REALM OF DARKNESS

From Realm of Darkness #1:



WHEN HE COMES

by Leilah Wendell


He comes not like that thief in the night,
nor descends of flailing bladed wings.
No malice has He toward the fearing soul.
No anger spits from His still, cold lips.
He comes as the gentle whisper of winter wind,
or the quick ecstasy of the lightening bolt
immediate yet lingering as if embraced
by a darkling shadow or twilyte shade.
He is not the wielder of the killing blade.

The River of Death teems not with blood,
nor the tears of selfish grief.
No lost souls are there adrift upon the current,
only lich-lights remain to mark each journey,
silent ripples on the deep, dark waters
that gently kiss invisible shores.

He is not the barrenness of bones,
nor the stagnance of a winter pool.
He is the fullness of an autumn bouquet
and that which runs rife in the misty bog.
He is the free acceptance of primordial change
where no conditions stem the cycle,
where no tears float like heavy oils
on the surface of such crystal waters.

He is the twilyte forever bounded
by the two extremes of day and night.
He is the moment wherein all things do change--
The stoppage of time and elimination of space
between all that was and all that is,
and all that shall be, is a stationary point
that contains all times at once
and all space on a narrow bridge.
Where everything culminates in a "winking out"--
A moment of darkness
wherein all reality is contained
and all illusion cast aside.
Death is the dream come to flesh
only to shed the veil of sleep
and reveal the naked form of Truth
reclining peaceably and shaded by life's afterglow--

When He comes, all of man's truths shall matter.
And the thin icy skin afloat on His waters
shall crack from the weight of a single soul.

NECROPOLIS

by Richard David Behrens

What vast necropolis is this
        whose ancient age englooms,
A countless population palled
        within decrepit tombs?

No sign, nor gate to delineate
        nor hedge to mark its bound,
No fence of brass, or stone, or wood;
        not any to be found.

A silent sea of mound and tomb
        with waves of tombstones weaving,
From horizon to horizon full;
        but not one mourner grieving.

Within the sky no bird to fly
        nor scurrying creature giving,
Any movement, any sign
        of anything near living.

But, I am here and you are here
        and as we clear our view,
It's plain to see, at least to me,
        this city's grown by two!



THE LAST FORTRESS

by Linda Ostrander

In the eerie, always dreary
Statued graveyards of the past,
Orations of ghastly vision;
Shrouded in death's last decision,
With epitaphs that come too fast.

The funeral veil, worn and pale
Drapes the moldy monuments;
There creating, always waiting
To snatch away the hesitating,
Bequeathing dismal, sad laments.

The last great meddler is the peddler
Of coffin, casket, tolling bell.
The sickle of the reaper's tomb
Reaches hands into the gloom;
The muffled drum of our citadel.



NEPENTHE

by Marie Buckner


every year on the same day
you celebrate your birth
another full circle ‘round the sun
another year cooling to the chill of your grave
the shadows of your life lengthening
the earth crumbling beneath you
and you smile bravely
holding in your despair
pretending it isn't so

not so I
unholy vision of the night
creature beyond time
who laughs at your conventions
desperate inventions
I can free you

here in dusk's threshold where I dwell
defiant in a sea of immortal beauty
open yourself to me
so I may enter you
and drink the red fire, its flame writhing
in the fear that enslaves you
your arm linked in mine
as we stride in long black velvet
through linden copse and nightshade wild
where among brittle leaves to entwine

in divine ritual
to mingle blood fire and ichorous ice
amid sweet incense of decay
and soar in truth's ecstasy
make love to me
while in absolute stillness
of your moonlit release
for I am your nepenthe at the water's edge.
where no more tired reflection distorts.
O let them consecrate your bones then
you at last will be timeless, ageless--
come to me.



