Dark Poetry
To read some more
short stories, click on
the titles below
                        Out On the Moor
                                              by Albert Schlaht


                          Out on the moor lay a body splendid,
                          A pale form, bloodied and belly-bloated,
                          Breasts exposed in the frosty morn,
                          Red-hair curled and stiff; face forlorn.

                          A breath barely she still drew,
                          Eyes gleam a misty blue,
                          Slender fingers touched chapped lips,
                          Massaging well-rounded hips.

                          She moaned, this woman on the moor
                          As within her sounded a roar,
                          Deep but short, rasp and worn---
                          A child yearned to be born.

                          Above her stood a tall, naked man
                          Glowering over her, sword in hand;
                          His chest pulsed vibrantly,
                          His lips twitched awkwardly

                          And he dropped to his knees
                          And he smelled her; he sneezed
                          As he licked her belly, smacked lips,
                          Grimacing, while touching cold hips.

                          The man bent back his head to howl,
                          Shaking black hair, sounding a growl,
                          Then, as the woman kicked and screamed,
                          He took his sword and from her gleaned

                          The child he sired on the moor one night
                          When the harvest moon shined bulbous and bright
                          And his robust body covered in fur
                          And his white teeth long and sharp like daggers.

                          The woman no more did she convulse,
                          Her heart ceasing its faint pounding pulse
                          As the man raised high his son with glee,     
                          Child to be proud of---his progeny
                         To Your Doom You Go
                                                         by Albert Schlaht


                                    A creature is on the prowl---
                                    lithe shadow flying between trees---
                                    emitting ear-shredding howl
                                    to bring you to your knees.

                                    Down, down, shaking you go,
                                    whining like an injured beast
                                    that craves freedom from foe,
                                    who seeks you---a human feast.

                                    Sweat and tremble, you aim a peek
                                    but the creature is not to be seen.
                                    A yell and grunt, at being so weak
                                    renders your words hard and mean.

                                    Up you rise, to laugh, to cry---
                                    ‘only a dream, only a dream!
                                    What for am I plagued, why?’
                                    Tears flow like a fast stream.

                                    You stumble forth down the trail,
                                    heart pounding fast and loud.
                                    You’re knocked over by a gale
                                    and all around is a black cloud.

                                    Fumes of putrid scent swarm your head
                                    and around you quickly turn---
                                    something close-by smells of the dead---
                                    weak stomach begins to burn.

                                    Hovering above, the creature glares,     
                                    red eyes piercing hominid brain.
                                    Black mucous drips from nostrils flared
                                    onto human skin---searing pain.

                                    Thin leathery wings beat slow
                                    as the creature floats
                                    and scaly hide darkly glows
                                    as the creature gloats.

                                    Its long ebony tongue stabs the air,
                                    then gaping mouth closes in a grin,
                                    only to open of a sudden and blare---
                                    ‘you human, are dead, so are your sins!’    
                                Time Is Up
                                                    by Albert Schlaht


                                    Fear takes hold of those who hear
                                    its thudding steps coming near;

                                    cower and cringe, wrought in fright,
                                    those who hide from ungodly sight;

                                    chatter teeth, pull on hair,
                                    fill up bladder, scream not dare,

                                    for the thing encroaches the door
                                    from behind which, you hear a roar,

                                    deep, but loud; you take a peep,
                                    shiver, frown, begin to weep,

                                    telling yourself, it’s only a dream,
                                    nightmare shroud; big, ugly and green

                                    thick hair covering its bulk,
                                    four legs on the lumbering hulk,

                                    talon paws reaching for the knob,
                                    seeking yet another life to rob;

                                    yours it shall be for this no dream,
                                    let urine flow it is time to scream.
Y-Section
by Aurelio Rico Lopez III


under florescent glare
three covered bodies
sweet stench of formaldehyde
coroner cowers in a corner
gripping scalpel, knuckles white
thumping heart
deafening
trembling hand loses grip
blade clatters to the floor
eyes dart wildly
distant door
lips quiver, hands shake
one by one
bodies awaken