Jack-O'-Lantern Eyes / The Night by Michael Pendragon

Jack-O'-Lantern Eyes

When night descends upon the land
And dresses Halloween in black,
A row of silent pumpkins stand
On front porch stairways, back-to-back,
With ancient faces carved from slabs of time.

From out the dark, their faces glow
Like demons from some warlock's spell,
They light the night for well they know
The secrets dead men never tell
When Hell's bells toll their long forgotten chime.

Tonight the veil twixt life and death
Is thinner than a baby's breath,
Owls chant their haunting shibboleth
And ghosts are on the prowl;
The black cats yowl and twitch their tails,
The stray dogs howl, the banshee wails,
The darkness of the night prevails
While jack-o'-lanterns scowl.

But look beyond their crooked grin
To see the fire that burns within
Behind their masks of pumpkin skin
Lie thoughts they can't disguise;
And years from now when I am dead
The myriad words I've left unsaid
On Hallows Eve can still be read
Deep in my jack-o'-lantern eyes.




The Night

"Do not go gentle into that good night…"

-- Dylan Thomas


When I, at length, confront that fearsome night
That waits us all when days draw to a close,
I shall not seek, nor go into, the light
That those who've gazed into its source suppose
The path and passage to some other clime.

When I, too soon, take to my final bed
To gather every moment that has passed,
I shall not wonder where the years have fled
Nor why my mayfly dreams were doomed to last
No longer than love's "Once upon a time…"

No, I shall pierce the darkness with my stare
Defiant as a dying candle's flame,
But in my heart I'll know no one is there
Nor any here to call upon my name.

Michael Pendragon's work has appeared in The Horror Zine, Terror Tales, Evernight, Masque Noir, Tales of the Grotesque & Arabesque, etc. From 1995-2005, he published the horror zine Penny Dreadful: Tales & Poems of Fantastic Terror.  Presently, Michael edits/publishes "A Year of Sundays," a monthly ezine and annual print anthology. He is currently nominated for the Rhysling award.

Breaking Our Past by Adam Levon Brown

Breaking our past never seemed so delicious,
The fires in our hands know of nothing but pain

We forgive as we forget, the emptiness inside
Is filled with love, and the sunsets of hope

We cry when we are lied to, we love when we are loved,
And we have faith in everything daily

We are the Sun, we are the Moon, we have faith
That everything will turn out in the end, and it usually does

The brokenness we once collected, cracked sunlight
Falling into begging eyes

We love our pasts, but getting caught in them is never wise.
We laugh with our sadness, and bleed with our happiness

There is love, there is life, and there is hope, the unending serendipity
that we all share, filling the emptiness inside

Adam Levon Brown is an Award-winning poet, Mental health advocate/sufferer, and published Artist. He is the author of six poetry books. He has had his work translated in Spanish, Albanian, Arabic, and Afrikaans. He won the 2019 Blue Nib Chapbook Award, and has been shortlisted for the Erbacce Prize for Poetry four times.

A Haunting by Jan Darrow

I know you’re here

sitting bedside while I sleep
you study my face
in the dark
you watch my breath
your expression fades

at 3 a.m.
the room is cold
you’re an empty feeling
I have when I wake
you disappear through doors
roam streets in the dark
you skulk in the rain
but you never go far

weary
time fuels eternity

Having grown up in the rural Midwest, Jan Darrow connected to the natural world at an early age. You can find more of her poetry and flash fiction available on Amazon and at jandarrow.blogspot.com

Riding Home by Margie Duncan

In the passenger seat,
held from the night
in the arms of Dad’s new Dodge,

I watch the electric blue hood
grow frost and turn
to powder gray.

The heater burns
the inside of my nose
and radiosongs tunnel

far inside my ears.
Tires whisper and tick
like white bread toasting.

What could happen, this night,
or any? The moon could lurch
above the horizon’s sweep

and swallow our headlights,
or we could skid on a shadow
into a ragged ditch, end up cold

and staring still, but those things
never happen. There’s only the car,
the universe outside, and no crossover.

Margie Duncan lives in NJ with her husband Brian, two tuxedo cats, and the ghosts of two dogs. When she is not looking out the window, she's hiking in the woods. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, Third Wednesday, Gyroscope Review, and Halfway Down the Stairs, among other places.

Follow the Footprints / Where the Shadows Go by Rick Hartwell

Follow the Footprints

With eyes only, I follow the tracery of tracks

across the overnight snow and into the woods.

Most footprints I know from the appearance

of their makers at my wife’s feeding stations:

squirrels, opossums, racoons, deer, and the

peace signs and tridents of birds; but some

tracks are unknown, hidden behind limited

knowledge and their owner’s secretive ways.

