“Hi, this is another one of my early poems. I was quite fascinated with blood and gore, but the poem turned out a bit on a strangely funny side, so here it is.”
Bang! Bang! Bang! – the pane hits the wall,
breaking the eerie silence of the hall,
the whistling wind blows the curtains,
rising, then falling, the thunder gives a call.
A lightning blaze cracks a whip in the sky,
ashes of burnt twigs and leaves fly.
Raindrops are pattering hard on the sill,
an owl hoots on the pine tree high.
With its orblike eyes and hooked nose,
it stares through the night. They close,
open again as it sings its song.
The birch swings as the wind blows.
In the dingy dark hall he was standing,
down chandeliers cobwebs were dangling.
The sleety wind rocked it so violently,
from the ceiling centre it was hanging.
A yellow eyed feline; an unlikely guest.
On its shimmering black coat it did rest.
Staring bulbously, licking its paw
sweeping its tail on a piano chest.
A loud howling cry, a wolf or a dog?
scared! the cat jumped life a frog
upon the keys. Rang aloud the piano.
Terrified, it hid under a table and grogged.
A door creaked open upon a snaky flight,
with a bang it shut hard and tight.
A cold snigger swept the great hall,
It blew open again in the stormy night.
He turned to look, but he stood fast.
A dark misty shadow glided softly past
the door upon the flight of stairs.
He followed it with an energetic blast.
Reached atop, looked down the corridor,
was void till its very core.
Only a sound of dragging heavy shackles
faded behind a heavy creaking door.
Someone was breathing rather panting there,
Nearby but faint, very hard to trace where.
“who’s there?”, he calls out with fury.
A voice answers, “Mark save me, I am here!!”
A deafening shriek, then the voice dies.
Pale faced and petrified, Mark cries,
“John, John”. He searches all around…….
The floor scraped as a sack when prized.
He looked all around to find a trace,
at last he reached an unkempt place.
Upon a couch was a drenched sword
in blood all over its steely face.
A guillotine was embracing a horrid side,
the bed of sharp needles could not hide.
Bloody iron shackles lay upon the floor,
a long blood trail was prized beside.
Struck with horror, he moved out,
choking with fear he couldn’t shout.
Heard footsteps in the hall down below,
red eyed, dry lipped he raced about
the corridor, then down the stairs.
Just the black cat was down there,
under a moonlit cone though a vent,
licking fondly with her fangs bared
an old rug. It was freshly blotted,
oozing still, wasn’t getting clotted.
He stepped down and reached her side.
With a shiny liquid saw it was dotted.
It dropped on his fist, on his hairs,
looked up, drops splattered his face.
Stunned, gazing at the hanging corpse
stabbed and slashed of John M. Grace.
16th August 2003
