What’s behind the story What is the reason for that news Who gets the benefit, the prize The envelope with the bread The law successfully passed The company tracked greased Somebody’s life made easier At the cost of somebody else
I am the factory wall, despised and so defaced Covered with graffiti, defiled and disgraced. I am the concrete tower that holds up the concrete road Bleak and faceless white, bearing my toxic load. I am the bin on the street, bursting full with waste Where rats and vermin crawl, around me in distaste. I am the battered traffic cone abandoned in the hedge A used forgotten prize of lives lived on the edge. I am the street side gutter where dirty water flows A place of infestation, where all the darkness goes. I am the discarded knife with bloodstains on the blade The close but unseen menace lurking in the shade. I am the lofty tower spewing clouds into the air That speed across the oceans, killing without a care. I am the broken shelf with screws rent from the wall That supported all the books and caused them all to fall. I am the sodden cardboard box flapping in the street Broken, limp, forgotten, always under feet.
Once I was a poet, bright-browed with golden-haired Playing harp and singing, songs into the air. Once I was a druid learning from the trees Drawing strength from bark and wisdom from the leaves. Once I was a warrior with proud and shining sword Singing with my war-band a deep heroic chord. Once I was a chieftain with princes round my hearth Against war and cold and famine, our mighty hearts did laugh. Once I was a king whose soul was all the land Who tended all his people with a strong and generous hand.
But I made other people suffer Now suffer myself in turn. But as you wreak your vengeance What lesson do you learn?
A collection of short stories concerning ghosts. Some are traditional ghost stories in the tradition of M.R. James and Edgar Allan Poe. Other are not. Some scare, some are fun. Some play with the concept of a ghost. There are ghosts who are out for revenge and the living avenging the spirits that curse them.
Ideal for sitting around a campfire and late at night under the covers. Or maybe not if the stories themselves are any guide.
I am a mirror Distorted Even cracked But a reflection still I share with you my fear And passion My fear is blue Deep dark blue All sharp angles Like shark fins And knives Fear that turns me As white as a clown. Alas, my fear is my passion My love I seek it out To taste the thrill Of the fear and the chase And I share it out While I play my games with the orphan the fear the dark, dark blue that bears the sign of the bat
Imagine Me I kill without discrimination for race, for age, for sex or sexuality I take saints and sinners I take your loved ones in return I deal you pain without explanation when asked the answer is that you cannot hope to understand me As a man you would lock me up revile me or label me insane But I am divine So that’s OK then
Our voices are simply the shadows Cast by our dreams and our thought If the shadows become ineffectual Then our voices will end up as naught Yet shadows can give us the outline Of what is looming above If we take note of the darkness We can give those dreams a shove One thing we must yet remember To give those shadows a shape Sunlight is needed behind it From brightness, the dreams will escape
Do not lightly discard them with tales of the foolish bold. They sat for weeks, for months, for years in trenches freezing cold. Sometimes feet simply mouldered in the sucking mud. And now and then they’d rise and run and spill their loyal blood.
Do not belittle the suffering of soldiers now long dead. With nothing but talk and songs and bombs bursting in their head. Bound together with chains of love shattered by leaden death. They ended as they had begun with cries upon their breath.
Do not lightly remember them with only paper flowers. they faced the fear, the pain, the cold, for hours and hours and hours. They ran together and fell alone upon those foreign fields. Protecting those they loved those frightened human shields.
Do not read these words and think that these things are passed. Do not think you will not hear that deep and dreadful blast. Do not sit in decadence and take for granted peace. You owe a debt to those who died and that debt will never cease.
As a race We should step up To eliminate the gap Between the haves and the have-nots Between the singers with their bling and the slaves on the line Between the bankers with their blank cheques and the children in poverty For most of history most men women and children Lived in misery, died hungry. We are a disgrace As a race