BLACK ARE THE DREAMS

by Richard David Behrens

Black are the dreams I have dreamt,
           of countless days that I have spent,
On dark rude paths that I have trod
           avoiding men, escaping God;
Running, falling ever under
           ground that quakes and skies that thunder;
Never ever gaining way;
           lost by night and lost by day;
Afraid to stop, afraid to rest;
           afraid to reckon damned or blest;
I run alone, a haunted man;
           back to where I once began!
Back to that grim clandestine clime
           within the silent womb of time;
Where first was formed this fragile soul
           thrown naked to this world . . . unwhole.

And, then to suffer til his sin
           brings round about that final dawn,
In a game he cannot win;
           from birth, til his final breath is drawn.

Shackled to an endless thirsting,
          sisyphusting labors bursting,
Cursed by some unseen Presider
          broadened not a pica wider,
Not a gaining, nor decreasing,
          just its presence never ceasing;
Never entering nor leaving,
         never jubilant nor grieving,
Never answering, nor chiding,
         not a hint of where It's hiding;
Not a respite from obsession's
         taunting mad and grim oppressions;
Only the ever present moaning
         of my soul with me groaning,
For that beast that stalks my soul
         and, into which depths its claws shall plumb,
Shall finally gain its dread control
         and, portend that eternal Hell to Come!

But, does it matter who's the stronger?
        Can it matter any longer,
Whether I, or you, or He,
        or any creature Land or Sea;
Or any phantom raining fright;
        or any demon of the night,
Finds the Book . . . the Book of Sage
        relegated blank by age?
But, I would welcome Its addressing,
        deigned or feigned, a word expressing,
Ah yes! Any single word would do
        just to know I've broken through,
All that silence taut, unbending,
       all that muted condescending;
All that promise ever failing
       echoed in some distant wailing.

But! Of all things known, it's this I know
      of life and love, of Heaven, and Hell;
I know their charm, I know their glow
      and know their face . . . but not too well!



AS ALL OTHERS

by John A. Youril


This night is as all others have been
But nowhere do I find my own reflection
In your eyes
Or hear the thousand echoes of my undiscovered thoughts

I have died within you
And within you dwell alone and silent
My dim light fading
Lost where hell and heaven strive against all mortal hope
A grave marked with not a single flower remembered
Nor a single tear shed in comprehension
Of the endless death
The anguished creation that creates no more.



SUCCUBUS

by Gregory E. Harrison


Passion bubbles forth from the dark
pit of the night's belly,
while fragile fingers soothe the surface,
and cold darkness flows through my veins.

The incubus sprouts greedily in the
fertile marches of the mind,
and I am shaken by the dream's
sudden reality.

Strange features of embedded emotions
seem to taint your soft skin
as a love of vendettas grow
out of our impious sin.

Smiling grotesquely, we stalk the hidden
paths of twilight,
and as we succumb to fervent touches,
the shadows of evil seem to fade,
leaving only desire to pour into our
dark, red hearts.

We lie on the ruby petals of roses,
as the sharp, warm thorns caress our skin,
and our crimson blood flows with a vengeance
over the forest's green.

And as our deceitful love subsides,
the night suffocates me into a slumber
of forgotten sin,
and from the coldness of the heavens,
comes the nightmare once again . . .



A RECOLLECTION

by John A. Youril


I will not be free of you
Nor consent to imagine a world fashioned from your absence

I will distinguish neither day nor night
Nor know more of this earth than I have already fathomed

I will die as the hours die
Remembering all
Taking all
Leaving nothing of myself in the unknown heart of any other.



HOW EASILY

by Richard David Behrens


How easily my mind falls in
       the labyrinth of Oblivion;
                 where mortal and Seraphim espouse;
                 where man and angel together espouse;
From out that Mystic ebon Sea
       the mysteries of Eternity!

And from these depths . . . Ah! Who indites
       on this the darkest night of nights;
                such an airy symphony;
                such an eerie symphony;
Some remnant o my past restore
       of something I have known before!

All the lowing of their sighs
       fills the evening's starless skies;
               fills the emptiness of night;
               fills the vacuum of the night;
And through my stilted soul runs free
       all the blackness of that Sea.

