Samhain

I’ve fallen through a rip in time tonight.

Pale outcasts perch nearby, bones tinkling,

Earth shaking with its greener mirth.Stones creak,

Horned owls shriek as spirits gather loose clouds,

Push these exotic feather-weighted shapes

Aside — transparent curtains of their realm.

What’s on the other side? Cold hands caress

My arms invisibly. My candle glow

Reveals no beings with a shadow. Yet

I’m not alone, detect sweet fragrances,

Lush nectar of forbidden grapes above.

A cricket orchestra replays nocturnes.

I flutter like a trapped bird, then something

Or someone draws me in with secret steps.

A brittle leaf is plucked from my red hair.

Glass-blown interiors invite me there,

Strange iridescent skies pontilled with stars.

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A Sleepy Hollow Hallowe’en

                  — Inspired by Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

Clashes with spectral hussars oft retold

By superstitious idlers keep doors locked

In Sleepy Hollow after suppertime.

October’s harvest beckons thieves. We prowl

Lush farms, wheelbarrows hidden in the woods.

A jack-o-lantern moon illuminates

Gold grinning gourds, arousing appetites.

Ideal for tasty pies or windowsills,

Pumpkins pump cash into our patched pockets.

If thefts are noticed, we’d blame that horse-ghost —

Or Raven Rock’s forlorn white-gowned vexed wraith,

Who haunts the dark glen where she froze to death.

Our local drunkards keep wild myths alive,

Explaining how a Hessian warrior,

Who fought alongside Brits, caught cannonfire.

Entombed without his skull, this German ghoul

Continues searching, mounted on his steed.

“Believe your eyes and ears,” my father said,

“Instead of old wives’ tales. Dead men lie still.”

Yet I confess I’d hesitate to be

Alone within view of such restless graves —

Especially tonight, All Hallow’s Eve.

With loaded sacks of fresh-picked plundered gourds,

We make our way to where we hid the cart,

Aware of hidden eyes observing us.

Fruit bats screech, scything mournful autumn skies.

Shushed evergreens’ tips whisper “witching hour.”

Deserted greensward. We’re defenseless here.

Treetops are rustling spectral rapture: hooves.

Our brains jump their calm borders, go insane.

Damp forest floor seeps wet death through our bones.

A galloping gigantic man appears,

Wrapped in a cloak and military wear.

His head’s on the protruding saddle horn.

We three disperse as fright ignites my speed.

A distant silhouette of homes greets me.

Tomorrow I’ll discover my friends’ fate.

Removing muddy boots, I’m now aware

This unnatural creature’s real enough.

* * Full-page illustration by artist Erin Caldwell

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Hallowe’en Horror, October 31, 2005

Calamity came calling him again,

Devised the script, cast him as “Mister Nigh,”

Quiet defiance smirking on his face as Nigh

Unzipped his skin and seized control. Dark plans

Were hatched.  October 31st. Costumed.

His mark: a woman whom he vaguely knows.

Nigh took the wheel, refused to hear protests.

Insane schemes — toxic oxygen he breathed.

The New York cityscape burned memories

Imperfectly, erasing blue details.

Bold headlines snitched on him, his photo front

Page news. A stranger recognized his face.

Observed by aliens, Nigh disappeared,

Left Peter handcuffed and in custody.

Shackled now, he recalls he tied her up.

She testifies about her thirteen-hour

Ordeal: explosives causing smoke, enough

To fool her into opening her door,

Believing Peter was a fireman sent

To help — until he roughly ripped her clothes.

Nigh holds him captive now, detained behind

Bars, unremorseful, richly ridiculed

For blaming an accomplice never seen.

— —

Note: For his crimes on October 31, 2005, former journalist Peter Braunstein is serving his 18-year-to-life sentence at Five Points Correctional Facility in Romulus, NY.

* * Full-page illustration by artist Erin Caldwell

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