears
Her disappointment hard to hide.

When suddenly out of the blue,
A welcome reprieve from the stress,
The planchette ****** and glided left
Up to the spot that spelled out YES.

A loud collective gasp escaped
Their mouths to see that pointer bob,
Then race across the polished wood
To spell out quickly "I AM HOB."

But shock was very soon displaced
By squeals of joy, a sense of pride,
Their beaming smiles a just reward
For contact with the other side.

With hearts now thumping in their chests
A palpitating hope filled throb,
The middle child leaned in and asked
"Who are you please sir, Master Hob?"

A short-lived pause then quick again
In playful fashion quite bizarre,
The planchette skipped across the board
"MY DEAR, I AM THE MORNING STAR.

I AM THE BEARER OF THE TORCH,
THE HERALD OF THE FIERY DAWN,
WHO RISES IN THE EASTERN SKY
AND SHEPHERDS IN THE COMING MORN.

I AM THE CAPTAIN OF THE GATE,
ADMITTING SOULS AT MY COMMAND,
HIS MOST EXALTED OF THE HOST,
I SIT UPON THE LORD'S RIGHT HAND.

YOUR MOTHER, YES, SHE TARRIES HERE
BATHED IN ETERNAL LOVE AND LIGHT,
ALL HEAVEN RICHER FOR HER SOUL,
ALL ANGELS SING HER NAME IN FLIGHT.

IN FACT SHE STANDS BESIDE ME NOW
ENROBED IN GLORY, ILLNESS FREE.
HER ONLY HEARTACHE THREE SMALL BABES
SHE MISSES NOW SO TERRIBLY.

BUT WALLOW NOT IN YOUR DESPAIR
YOUR MOTHER ASKS, THIS IS THE GIST,
GO OVER TO YOUR FATHER'S DESK
AND WITH HIS FLICK KNIFE SLIT YOUR WRISTS.

FOR THEN THE WALLS OF OUR TWO WORLDS
MAY BE DISSOLVED AND ONCE AGAIN,
YOU AND A MOTHER WHO YOU MISS
CAN BE TOGETHER FREE FROM PAIN."

The eldest child removed her hand
Recoiling at the strange request,
A seed of doubt sown in her mind
About their paranormal guest.

"Our mother would not wish us harm
In this life or the one to come,
The soul you claim to represent
Does not sound like our caring mum.

Who are you really, Master Hob?
I sense a spirit spawned in hell
Who never once has roamed those halls
Of heaven where our loved ones dwell."

A violent scratching filled the room
As on the vibrant red veneer
The planchette gouged into the wood
And made a pentagram appear.

"PROVOKE ME NOT TO ANGER, CHILD.
BELIEVE ME WHEN I TELL YOU THIS,
THE ARCANE POWERS I POSSESS
PROJECT BEYOND THE GREAT ABYSS.

I AM THE RIGHTFUL KING OF KINGS,
NOW DO EXACTLY AS I SAY.
RESIST AND BE IN NO DOUBT, CHILD,
I SHALL COMPEL YOU TO OBEY"

The youngest, unafraid, jumped up
Defiance blazing in her eyes.
"We sought the soul of our sweet mum,
Instead we found the prince of lies.

You have no power over us,
We don't believe you, do your worst."
The youngest child began to choke,
"SO BE IT LAST-BORN, YOU DIE FIRST!"
Pride Ed Nov 2014
Childlike glow
of thy radiant
skin, pale like
snow kissed
by sunlight.

Rufescent lips;
like flowing blood on
thy porcelain face.
The same of
your cheeks,
and
the ribbons of thy
veins…

Dost thou know ye
art not real?
Written for a prompt at allpoetry.
DieingEmbers Feb 2013
Insomnia makes strange bed fellows of us all
as sleep replaced by poetic sense of irony
as when we are alone we find good company
within the spirit box of demonic technology

there beneath the glass rise unspoken words
seemingly writ by modern day planchette
as disembodied heads with rictus smiles
beckon us with whispered promises typeset

