Dark Poetry
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Poetry by Jason Ford and Matthew Wilson
Eclipse at the Gates
                By Jason Ford

Denial walks from place to place
Without a sense of grave disgrace
From keeping lips which never talk.

The men renowned for hiding face
With veils denying any trace
Of what is real, begin to walk.

A book of lies is being carried
Upon the backs of men married
To form of creed which oscillates.

Shadows are passing through the street
With steps which now complete
The final stage of reaching gates.
Standing in the Shadows
                        By Jason Ford

A hidden face is silently staring
At me as he is secretly preparing
To find the means of luring me in as prey.

The shadow of a pillar is one which overlaps
The form of a deceiver who sets up traps
For creatures unfit to see the light of day.

I hear the sound of buttons on a control pad
As the door is locked and I am left to status sad,
Fear is passing through each brittle vein of mine.

I hear a step behind a pillar near to the door
And lose sight of a figure which I abhor
As I feel myself as prey to sinister design.

Where is the deceiver who seeks to break my neck
And lay out my carcass as a worthless wreck
Which is only fit to be an object to despise?

Suddenly all the forms of lighting have gone out
As scourge of misfortune comes to me like a drought
Which erodes the lives of prey reaching their demise.
About Matthew Wilson

Matthew Wilson, 31, has
had over 150 appear-
ances in such places as
Horror Zine, Star*Line,
Spellbound, Illumen,
Apokrupha Press, Hazardous
Press, Gaslight Press,
Sorcerers Signal and many
more. He is currently editing
his first novel and can be
contacted on twitter
Death in the Woods
        By Jason Ford

The taste of many brittle years already spread
Across paddocks without a drop of rain
Is bitterness profound as Death begins to tread
Upon the graves of names which still remain.
Death is slowly passing through the woods alone
With many kinds of trees becoming prone
To loss of grip among the ageing leaves
Succumbing to the might which Death receives.

The air surrounding Death becomes so strong
As winds impose a sense of might upon each tree.
The branches shaking left and right, belong
To the dance of Death declaring how all things should be.
The curse which came upon the ones who died
With wounds inflicted by the sword of pride
Is kept beneath the ground until the day
Death decides to spread to other forms of prey.
Misdemeanours Of A Good Boy
                                By Matthew Wilson

Dear Santa; this year I will be good
I will not strangle cats like last year
Or put knives in my sisters bed
And certainly not poison mothers coffee.

I will not cut the brakes on dads car
Nor feed baby birds to wild dogs
I will not punch grandma since her
Stroke has left her paralysed and silent.

I will not put bits of glass in store food bottles
Nor creepy bugs in the raisin jars
No way will I burn my sisters dolls
Or her hair while she sleeps.

Please Santa: I will be good for Christmas
Please bring me my hearts desire
If I follow the rules on this list
But please bring me that axe I wanted.
About Jason Ford

Jason Constantine Ford
is from East Perth in
W.A, Australia. He works
at a book shop and has
over seventy
publications of poetry
and fiction in various
poetry magazine, ezines
and journals from
around the world. He
has a traditional
approach to poetry and
is dedicated to the
cause of rhyming poems.
Dark Clouds Hanging Over Us
                                By Jason Ford

Coldness spreads through the air as the sun abstains
Itself from giving light within a cloud sky.
Darkness slowly spreads itself across the plains
As scents of evil are approaching nigh.

There is a rumour that souls of criminals who died
Upon the gibbets are passing through this town.
Although no trace of evidence is supplied,
Morale among the people is slowly going down.

Since last night, a criminal’s fingerprints were found
On a skull years after the day he passed away.
Rumours of people seeing him in the town abound
Among those who fear themselves as likely prey.

Without a warning, peels of thunder are heard
Among people unwilling to walk into the street.
Around the deserted streets, not a single word
Is uttered among lips which already feel defeat.
The Book of the Dead
                  By Jason Ford

Within a realm already ruled by Death,
A Book remains upon a plaque of stone.
The names no longer fit to feel the breathe
Of life are ones which winds of fate disown
As being born without the right to be alive
Within presence of blades which must arrive.
This Book commands the Reaper to extract
The blood of creatures ready to be cracked.
Vapours rise from stench beneath the brittle ground
Releasing swarm of wasps which hover in the air.
Each wasp reveres the book with feelings most profound
As opposition to the souls who turn to prayer.
The wasps await the Reaper’s next command
As host of vapours in the heat of night expand.
Cholera is Walking
                    By Jason Ford

I heard a story about a town overcome
By a foe who chose to enter into their ranks
As one who made their immune systems numb
Unto a fate that shattered them like splintered planks.
None of them could see this foe’s face nor the kind of sound
She made before she struck her prey with grief profound
from a bag of poison as it reached out across
Communities afflicted with so much loss.

Upon her entrance into a town, ignorance spread
As fog of blindness was becoming dense.
No eye could see the path on which she tread
Nor detect the designs of her pretence.
No one recognized the way she moved with ease
Unto breathes of passion breathing out disease.
Each mind was left without the skills to grasp
A danger reaching deeper than the sting of a wasp.

On the day she touched the ground, no one saw her walking
As lies regarding her were moulding into a myth.
Each nose among deluded creatures was balking
A warning smelt concerning scent of death.
The ignorance of prey who could feel the heat
Of fruits which fell from trees and rotted in the street,
Endowed Cholera with confidence to take
Away the lives of prey brittle enough to break.

On the night of the first day, Cholera struck
With poison injected into people’s meals.
As people were dying from the knife of fatal luck,
Cholera walked effortlessly on high heels.
In each place where she walked, people were dying
As their doctors were desperately tryingTo find a cure to a plague that was
Cholera smiled as her presence was systemic.
The Reaper
  By Jason Ford

Where is the Reaper sowing seed tonight?
Is he evolving swifter in the way of guile
As one concealed among the trees away from sight
Until his lust for blood becomes a rose fertile?
In all the places where the Reaper comes,
He waits within shadows until his prey succumbs
To fear about the way a life is prone to falter
When it sees its’ neck as helpless in a halter.
The crops he reaps are thrown into a bowl
Which mixes flesh and blood until they harden
Into compost unique which suits his garden,
A garden fit for Death’s embrace upon a soul.
Prey ensnared within the places where the Reaper sows
Cannot escape the fate of Death’s repeated blows.
For poetry by Jason
Ford and Matthew
click here

For poetry by Alexis
Child and Radek Ozog,
click here

For poetry by Paul
Tristram and Raymond
click here