Occasionally I catch a glimpse of muted colored fur

as it disappears into the gnarled treeline, teasing me,

a fleeting flirtation, whetting my inquisitiveness.

It is only a narrow strip of woods behind our home,

but somehow the cagey visitor never seems to come

out the other side, but seems to vanish laterally until

darkening twilight summons another overnight stay

until lightening false dawn sounds a call of retreat.

I suppose I could contrive ways to unveil this

silent visitor and quench my curiosity, but such

satisfaction would cost me elusive enjoyment of

knowing the woods beyond contain an unknown.

I’ll venture into my own dark woods someday

in pursuit of the unrevealed, but like my friend,

not to pop out the other side, nor return, but

to travel obliquely after an obscure truth.

Where the Shadows Go

Leafless tree shadows cavort behind curtains,

drawn in defense of a harsh setting sun, and

dapper bird silhouettes dart to and from feeders,

ignoring collisions with naked black saplings,

so only in winter do the tree shadows dance.

With the greening of horizons in spring, with

the veil drawn back exposing the wonders of oz,

comatose trees leaf out and a settling sun makes

pinpricks of light stabbing through foliage and

shadows all hide in the dark of emerald city.

Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) who just moved to northern Illinois from southern California (?) with his wife of fifty years, Sally Ann (upon whom he is emotionally, physically, and spiritually dependent), one grown daughter, and ten cats! Like Blake, Emerson, Thoreau, and Merton, he believes that the instant contains eternity.

Black Widow Halloween by Isabel Grey

I danced in Milk Bar’s Dark Room
Surrounded by Goths, and faes,
and Blood-red racket of Darkwave.
My black widow bustier an arachnid disco ball.

My body long changed, my youth
Accentuated by years of estrogen-dominance.
I wore smeared Sharon Tate makeup
Doll-like and haunted.   I should’ve known.

I spent weeks burning the match-head-sized
Volcanic glass rain, centimeters apart.
On my left breast, over my heart
A ruby hourglass of garnet straight pins.

In the game room, he invited me to Pacman.
He wore no costume. I called him
Lazy until he got me in the back alley
And told me vague plans for a novel.

After pitching my query, I implored to know his.
All you did was pass me a copy of On the Road.
“Your birthday’s tomorrow, right?” True,
But the gift wasn’t wrapped.

He lit my cigarette, molten ember our only light.
I should get back, thanks for the book.
He held out an orange 13 Billard ball
As if it were an ashtray. I stubbed my smoke

Half-way finished.        Won’t you play with me?
But names and fair games and the word
no meant nothing to him.
That was my cue to movetoolate         I hit the chalky ground.

His pockets will always be filled
with ruby-colored sticky glass whispy strings
of silk. I was pregnant when he squashed me.
My daughters will eat him alive.

Isabel Grey is a Creative Writing MFA student at Western Colorado University. Grey is an Assistant Editor at Terrain.org. Her poem "This Act Shall Take Effect" was nominated for the 2024 Pushcart Prize. Her story "Red Door House" won the 2023 WordCrafter Press Fiction Contest.

Unyielding Light / Winter Moon by Michael Keshigian

Unyielding Light

We were caught in an endless day,
persistent sunshine, no darkness,
a day that curdled
the green leaves falling,
rotting upon dried lawn
spotted with insects desiccated,
fragile carcasses littered
beneath the lessening shade of trees.
We walked between sagging sycamores,
crossing the street,
asphalt which singed our soles,
faces aglow,
burnt to a crimson hue,
on our way to the river
where others must be waiting.
Soon we will swim under the soundless sun,
water easing our burns,
submerged in the cascading current
in order to survive this day without end,
dressed in white shirts and shorts,
a luminosity that mimicked the sun
as we approached the shoreline
where the others swam,
many whispering how the sun
became a threat,
that we will suffer then dry,
so we must sing
before our remnant ashes disperse,
that an earnest song
might induce unbelievers to listen
or otherwise bear us wings to embark
on a journey away from earth,
for due to negligence,
the rules have changed
and our bodies will only go so far.




Winter Moon

Lonely wanderer
casts vague frosty glances
through the window
of my room
and enlivens pristine icicles

weighing on trees and wires
to reflect an indifferent
detached smile
which glows amid the black cloudless sky.
Were I to darken my attire

wear an ashen shirt
which resembles your face
could I follow your icy path
and meander beyond the confines of being?
Between the worm holes

and black tunnels of question?
Become more wise than foolish?
Then vanish from sight
with realization
at daylight’s peek?

Michael Keshigian is the author of 14 poetry collection. He has recently been published in the Comstock Review, Sierra Nevada Review, Young Ravens Literary Review, and Jerry Jazz Musician, with 7 Pushcart Prize and 3 Best Of The Net nominations.