Wish that the fly
In the ointment would die,
But worry it will turn into a bee
And sting me.

Conjured up the fly.
It grows in size
Which is no surprise
For those who feed
Flies, find they breed.

Man sews
A poisoned seed
Called want, not need
And goes
In search of flies to feed.

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2nd Halloween Poem Contest – Third group of submitted poems

Thank you to Aurora, of Writer’s Treasure Chest for the opportunity to enter the second Halloween competition. Kevin

Writer's Treasure Chest

Picture courtesy of: http://preventioncdnndg.org/eco-quartier/eco-tips-for-halloween/ Picture courtesy of: http://preventioncdnndg.org/eco-quartier/eco-tips-for-halloween/


Your Animal Side by Angela Kay

I hear everyone has an animal side.

What is yours?

What is mine?

No one can really know for sure.

Could it be repulsive in the dark, silent night?

Save me from this frightening thought.

I saw a creature enter my room last night.

Could it be what I think?

This is not a story because I saw it.

As horrifying as it is, I believe I saw your animal side.

It’s not ordinary.

Do you want to know what it is?

I saw a big shadow on the wall.

The eyes were blood red in the mirror.

I saw gruesome fangs.

The creature howled at the round moon

And tore into my soft, clean flesh.

I fought back, teeth sharp and hungry

Our animal side has gotten the better of us.


Written by Kevin Morris

Walking through the churchyard…

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If I Where A Rentier

If I where a rentier living off capital
(The very idea is laughable)!
I would retire to the moors
(with other bores)
And shoot peasants
Yes, I think that would be pleasant …!

I would terrorise the local wenches
And build high fences
To keep at bay
Those intent on stealing my wealth away.

Huge parties I would throw
And my reputation for debauchery would grow.
The vicar would pray
Lest I give his secret away
While the bishop’s innocent daughter
Would, like a lamb to the slaughter …

But I am no collector of dividends
And my efforts bend
To writing verse
Which, growing worse and worse
Will, I fear, not fill my purse …!

Autumn Ruminations

The scent of leaves
Temporarily relieves
My introspection.
There can be no excuse
For dejection
When Autumn is here to seduce
Me with her heady scent.
I repent
Of fruitless hours spent
Over keyboards
While the squirrel hoards
Nuts in the nearby park
And the clear, sharp bark
Of a fox
Says “a pox
On your writing.
You ought in the outdoors to be delighting.
Take a walk in yonder wood
For the air
There is good
And Autumn fair
Is warmed by a gentle sun.
Soon winter will come.
Have done
With melancholy thought
For time, once passed can not be caught
And every second is dearly bought”.

Sue me and I’ll have you killed!

Mick Canning

…slowly, he inched his way along the ledge, his heart in his mouth. It was too late to even contemplate turning back now. The sun was sinking rapidly in the pale sky in front of him, dropping towards the distant plains that were almost hidden in the desert haze. It would be completely dark within the hour. For the first time, he knew real fear. He could never survive a night on this thin, narrow ledge – God knows, there was barely enough room to stand and almost nothing to hold on to. It was inevitable that he would slip off at some point. Even now, there was a thin skin of ice on much of the surface, and the terrible cold would descend as soon as the sun disappeared.

Gritting his teeth, he edged towards what looked like a slightly better foothold, and cried out in sudden terror as his foot…

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Being blind
Sometimes I find
Myself wondering, as heels pass
“Who is that lass?
Is she young or old?
Or shy
And what colour are her eyes?”

On occasions perfume, as of a flower
Does overpower
My senses, and I construct castles in the air
Wherein I while away many an hour
Thinking on the tender flower
Where other bees than me
Make free.

How the senses can deceive.
The girl I perceive
As being in the flush of youth
Is, in truth
(I blush) To admit it, sometimes a lady of mature years
Who has, perchance shed many tears
Over lovers past
And, by heavens no young lass!

A mind
As frail
And lustful, as any sighted male