About a week ago, I posted a poem of mine about a toad. It landed with a thud on the Ricochet Member Feed. It was soon a lonely and pathetic thing as it moved inexorably down the morning posts with hardly even a Pity Like.

But that was a week ago. I’ve discovered that my poetic Muse won’t leave me alone, even at the risk of ridicule and shame.

Frankenstein

Scarred refuse
of yesterday’s men:
Finds pain in being alive.
Would rather
lie in pieces again.

[OK, I know that wasn’t much, but it’s so short that readers who never make it to the end of a poem can now boast that they made it to the end of a poem.]

The Vampire

White-faced Transylvanian,
with a recessive gene
that urges nightly sips of blood.

But believes it a sin
To have vulgar tastes:
Drinks young virgins
instead of old men.

[Well who wouldn’t?]

Wolf-man

Periodic beast:
When the full moon
floods the landscape,
our pajama-sleeper
feels tendons tighten,
coarse hair grow,
and eyes evil-brighten.

Then our hairy fellow
runs naked across the dark heath,
Ripping up humus and moss
With red nails and sharp teeth.

In the morning, belly filled,
he wakes up man again:
Prompt at office,
politic and quiet,
a gentleman
with modest tie,
eyes bright.

[This is my favorite. I’ve always like the wolf man]

Old Scratch

By custom obliged
to dress in a red
woolen onesie suit.

Forced by divine decree
To sport on his breech
a foul-smelling tail
that swishes the black flies
that buzz on his bung
(that reeks when it’s hot
of sulphur and dung).

Hoofs on his heels,
horns on his head
fire for his bed.

Hates it,
takes it
out on
mankind.

[The real origin of evil.]

The Witch

Anne Jefferies
Is bored, her lace stitchery
by her side, as she
looks around her
stuffed Victorian room.

So Anne sneaks out at night
to dance with Cornwall fairies
in a clearing in dark woods
till the coming of the light.

I think, my Victorian lass,
there were far worse ways
of using up your share of days
than to dance with fairies
in the pale moonlight. 

[Anne Jefferies was an actual 17th-century witch, though I’ve modified her story somewhat.]

One more poem:

Bob the dog thinks it a treat/to watch the cat across the street.