You won’t see this on Hoarders
“I saw her three days ago, and I said, ‘Is your mother still with us?’ and she said, ‘Yes,'” Kish said to KPIX. “Delusional? She was still with her. She was. She was still with her.
I am super excited about one of my stories from The Other Side of Despair being featured on the latest podcast episode of Random Transmissions. This podcast is super cool and you should go and check out all the episodes!
The cover of the first book I wrote (Intertwined in Limbo) had absolutely nothing to do with any story in the book. The firm that created the cover just used a picture that was “ghostly”. So I decided to write a poem that told her story.
The White Lady
Little Mason Morbid was a melancholy lad
While the other kids were playing, he sat brooding, looking sad
His cloths were black and gray and his heart was a hole
And the only thing ‘twas darker than his mind was his soul
On the thirteenth of the month he would adjourn unto a tomb
In an old forgotten graveyard under darkness of the gloom
He’d commence to crank the handle of a tiny music player
And then the strains of Moonlight Sonata would drift upon the air
Somewhere from the blackness an apparition would appear
A radiant diaphanous figure who was draped in gossamer
She would float about the graves as little Mason Morbid crooned
“White Lady, white lady, tell me of your doom.”
“It was in the dead of winter and the snow was falling down
Like little drops of clouds to form a blanket on the ground.
The people of the village were all huddled with each other
And the young Reverend Smithe had stopped by to pray for Mother.”
“He sat and read his Bible and then he joined us in our meal
Then he told my worried Father how his faith would help her heal.
He was smitten by my beauty and I was taken by his charm
Before I knew what happened, he had lured me to the barn.”
“The passions of the flesh overcame the strictures of the mind
The reverend’s Puritan values gave way to pleasures for a time.
I was left defiled and the guilt would take its toll
Darkness and depression were like weights upon my soul.”
“Consumed by misery and ashamed for being so beguiled
But the real scandal was when I found that I was with child.
And all about the gossip started that descended upon me
The Reverend Smithe could not be charged, it must be sorcery.”
“They drug me through the village with curses that were vile,
Accused me of witchcraft and held a mockery of a trial.
And so it was, betrayed, abused and blighted in the soul,
I was made to pay the reverend’s sin on the rope of the gallows’ pole.”
Little Mason Morbid heaved a heavy sigh of grief
The White Lady’s tragedy was sad beyond belief
He watched her go back to her grave then he mused aloud,
“Life is futile and so unfair, and we are wrapped within her shroud.”
I’ve plumbed the depths of darkest mire
Drug back hellish creatures with twisted tongues
And scrawled the words with blood and fire
That bellowed from their blackened lungs
Words that wiggle like a maggot or worm
Or creep and crawl on nimble spider legs
Into the mind they scurry and squirm
To spin their webs and deposit their eggs
Once they’ve infected they hatch and spread
And grow into creatures corrupt and vile
They taunt and haunt and spew their dread
Sleek and shadowy with bewitching guile
Too late to change the fate they’ve wrought
Too awed to stand against their might
Too shocked to fathom what they’ve brought
And much too scared to put up a fight
Their infernal words have come to blight
And by my conjuring I’m to blame
For I’m the wizard of the terrible night
Who knows each creature by its name
Lying listless on a lonely, loam lake shore
Framed by fog and the bitter, brine bog air
Curse the cruel fangs of fate that flung me here
My body beaten down by the black brood of despair
T’would take a thousand years to tell the tale
Of the madness, misery, and mischievous calamity
And I pray not ponder upon my past hell
Lest I beat my brain from my brow in insanity
Then lo, I spy through the gloom a green, glowing globe
Floating, flying, bouncing, and bobbing right at me
Too weak to worry with rising to run
I anxiously await its arrival and abhor the agony
What would it want with a wretch with no will?
Then it howled by my head and halted and hovered
And an enigmatic energy possessed my person
Slowly sinking; subsumed, consumed and now covered
Come join us, won’t you?
Take part
With festive heart
With dancing feet
To a restless beat
Sing
An ode to the Moon
A plump, pudgy, corpulent Moon
The kind that makes lovers swoon
Just right for a honeymoon
Makes ocean tides swell
Drives wolves to yell
The kind that silhouettes a witch
Or makes a lycanthrope twitch
Oh fullest Moon
So golden clad
So voluminous
So luminous
Yet daytime hath forbad
So magisterial
So ethereal
To it magic cannot add
How is it that you drive
A sane man mad?
Shades are shaping
And shapes are shifting
Through faint glowing mist
Ghosts are drifting
Their floating forms
Fills the air
Moaning laments
Of woe and despair
This Danse Macabre
That wends it way
To the Potter’s Field
Where Death holds sway
Forked tongue wizards
Spewing spells
They draw their venom
From necromantic wells
Lurid faced witches
Cavorting nude
Their laughter foul
And their dances lewd
Decaying features
Mottled skins
Rotted flesh
And skeletal grins
Ghastly ghouls
And gory beasts
Great horned monsters
Who’ve come to feast
The graveyard pageant
The writhing throng
Suddenly ceases
At the rumbling gong
The dead have risen
At their master’s calling
But to their knees
They now are falling
Amongst the dankest dark
A tolling fills the gloom
Every creature halts to hark
The approaching Lord of Doom
Clanging clong of iron bell
Precedes his stately tread
Everything that hears the knell
Bows to the King of the Dead
Visions of the Dark 