fingers fearing rheumatism fumble with keys
unlocking neuron pathway to answer their call
to find peaceful rest beneath ink stained sheets
as insomnia makes strange bed fellows of us all
This is in response of his insomnia poem
speakeasied Aug 2013
speakeasied nights haunt us like
the ghosts we conjured through your
old ouija board that we balanced between
the space that separated us and I remember
I thought if we were any closer to one
another I might as well die happy and
you could summon me instead with the
planchette underneath your trembling
fingertips as you cry above your head
begging, begging, begging for me
to "just come back"
and I would try my hardest to come
into contact with your silky smooth flesh
just to see if you would think it were me,
but instead I ended up trembling
underneath your fingertips as you
raised your hand to the heavens as I was
begging, begging, begging for you
to "just relax"
TM Sep 2017
It isn't that you come here
moaning and flailing about my room
in a desperate apparitional brilliance

or that you move between my walls
omnipotent, chain rattling

but so much more

You make noise of fears
poets do not care of

of dying
of living
of beseech
of neglect
of need

but in a wailing assertion

If you want dominion here
break something

his future
his past
his heart -
    
           his thoughts

If not

he will most likely
cast you out to dolts
tucked tight in beds
in other cul-de-sacs

You need to understand
this home owns a sedentary poet
seduced by despondence

as aloof as anyone
you have ever strived to poltergeist

he will not know of you
lacking gifted conversation
and a planchette
ordained Dec 2019
four years and three months today
without you
the spirit in my attic
the white feather on my nose.
one time i picked up a ouija board
giggling with new friends and no expectations.
and you... you were sitting right next to me
and jumped at the chance to use your voice
(you were never good at keeping quiet).
you spelled hello into my hands
and when i asked you for your name
and the planchette moved to "L" then "U" then "C"
and one of the girls whispers "oh my god we summoned lucifer"
i smiled and a tear fell in my mouth
because my heart was weightless all of a sudden
and you were next to me all of a sudden
and i'm sorry it took me that long to realize
that you were still so close.
so we talked
and it was almost like the old days
and for the first time since you died i could hear your voice saying the words our hands spelled on the board
and--my god-- was it good to hear your voice
(sounds don't sound the same without you
and i can't sing on key without you).
as we talked i sobbed and laughed
and probably scared the girls around me
but it was me and you, you and i, like it always used to be
so i didn't care.
the best part was the white feather, dancing hazily above my hands while i spelled your words.
i hung on to every word
because i knew they might be the last for a long time
at least until you're ready to talk again.
when you said "goodbye" i felt my heart float back down into my body and my soul felt less sore
and then someone looked up "what do white feathers mean"
and google said "lifting of bereavement"
which i think was your way of telling me to man up.
and you're right! why should i grieve and bereave when you're still right next to me
in the white feathers that have fallen on me and followed me
every day since the ouija board chat?
i miss you still. of course i do.
but you're still here in every little white feather
Action across ouija board
fingers of left hand appear to move
planchette of their own accord...
inexplicably, silently, and verily
along a barely traceable minuscule chord
dance, with some spatial force

from outer limits,
perhaps a dimension unexplored
of twilight zone, (where spirit
of Rod Serling dwells)
horizontally, linearly, and peculiarly unmoored
hashtagging, kickstarting, and zigzagging
while just barely hoovering

with maybe a hair breath
of space to afford
between alien world and terrestrial
plain playing field, when oh my lord...
(this premature ejeculation
from an atheist sword

like cross my heart), thee paranormal
shenanigans witness movement toward,
and away from death still
participants mouths agape
with bated breath until last letter scored
which message... uh...ah...cannot be revealed
yeah...yeah...yeah...due to HIPAA laws...

...(Without explanation, there
gets heard a clangorous din
along with whooshes of ice cold air
brushing against my chin
analogous to some unseen
genie i.e. and/or jinn

freed from the lantern by Aladdin,
then,...how odd...a deathlike
stillness one could hear a pin
drop pervades so painfully quiet
as if...all sound got vacuumed in
to a void of parallel universe...

...Though I don't dabble in the black magic,
nor nothing linkedin with the occult,
yours truly titled his poem used to
"grab" attention fast as Usain Bolt,
he who dashes off runners block
as a blinding earth shattering jolt

faster than speeding bullet,
a praiseworthy athlete with no win tent to insult,
but merely chose his name out of thin air
(in accordance with abracadabra)
and flimsy rhyme that did result...

But..., aye...beg (bribe with
all the wealth of Midas)...please
believe me you, this rather cheese
zee poetic endeavor got
wrought with eyes wide shut
(for all intents and purposes eyes closed),
where gentle force did cease

phalanges asthma southern paw
of righteous honest to dog
gone guy with sixth cents sees
dead people as like miniature floaters
(in my eyes with ease)
poised and struck unbeknownst
computer laptop black keys!

— The End —