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hallowing

Did I spell it wrong, as in "Halloween"?  Or "Hollowing", as to carve a pumpkin's snaggled grin?  Let me rub my chin and contemplate.  Nay, I think the word should be this way.

Then what do I mean by "Hallowing"?  Is it reverence or cleverence, or something close to benevolence?  Why must I speak like a rocking chair's squeak, and a ladder's "rung", without a tongue?  How can I rhyme when I should compose a preface on verse in prose?  Have I lost my senses, my grammar and tenses, my participles and predicates?  Oh me, oh my, what a quandary of pondery have I.

Nothing is clear, yet I'm filled with fear.  I shrink at a whiff.  My posture is stiff.  I'm afraid to breathe lest the shadows seethe.  My toes but tip, my lips are zipped, as if I harbor a fugitive — for the door has chimed and I've naught to give.  Oh, the devils, the demons, they'll eat me alive!  Where to hide, out of sight, wracked with fright, until the next day's welcome light?  How might I survive this night?  The following, the hallowing?  The sallowed Hallowed Eve when all is wrong, nothing right, and I must crawl beneath a stone . . . else my terror of terrors be known.

 

(Oops, I seem to have written the poem first — in paragraphs!  Well, it's a bit peculiar but so am I, so I guess it's all right.  I'll just write another and perhaps no one will notice.)

 

 

    GRIMMEST

 

What is grimmer

Than the grimmest grum

When insects hasten

To hoard each crumb

When birds retreat

And trees shed leaves

Like crimson tears

To shiver and grieve

Through Winter?

 

'Tis the deepest darkest

Grimmest time

When air is chill

And hearts sublime

Dry leaves will chatter

Scattered nilly

Like romping fairies

While gourds look silly

As short round sentinels

 

The spooks carouse

The goblins hobble

Monsters prowl

And witches wobble

The moon grows full

On candy and corn

Though beaming grimly

No need to mourn

Such merry scary frolic

 

What is grimmer

Than the grimmest hour

While specters roam

And ghoulies glower

With spirits light

For it's all in fun

This freewheeling night

Too soon is done

As again the tepid wait begins.

Authors: 
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