Dark Poetry
Poems by Meg Smith, Stanley Wilkin, Brian Barnett and
Chris Ingram
Dark Blessings
         By Meg Smith

I slept
in a camp of dust.
The stones of the lake shore
held me. I cradled one
in my hand, smooth and cold.
The river ran with hemlock,
and tainted the world with gold.
I would rise, and walk,
through moons, and stones,
and the shadows of trees.
I reached the river, touched its gold.
And I prayed, deliver me --
night becomes me,
as I become.
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
About Meg Smith

Meg Smith is a writer, journalist,
dancer and events producer in
Lowell, Mass.  In addition to
Blood Moon Rising, her work
has appeared in The Horror
Zine, Dark Dossier, The Cafe
Review, Bewildering Stories,
Strange Horizons and more. Her
most recent poetry books, Dear
Deepest Ghost and This Scarlet
Dancing, are available on
Amazon. She welcomes visits to
About Stanley Wilkin

A college lecturer living in
Portugal. A writer of academic
books, poetry and short stories.
By Chris Ingram

What you mistake for romance
My dear
Deliberate, impassioned beguiling
Is, in fact, revulsion. The steeling
Of one condemned to be nourished
By that which is repugnant
Salty, sticky; metallic
As the stakes and knives and bullets
Penetrating my centuries
Clotting too soon to be savored
Not some Carpathian vintage
Inferior to French, say, but ours
And therefor favored

There is no relishing the meal
To come
Your desire means nothing
Except to what extent I might turn it to my needs
With preposterous ease
Even the ravishing has lost its lustre
The piercing
Gory sating of a hunger
Never wholly slaked
Now performed surgically, lustless
I’m tired
If I’m seducing anyone
It is myself.

Delving into blue-gray memory
Of conquests when this was all new
Sustained then by the claret of the lovely
And young
Ladies with necks of alabaster
Bending to my charms
Opening like flowers
Impelled to tender all at once
Their sustenance
They’re different now, and coarser
But feed I must. And you are
The Boring Worm
         By Stanley Wilkin

The worm unseen poked inside
Wriggling around, exuding tiny pearls of acid,
For eternity (or so it seemed). Joe noticed
His hands trembling, then
His arm, and cried like a dismal
Child from morning until night for
Days on end, his urine dribbling
Down his legs in sympathy.

His wife, not the sympathetic kind,
Reasoned astutely that he was going mad.
One grey rainy day, without a single
Shaft of sunlight, the birds silent, heads-down
On the sycamore branches, the neighbours’ dogs yelping,
The gulls shrieking doom, she headed for
Tom, her solicitor, with whom she had been
Having an affair, and petulantly filed for divorce.

Inside Joe’s head the worm wriggled
Nibbling at his brain. The doctors X-rayed
The doctors worried, the doctors mused-
The worm hid pretending to be a neuron.
Poor Joe began to garble, talked more nonsense
Than he usually did, cried, sighed, belched, blew,
And barfed.

Clicking her long expensive
Heels like a tambourine player,
His ex-wife barged her way into the ward,
Unable to find Joe’s will, in her rage
She frightened the nurses, terrified the consultant
Caused the early death of every heart patient
With her wrath. Pushing aside junior doctors,
She placed her furious face beside Joe’s brain-bleached
Rumbled and rubbery features
Demanding his remaining money and the spare house
In Spain. Her voice resembled a lonely
Ghoul’s screech.

“Come on, come on”
She bawled in his ear,
As the worm left its emptied lair
And wriggling disappeared up her nose
And thankfully began to feast.
It slowly bore into her brain
Gulping up each neuron bit by bit.
The flowers in her garden became
Glued to her chin,
Her lipstick pushed up each nostril,
Dandelions decorating her hair,
She walks out naked each morning, happy as the sun glows,
As the worm has its breakfast, and her mind literally goes.
About Brian Barnett

Brian Barnett lives in Frankfort,
Kentucky.  He is the author of
the Middle-Grade novellas
Graveyard Scavenger Hunt and
Chaos at the Carnival, and the
collection A Closetful of
Monsters.  He is a Full Member
of The Fictioneers with nearly
300 credits in magazines such
as The Lovecraft eZine,
Spaceports & Spidersilk, and
Trembles Horror Magazine and
in various anthologies produced
by Blood Bound Books, James
Ward Kirk Fiction, Thirteen
Press and Static Movement.
Waiting for winter
        By Meg Smith

The white sun blurs
and I will embrace it
in my skin,
and my life will shine
through the ice.
No season
can touch me,
I am given
even in the thinnest
of blue.

the pendulum swings
wringing anticipation
another one split
woodland creatures stir
fearing its transformation
the full moon rises
moldy mummy tomb
sarcophagus seal broken
the curse awakens
we found another
a fleshless missing person
teeth marks on the bones
out blink the candles
upset shadows blot the room
Ouija whispers swirl
10 Haiku
 By Brian Barnett

beautiful eyes
cyan phosphorescent orbs
crimson gnashing teeth
sharp teeth gnawing toes
something is in the water
get out of the pool
feaster from the stars
death from above with bat wings
sky-devil attack
dirty gravedigger
savoring succulent bones
sweeter than candy
fishermen beware
something evil stirs below
surfacing creatures
About Chris Ingram

Chris Ingram spent over
30-years in broadcasting, mostly
as a newsman in markets of
every size and at CBS News in
New York. He has also been a
radio disc jockey, cook, truck
driver, and a high school
wrestling coach. His website is
Before Burying
         By Meg Smith

Leaves dither
among the slate stones.
The grass murmurs.
Here, I found no fortune.
The air turns cold.
Shadows run
through the fire.
This holds
our conversation.
Breathing in me,
leaves, stone,
grass, whisper
of the earth.
The Unholy Brides
         By Meg Smith

Tearing the gauze,
threads through teeth,
slow dissolve
parting in your train.
When the veil
becomes too heavy
to carry,
you'll know.
Your breath
is snared.
Such a heart as this
in the fragment
of the moon
is ours.
Bones, upright
         By Meg Smith

There was
loving, in her rib cage.
There was
a riot, of fever,
in her lips.
Shadows, talking.
No place to shiver.
I'm turning, and this
strange, creature blonde in me,
I take with me.
A road with sweeping street light
beckons, bones in their sturdy gait.
For poetry by Meg Smith,
Stanley Wilkin, Brian
Barnett and Chris Ingram,
click here

For poetry by John Grey
and Donna Dallas,

For Holly Day and Judson
Michael Agla,
click here