In light of recent spooky holidays *cough cough Halloween* this months showcase focuses on the macabre, unearthly and most of all The Supernatural!
Witching Hour
This existence as a fatigued ghost-
each waking moment
an aching darkness.
Lauren Winson
Purgatory
I tiptoe through the graveyard of souls
Of runaway hearts
And runaway ghosts
Statues of ivory angels
Dart in and out of trees
Frozen, always fleeing
Some praying on their knees.
Silver teardrops
Gather in her blinded gaze
Stony, unseeing
Forever stranded in this state.
On a sea of graves
She is forever thrown
Searching, always searching
For her dead love
Among the depths
Of the unknown-
She reaches out a desperate hand
But I flee far away
As the church bell tolls
My eyes then close
And I finally reawake.
Esther Kearney
The Witching Hour
Lost souls whisper their last goodbyes
As spirits tread the earth under starless skies,
In the darkness I’ve wandered far and wide,
Lost in tunnels of light as our hearts collide.
Memories haunt me as darkness falls,
But somehow, somewhere your heart still calls,
Your love echoes at night through these darkened halls,
Seeping through the cracks in these starlit walls.
You’re a fire inside the earth, bursting up,
Swelling and breaking through its burning crust,
You consume me; I’m whispering words of love,
But in the moonlight I crumble and turn to dust.
Irfan Chowdhury
Figures
Outside the glass of the window pane, I hear the voice of a frail
Ghost who left me long to shame. Her hand stretched out of the long thin vast
Night sky; got caught on its old remains….
As snow falls it cracks and flickers
on the stone brick walls
Turned frosty- bitten, her voice (she calls) it’s written, on, my
Scars…. Scared of a shiver, steadily she goes
Stolen from me, watch me now implode and
Go, shrink down: so there is nothing left
Not even the remains of the bear and bereft; unfree…. The theft of
Love was ours to remember
Hold dearly, half forgotten, in the days of December.
My darling, my heart, why aren’t you there?
Not even a trace of your brown curled hair
Can I hold in my fingers once more…
The wind it howled, at us, aggrieved:
It longed for the things that once had been.
So lie on the heath, lie on our rock- not up in the air, on our dreams that were
Not. In my piercing scream… you don’t believe; the
Unholy grails of our divided dream.
Take me back to the days when you were only with
Me: not drifting a further on this cold snowed breeze.
Meet me here (again) for I know we will;
Two figures (now ghosts) on our castle hill.
Olivia Morel
Fate & Dance
It has ended now.
I am fully grown.
We are moving on,
moving on.
But I hate the change,
I hate the way the wind will blow.
I dislike the road,
dislike the misted over hills.
I wish I could learn,
see the map drawn by the fates,
see the way the feet will fall,
here on moving on.
Instead, I see the dancers feet
and the shadow of fates cloak
and live with the pressing truth
that I will never know.
Holly Wilson
To get your work featured, send your submissions to entertainment@impactnottingham.com, or message Esther Kearney via Facebook.
Featured image courtesy of Georgia Butcher.
Image 1 courtesy of Neil Tackaberry, image 2 courtesy of Petras Gagilas , image 3 courtesy of CLAUDIA DEA, image 4 courtesy of NIKOS karakasidis and image 5 courtesy of dydcheung via Flickr.
Image use licence here.
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