Who? Who are they that know the why?
       These phantoms of a boundless sky!
              Do they tell of hope for me?
              Tell of welcomed hope for me!
Or are their passionate rantings prate
       to ever seal me in my fate?

SHE SPEAKS WITH SHADOWS

by George Chadderdon


When dusk embraces the autumn sky
With sable, ebon cloak of shade,
She speaks with shadows by and by
Which gather ‘round as twilight breaks.

To lay upon her gentle ear
Their tales of woe and dark regrets,
Of shattered hopes and bitter years
And restless yearning in their breasts.

They beckon her with whispered cries
      And silently she listened,
And in her stormy hazel eyes
      A dewy tear glistens.

What comfort is her frail form
      To such benighted eye.
Her gaze is soft; her voice is warm,
      And to her side they fly.

Alas, alas, my fate, alas.
      To be a shadow yearning
To walk with her when Dawn awakes,
      Her frosty torchlight burning.

But with my shadowed heart I bless her,
Hoping this might bring her bliss,
And sadly wonder as I wander,
Would she take a shadow's kiss?



THE OCCULTIST

by Richard David Behrens


These are the Winter's withered days
         whose brilliance fast descending,
Lies, in state, in ashen greys
         enhanced by daylight's ending.

Today is drear dark and cold in the bark
         as my mind clings to vestigial reason;
My life's bloods decreased and my soul near deceased
         in the dead of the grim Winter season.

The ground is inured by the winter endured,
         too cold to comfortably die on,
Where steel-grey clouds grow threatening snow
         mid this realm of the Boreal Lion.

Where skeletal trees of barren mein
        with outstretched limbs abiding,
In seas of mist stand half unseen
        where creeping things are hiding.

All the air is bitterly dense
        and chills with the sun's declining,
And, cold is the indurate earth that lies
        beneath that misty lining.

I walk this haunted nether land
        mid spectres fleet and darting,
Amorphous figures bolder grown
        with daylight fast departing.

Beneath my feet uneven ground
        encumbers ambulation,
As though alive, the gelid earth
        secrets debilitation.

Protruding through these dankly dense
        unyielding Stygian waves,
The tops of lurid tombstones loom
        above forgotten graves.

Ah! This is the wretched churchyard;
        a grim configuration,
Bounding a vast unfortunate lot
        who should have sought cremation.

Assorted markers, crossed and etched
        in grey low mist assume,
A gaunt grey granite garden round
        about some ancient tomb.

The Late, interred, are laid to rest
        among their silent peers,
Indifferent, all, to name or rank
        or qualitative years.

But, there they lie these sons of men
        each framed by stone and mound,
Forever still, forever mute
        in consecrated ground.

No sign of relief . . . no end to my grief
        no promise of hoped liberation;
Just constant distress in the abyss of my breast
        and the pain of my fate's flagellation.

Unbending binding, the elements aligning
        grant not an iota of giving;
A respite from grief, or a mote of relief
        to educe any reason for living.

But, drugged near insane with Fate as the ban
        in the catalytic caustic libation,
Forced down my throat while dark demons did gloat
        at the withholding of God's liberation.

My pace is palsied, slow and pained
        and, Death more bold and fleet,
Creeps mutely within the opaque veil
        that lies about my feet.

Near and far no more define
        no path, nor know direction;
To take me past those long asleep,
        awaiting resurrection.

For, I had sought by the hour the vast hidden power
        in rare known tomes of arcane lore,
And wrought up dread, the darkest hour
        a soul of man has ever bore.

Great mystic gates! That terror awaits?
        What mountainous miseries hover?
What torturous terror was sent by my error?
         I fear I soon may discover!

For words near to babbling, for mystical dabbling,
         I'm cursed to suffer damnation,
Oh! Rueful the day I wandered this way
         and muttered that bleak incantation.

There are demons, grim spirits, seeking my blood
         for unholiest covenants made;
Now! On this night, comes the ultimate fright
         for the Reaper readies his blade.

