Monday, October 22, 2018

October 22, 2018

Larry Ate a Little Ham
with a nod to Sarah Josepha Hale
Larry ate a little ham,
it had no cloven toe;
and anything that Larry did
his guilt just wouldn't go.

He went to synagogue one day,
poor Larry broke the rule;
the rabbi just sent him away
'cause he was skipping school.

And when the rabbi threw him out,
he still had ling'ring fear.
So, Larry prayed and was devout,
and just what did he hear?

"Why does the ham bug Larry so?"
Moishe asked of G-d.
"He is reformed, so I don't know,"
the LORD said with a nod.

by Will O'Brien
in volume 6 issue 1

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Monday, October 15, 2018

October 15, 2018

Gaping Grave's Gaiety

Ghostly grunting galls grandmother gracelessly:
"Go, grip gone good granddaddy's gaiety guarantee:
granny, go goosey, go, grandmother, glamorize,
granddaddy grooves, girl, grave's gaiety gratifies."
Grumpy grandmother growls: "Greasy ghoulishness!
Gravelessly, gormlessly, gracelessly garmentless!"
Grandmother gabbles, gyrates, gnashing giddily:
"Guts, ghastly ghosts, go! Get gone, guileful gimmickry!"
Ghosts grumble: "Grey goldilocks, gobbling gin!
Gallstone grace, graveyard gravy, good gummy grin!
Gouty granny, grip granddaddy's guarantee:
grasp graveyard's glutinous gaiety!"
Granny groans: "Gothic grave groupies, gruesome!
Greedy, greasy ghosts, grisly ghosts," getting gum:
"Get gone, gratuitous ghosts!" Granny gets garlic.
Ghosts giggle garrulously. Granny goes Gothic.

by Alex Dreppec
in volume 5 issue 2

Eating Electric Eels

East Eaton's eccentrics eventually
eat electric eels, eat ecstatically.
Electroshock's Eden, extreme event,
effectuating enlightenment,
effectuating exhilaration,
egregious, eager, exceeds exaltation.
Expectorating effects enhance
electric eel eater's exuberance.
Edentulous, eerie eccentrics embrace
electric eels, eagerly eat, enlace
extreme experiences eerily,
effrontery's eely epitome.
Enormous electroshocks elongate
each exhilaration, elucidate
eccentric's electric eel eatery,
empowering eaters erotically.
Entangled eccentric's estates erode.
Eel eating extremists even explode.

by Alex Dreppec
in volume 5 issue 1

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Monday, October 8, 2018

October 8, 2018

Each life a novel
Beginning, middle, and end
Last pages left blank

No two blanks alike
Nor where and when they get filled
Ghost writers take note

by Sharon Wood Wortman
in volume 6 issue 2

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Monday, October 1, 2018

October 1, 2018

Characters in Horror Movies
with a nod to Dorothy  Parker
The Babysitter

There's two types of these we've come to know.
    The first is the irresponsible one,
the girl who spends her time on her ass and on the phone,
    inviting her boyfriend over the instant the parents are gone.
She dismisses screams as the wind starting to rise,
    the killer's steps are the skitters of a mouse,
and she's the only one who's surprised
    to learn the call's coming from inside the house.

And then there's the second kind,
    who to me seems the much better hire.
No matter the slasher, she keeps her presence of mind
    and exhibits at least some flustered grace under fire.
She doesn't investigate upstairs, as countless others have done;
    such prudence serves her well.
At the first sign of trouble she grabs the kids and runs
    and lives to die in the sequel.

Some are doomed to get picked off before they can get paid;
others manage to make it through and die another day.

The Hero

He has a name like Tom or Chip or Clay,
    an incredible head of hair and a square jaw,
a smile that could brighten any cloudy day
    and eyes made for close-ups, objects of awe;
the camera's just waiting for his shirt to come off,
    as are the fangirls who flock to the theaters in droves.
He's perfectly built for some gore-laden popcorn fluff,
    plucked probably from the cast of some CW show.

Tom-Chip-Clay is often on a quest of some kind,
    seeking some lost sibling, loved one, friend,
but there's also usually a love interest that he finds,
    and we have to wait and see if they make it to the end.
He's the kind of guy who no matter the danger refuses to waver,
    the kind of guy who's kind to everyone;
of course, the machete-wielding maniac won't return the favor,
    but damn, does Tom-Chip-Clay's ass look nice when he runs.

It doesn't matter by what monster you're being chased
as long as you still look good with blood and dirt on your face.

The Kid

They're either innocent little angels or the spawn of Satan
    (and around here that can be frighteningly literal);
if one suddenly develops an imaginary friend,
    then the whole family's in deep trouble.
They're often the way that evil gains entry
    to the home, preying on their friendship or fear,
and it's not a good idea for them to watch too much TV,
    especially if they turn around and say, "They're here."

Some of them can see dead people;
    others have what they call "the shine."
Sometimes one's head will spin around like an owl's,
    and some hear voices that aren't theirs in their minds.
Some are bad seeds and some are creepy as hell,
    like the ones that live out in the corn,
and though some of them turn out rather well,
    for every rose there's always a Thorne.

No matter the movie, the kid rarely dies,
unless it's Stephen King—what's wrong with that guy?

by Sarah Cannavo
in volume 6 issue 2

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Monday, September 24, 2018

September 24, 2018

The Perfect Enjoyment: A Lesson for John Wilmot
with a nod to J. W., Earl of Rochester
Fair Corinne,
Let us lay our lines together in a poem.
Let me lay my bilabial plosive
On your sweet rhyme,
And time, and we united,
In strophe and antistrophe,
Shall sing and dance into the climax of our air.

Free verse and metered lines we'll use,
And undulating rhythms too will fuse
With metaphor, the motive and the music,
And what's more, like a sword thrusting

Tirelessly, ever true and keen,
In the vast redeeming underbelly of the sea,
Received in constant motion, rising
And falling onward to the shore of ecstasy.

In spume and froth sweet Aphrodite come
Naked on your clam shell, and once again
Repeat the long lost words of love and lease
A moment of your tide to our soft charge,
For when those sounds we've married to our own,
Our poem's complete, and we, though emptied,
With your rhyme replete.

by Robert Witmer
in volume 5 issue 2

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