I wrote the below poem late one evening, which is unusual for me as most of my writing takes place during the day. Perhaps the late hour of it’s composition goes some way to explaining the somewhat (to my mind at least) sinister nature of the poem.
I like the dark.
He is my friend
And I know
That I shall go
To him in the end.
Last night, while visiting a neighbour, the lights failed. Indeed it soon became apparent that the electricity supply had gone down in the 2 blocks of flats which constitute the development in which I live. My immediate neighbour, and the lady who lives opposite to her, panicked a little and lamented the fact that none of us possessed torches. Fortunately the lights came back on in a matter of minutes and the power supply has remained steady since yesterday evening’s temporary blip.
The above incident reminded me of my poem “The Dark”:
“Closing my curtain
I shut out the night
And the fireworks
Celebrating something
But precisely what I am uncertain.
While beyond my drapes
The dark
Patiently waits”.
One day the dark will take us all.
I have always walked in the dark.
The torch’s light
Illumines the night
But can not fight
With phantoms stark.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
A knock at night
May bring delight,
But then we part.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
The moon disappears
And yesteryear’s fears
Emerge
And converge in my heart.
I have always walked in the dark.
The dark is always there
Perceived by the self-aware
Who care
To stare
Beyond the bright lights
And passing sights
Into the ever-present night.
Walking the old familiar track.
There is no turning back.
I lack
The will
To drill
Down and discover
What lies under cover.
It is not buried deep
For when I sleep
Memories creep
Out
And demons shout
In my ear.
It is always near
The old familiar fear.
mocking laughter
echoing down the years.
Thank you to Francis H. Powell for the below guest post. You can find links to Francis’s sites at the end of his article.
Kevin
What is your vision of a horror writer? Perhaps a rather aged looking man, with large piercing eyes, bushy eyebrows, their mere presence is likely to frighten away any children? He sits near a crackling fire, with dark thoughts running through his mind, with the sound of Carmina Burana, blaring away from a decrepit ancient gramophone. Every so often, he lets out a loud raucous laugh, as he delights at his own cruel invention in his mind. He has never married, in truth has been a hardened misogynist, he prefers the cruelty men can do to women, rather than engaging women themselves. He dislikes children, their crying, their moaning, the complications they add to life. In fact he despises many things. He has hate running through him. His attitudes have not softened with age, they have hardened. Would you trust leaving your child with him, he writes about Satanism…Surely you would tell your child to keep away, if you were neighbors. Surely horror writers eat babies?
I am not a horror writer as such, however my stories have a very dark side to them. This a bit about me…
I had always wanted to have children. When I got over the age of forty, the idea of having a child seemed a forlorn hope. My friends had long since procreated. What made things difficult was the fact that I’d always had a really good connection with children and had for a long time worked with them. I got married for the first time aged fifty, and it seemed logical to try to have a child. I did not consider it inevitable that my wife would fall pregnant, you read or hear about so many couples who are unable to have children. When I arrived back from work to be informed by wife she was pregnant, it took time for the news to sink in, it seemed so unreal. Then followed nine fraught months of worry. Such worry I had never experienced before in my life. When my son was finally born, what a relief.
Now a big portion of my life revolves around my son…taking him for walks, going to the play park, taking him to crèche, helping to put him to bed…all the normal things parents do.
One of my short stories in my book Flight of Destiny, deals with a parent’s worst nightmare…a father taking his infant for a walk in the park, goes home only to find the pram empty and the baby gone. The story is called “Snatched”. Following the discovery of the empty pram, the man not only feels terrible guilt, but also the wrath of his wife. His wife’s behavior becomes more and more extreme. One day she announces the baby has been returned…but she denies her husband, any access. The husband gets more and more frustrated as well as intrigued about the return of their son, while his wife is more and more bizarre and eccentric in her behavior. Things come to a head when the man finally gets to see the snatched “baby”.
Links:
https://www.facebook.com/flightofdestinyshortstories
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00WSWYVNK
https://twitter.com/Dreamheadz
http://theflightofdestiny.yolasite.com/
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwNl0F6095Q
Look into your heart at close of day
Do you see darkness, light or shades of grey?
Do you face a conscience bright, or thoughts which disturb throughout the night?
Outside my darkening window you glide. You call, fall, and something once living dies.
The owl’s mournful cry caused the young woman to gaze up into the night sky. Death glided gracefully overhead in search of his prey.
“I salute you my friend” the woman said raising her hand to signify her respect.
Her coal black hair blue in the rising wind. She licked her full red lips and smiled. Briliant white teeth reflected back the light of the moon. She, to was in search of her prey.
K Morris - Poet 