With the sun descended, my last day near ended
         I'll wait with nowhere to hide,
For it's here that I'll stay, and my tombstone shall say:
         He conjured!  He dabbled!  He died!



WHERE DREAMS BECOME

by Leilah Wendell


Once in Twilyte's gloom I ventured
        the fairing fields of Auburn
where darkness unfolds like vampire wings
        over the face of Lucerne,
where shadows emerge from shrouded corners
        bathed in the evening mist,
where spectral lovers wait by rivers
        for some melancholy tryst.
There was I, from travel weary
        merely seeking some repose.
‘Twas not by chance nor accident,
        ‘twas simply that I chose
to make my bed on hallowed ground
        bethinking peace complete,
to take my slumber with the dead
        and into dream retreat.
When all at once, the earth beneath me
        suddenly gave way
and two cold arms broke through the ground
        caressing me where I lay.
As I was drawn down deeper still
        into this sinking grave,
I knew ‘twas only Death's cold kiss
        that I'd come to crave.
I heard the sound of a distant requiem
        swelling in my brain,
a chorus of hollow voices buried
        in the tolling bell's refrain.
Figures draped in silver light,
        their bluegrass bodies glide
like macabre angels with bleeding eyes
        reeling side to side.
I thought perhaps, I'd quit this grave
        and join them in their dance,
but had neither the will nor the wish
        to end this cold romance.
Locked into Death's strange embrace,
        He drew me deeper still
down into His moulded bed
        where passions dark fulfill.
Before the darkness claimed its throne
        I chanced a fleeting glance
and saw a figure, wrapped in black
        ready to advance.
His towering height and awesome wings
        spread shadows on my soul.
I closed my eyes, but still could see
        His flaming aureole.
Once in daybreak's haze recalled
        the dream in metaphor,
the taste of mould upon my lips,
        I could not e'er ignore
that in this dampened niche I lay
        entwined in Sycamore
that embraced me like cadaverous arms
        did the night before.

LET ME REST

by Robin Blackburn

How cruel you are to call me from
This grave where I was sleeping
Comfortably, in Earth's warm womb,
Buried in a bridal gown.

I claw with crippled hands through dirt
And crawl through the mold of my own decay
To reach the surface of your world
And stumble where you summon me.

Through clouded eyes I see you now,
Your face twisted into a cold little smile,
Your gaze like liquid nitrogen
Enfolding me, freezing me where I stand.

You hold a jar wrapped all in cloth
As red as my blood — this is my prison.
Forever kept from grace or damnation,
I will spend eternity as your slave.

I have no choice, no voice with which
I dare object to your commands.
This is how you like me —
Dead

To everyone but you.



MORE TO COME!

 
From THE SALEM JOURNAL #1:



OCTOBER

by Richard David Behrens

No moon has risen half so fair
        as that which through the mist and dour,
Ascends the cold October air;
        at this the horrid midnight hour.

Penumtral clouds of vapid gauze
        in silence from its secret place,
Reaches out with eerie claws
        to mar the beauty of her face.

But, not to be denied her reign,
        the Queen of the midnight shy looks down,
Unmoved by the stealthy clouds that strain
        to try to wrest her crown.

Her light illumines earth and sky
        with oblique and broad diaphanous beams,
While all, who in Death's cold arms lie
        are lost within their dreams.

But, something evil must have placed
        dark magic in her glistening show,
For every creature she encased
        is strangely muted by her glow.

How still the night bereft of sound!
        How oppressive the weight that silence pressed,
Upon my body laden bound
        which draws but a palsied rest.

The dying embers yet with heat,
        cast lengthy shadows through the gloom,
Which once had served as my retreat
        and, now serves sadly as my tomb.

The shadows were but shadows thrown,
        but there was one which caught my eye,
That cast a shadow all its own
        across the bed on which I lie.

Now is the sprawling silence ending!
        That muted wave that once did crest;
Transmuted to a pounding pending
        pulsing heart within my breast.

The spectre did not move or speak,
        but stood within that midnight hour,
Deadly silent, grim and bleak
        and stirred my sullen soul to cower.

