Dark Poetry
But Slow
By Jennifer Ruth Jackson

The wolf screams
Moon cannot quell pain
Dealt by whips
Of silver
The human under the fur
Goes mad before death
The Darkness Burns
By Jennifer Ruth Jackson

She snuffed the candles out with her thumb and forefinger
Hearth barely held smoke, dissipated glow
Growling emanated and grew louder with each extinguish
As red eyes took the place of flames within the home

Her smile wider with each step, a pajama-clad marionette
Voices, giggling echoes and whispers, echoed in the walls
The moon crouched behind cloud cover as though afraid to witness
What comes in when the last flicker of light… goes out
Zombie Weaponry (Patient Zero)
Jennifer Ruth Jackson

Vein tributaries course
Muddy sludge through her
Tiny body
Making her pale skin

Fists pound the table as
Flopping fish
Restraints nipping gouges
From wrists

Tongue lolls out, thick
And white
Pupils dilate to buttons
Lungs struggle yet

Too young to reject
The virus
Scientific success is
Her agony and
Our future destruction
Poetry by Jennifer Ruth Jackson and John Grey
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
Jennifer Ruth Jackson

Stretch it...                                                                              
Bodies lie                                                                             
Pain and                                                                         
Give to
Me your
Tiny heart
Of love,
Feed it
To me
On silver
Say it
Is me
You love

Unless you
Want me
What you
Hold so
Very dear
I'll rip
It from
You myself
Not lunch
But a
Simple snack
Of love,
Joy and
Sweet sorrow
Like you
Once did
With me

Jaws gnaw
Rancid, lie-
Filled bones
Yours, I fear,
Are the most
Rotten of all
About Jennifer Ruth
Killer’s Grave
         By John Grey

Sour blood and bruised flesh
serve me as my engine underground.
The world piles on,
doesn't realize that I'm just hiding here.
I can hear eagles soaring
and hell bubbling,
the snap of twigs,
the faceless digging moles.
Remember the victims.
Remember! I choke on them.
Or is that dirt?
Can't lift my hands.
Can't blink my eye.
Gallows and guillotines
revolve in me soul deep.
Walking By The Old Place
                         By John Grey

The face in the window
is sometimes an old woman
crazed by loneliness,
screaming at the treachery
of wind and rain
or a beast half-man, half-wolf,
carving my name into
the other side of the glass
with razor-sharp talons,
or a vampire
transfixing me
through ancient reflection
with his undead glare.
The face in the window
is whatever my fear
wants of.me.
Guillotine 2
 By John Grey

Front row seat
at the guillotine.
Madam Defarge
knits sweater after sweater,
fine clothes to warm
her cold body,
fresh kills to warm
her cold blood.
About John Grey

John Grey is an
Australian born poet.
Recently published in
International Poetry
Review, Sanskrit and
the science fiction
“Futuredaze” with
work upcoming in
Clackamas Literary
Review, New Orphic
Review and Nerve
For Poems by A.J.
Huffman, Matthew Wilson
and Mathias Jansson,
click here

For Poems by Alexis Child
and Christopher Hivner,
click here

For Poems by Jennifer
Ruth Jackson and John
click here