Dull days of disenchanted dreams,
tear-stained by sorrow’s septic streams.
High hopes, once held by golden thread,
with autumn’s leaves lie dashed and dead.

Warm weeks, when summer’s sunlight pours,
and swift sublime serenely soars.
Yet life has lost her goddess glow:
I’m reaping what my sin did sow!

White nights, when no one seems to sleep,
drench me in dread depression deep.
I long to serve up choice good cheer,
no poet strives to snarl and sneer.

The Atomic Voodoo Lounge is the place to see
As Halloween invites us to a place for us to be

The poems and stories show us the darkness of life
Each expressing our never ending fear and strife

Maxwell Vagus puts the podcast in a place to view
The music, six word noir and stories are new

Take a minute and listen to the broadcast without fear
To relieve our darkest dreams that are so near

Uncertain what to write on a Halloween theme?
Torn between a bleat on the trick or treat scene
and a moan about movies on the sequel screen?
Don’t look back lamenting what once had been,
get yourself a copy of Witch! magazine.
Yes, Witch! magazine like you’ve taken possession -
not Which? magazine that answers your questions,
the journal that advises modern consumers
how best to invest their hard-earned riches,
but the one with magic wands and wart-removers
for those who wish to be au fait with witches.

That is finally summer now
That God brought for us
And now I am having a craving
For diabetic Ice cream
It has no sugar added
So I can have as many
As I want
That is also a treat for me
It is night time now
It is too bad that the day is over
I am going finally to sleep
Tomorrow will be another day
I will be up first thing in the morning
Working for my Father
Writing some poems

A house at peace, a hut at ease
Could a troubled heart appease
If only the world could a copy cat be
Take form and that timber house
In the summer breeze be.

Planted somewhere among the trees
Is love, beauty, grace and peace
Like nothing I have ever seen.
Deep within the woods so green
Such a thing of myth does exist
It's nothing fancy I admit,
Yet still I do very much insist

he's pretending he made a sweet deal
mo' like beat; now he's ready to kneel
while Xi, with a smile
had he, all the while
while he, had the guile to steal
heh,
(now he needs to act tough
so he'll blow up some stuff
with a huff and puff full of fluff)

The tables are turning,
so quickly I'm learning!
Decisions made hastily,
usually end nastily!

I've bought some guitars,
that have put me in debt!
This very well may be,
something to fret!

My own free persuasions,
have created dis allusions.
The intimate nature of my
ongoing confusion.

Bring memories of past mistakes,
completely consuming.
A writing of death,
inscribed on the temple wall!

Grief comes on like muscle memory.
Pushing its way through

my crowded defenses,
passing time, distraction,

and a complexity of scars
to bring me low again.

Better memories, like the cavalry
just in time, see you joyful, and I know
my pockets are not empty.

I hope the seams hold.

On the back of a picture of me as a nipper
are the names of four horses in sixpenny
doubles, trebles and a roll-up. I’m bearing
the stamp of my father already,
his fancy to gamble on anything moving.

I try to imagine when it was written:
rationing over - no shortage of paper;
betting illegal but under the counter;
in a hurry, late for work or the boozer,
sure it wouldn’t be lost by my mother.

sounding like tap shoes
rain pit-pats along my path
my umbrella spins