At length, I did that Shade address:
        "Why came thee to my bedstead side,
At this late hour?" (Dare I press?)
        "I came for thee!" the Shade replied.

"I came for thee!" he did repeat
        over and over, anew and again,
Til the air was charged with his sinister bleat
        to dive me very near insane.

Every word that shadow said
        flayed my brain til I near screamed:
"Are Thee something to be dread;
        or are Thee something that I dreamed up?"

"Illusion or real?" he said, at least,
        "things are not what things may seem;
A dream is real in shadows cast;
        and reality, friend, is but a dream."

"Are you Death" I asked, "or Shade;
        some dark demonic thief to vend,
A recompense for errors made
        to bring my life to such an end?"

"Or, are thee Angel from on high,
        one glorious in grace and form,
to take me hand-in-hand to fly
        above the morass and the storm?"

"Enough of talk!" I heard him say,
        "There's nothing further you may gain;
If thou hast a prayer, then thou may pray;
        it's time to leave this world of pain."

The shadow darkened and expanded
        bleakly filling every crack,
Within my soul til I was branded
        with the coldness of that black.

It's then I saw the Shadow's hand
        extend to finally touch my own;
He drew me toward a blackened band
        which through my bedroom window shone.

The Shade stopped still before the portal,
        then pointing toward the dark he said,
"All who enter here are mortal!
        None may enter but the dead!"

Thinking this a moment's madness;
        spurred by words the Shade had said,
I turned to run, but stopped in sadness
        to see my form upon the bed.

"Sir Shade!" said I "It must be so!
        (On seeing that shell in silence lain),
Am I to warm in Heaven's glow;
        or suffer Hell's eternal pain?"

"Heaven is Hell! The Shade replied,
        "and fools as you are much alloyed;
The false saints you created lied;
        now step thee deep within the void!"
"Thee sainted evil, sainted greed
        and hatred thee did canonize,
And, sought to furnish every need
        at the price of the heaven you now prize"

"Thou asks if this is Heaven's gate,
        for all the good thou didst commit?
Yes! Said the Shade, "Thy award await!
        But thy Heaven lies within the Pit!"



IN THE PARIS HOME

by John Grey


At the feet of Tituba
they sat, listening,
her black face shining
in shadowy lamplight,
telling strange stories
of the Caribbean Islands,
laughing, exalting, crying,
as the demons in those tales
blazed out of her eyes,
danced across her cheeks,
her nose, her lips.
And at the end of the
story-telling,
she would call back
what she had set free,
gather these devils
in her fat fist,
press them inside her memory,
never realizing that
a little of that darkness
had spilled,
been picked up like a loose piece
of thread by two children
who did not know the danger,
who danced with these serpents
as if they were new toys.



DUSK WITCH

by Wendy Rathbone


I stir dusk brew
Luna-balm for the rising
my recipe becomes
all things of night:
water, shadow, moon
The winds call the bats
from their feasts
from their insect-ringed lamps

The Empire of Night
releases stars
I open the dark
Jackel-guards
line the other land
in rows miles long,
the candle-land
where light is testless prey

The newt comes to play
his eyes naked as
the sputtered wick,
the cold stone
heaven has become

ANN PUTNAM  

by John Grey


the child of twelve
plays her games
in the court-room
with the women
of the village
as her dolls

looked at old Martha Cory
Goodwife Nurse
Elizabeth Proctor

I am tired of these

let us hang them by the neck
let us go on to other toys

HANGING ON GALLOWS HILL
(1692)

by Ruth Wildes Schuler


Born of buffalo bone
she walks beneath
a whale-weary wind
that chills the petrified dawn.

Virtuous toads
stand before ancient temples
carved from serpent skulls
wearing bandaged
wrinkles of ignorance.

She climbs the wooden steps--
Her cry hardening
the Salem morning grey.

Butterflies drift
across crumbled centuries.
The graveyard waits
for a scarlet rain.                        

MORE TO COME!