The Servante of Darkness Blog “Christmas Light, Christmas Dark” Poetry Today 2015

Christmas Light and Christmas Dark 2015


The Servante of Darkness Blog “Christmas Light, Christmas Dark” Poetry Today 2015 column is now live. Our poets this year include: Lori R. Lopez,Michael H. Hanson, Coralie Rowe, Brande Barrett, Jerry Langdon, Mark Allan Gunnells, Joseph Rubas, Howard Carlyle, Andrew D. Blacet, Lemmy Rushmore, and Jaye Tomas. So, go check it out. And leave a Christmasy comment to thank our poets (and artists and photographers) this year. Your visits are thanks enough for me.


Tuesday, December 15, 2015

Christmas Light and Christmas Dark

Poetry Today December 2015

Compiled and Formatted

by Anthony Servante

Welcome, readers and poetry aficionados, to the Servante of Darkness “Christmas Light, Christmas Dark” Poetry Today 2015 column. With us this December, we have Lori R. Lopez, Michael H. Hanson, Coralie Rowe, Brande Barrett, Jerry Langdon, Mark Allan Gunnells, Joseph Rubas, Howard Carlyle, Andrew D. Blacet, Lemmy Rushmore, and Jaye Tomas, presenting you with a selection of merry, melancholy, and morose verse. To highlight this bounty of Christmas fare, I’ve added some Winter graphics, some naughty and some nice. Remember, we begin with “dark” poetry, then “light”, and so on.

We begin with Ms. Lopez.

Lori R. Lopez


Lori R. Lopez wears many hats. She is an artist who designs her book covers and illustrates some of her tomes. As an author she writes poems, short stories, novels, children’s books and songs, as well as a humorous-slash-serious column called “Poetic Reflections” at Fairy Fly Entertainment. She is a musician, actress, filmmaker, tree-hugger and animal-lover. A vegan, her work often contains themes of conservation, animal rights, and the rights of children. Lori has received various honors for her writing. Books include THE DARK MISTER SNARK, THE FAIRY FLY, AN ILL WIND BLOWS, ODDS AND ENDS: A DARK COLLECTION, CHOCOLATE-COVERED EYES, THE MACABRE MIND OF LORI R. LOPEZ, OUT-OF-MIND EXPERIENCES, DANCE OF THE CHUPACABRAS, POETIC REFLECTIONS I and II: KEEP THE HEART OF A CHILD and THE QUEEN OF HATS. Stories and verse have appeared on Hellnotes and Halloween Forevermore, Servante Of Darkness and Verto Publishing; in THE HORROR ZINE MAGAZINE, THE SIRENS CALL, and about 20 anthologies.


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The Poetry:


The Negative Side

by Lori R. Lopez

“I don’t believe in Santa Claus!” her brother sneered.

“He’s just a bag of wind!  For little kids,” the heckler jeered.

“I believe in Krampus, who takes or breaks your toys.

Instead of cookies, he likes to nibble girls and boys.

He’s going to come at Midnight, and if you’re not asleep,

you could be snatched and bagged by a black-bearded creep!”

Atremble, Gretchen listened to the stories he told often,

of ugly beasts transforming, who rose from earth and coffin;

skulked from caves, from swamps and lakes, out of a dire pit.

However they originated, she was their favorite target.

“He’s coming for you!” warned Ranken, his voice a trifle low.

“And you needn’t bother hiding.  There’s nowhere safe to go.

He’ll find you then he’ll bind you, crammed within his sack!

Every type of awful thing can be found in the nasty pack.

Worms and bugs, rats and slugs, gators and serpents too.

All of them will squirm and squeeze the stuffing out of you.

By the time he takes you to his lair, you’ll be plenty horrified

and might beg the fiend to eat you — baked or boiled, raw or fried.

In a tort, a sandwich, a batch of brownies, a cake or casserole.

Krampus isn’t picky and may swallow children whole!”

His sister made a face and stuck her tongue out at the notion,

wishing she could make Rank disappear with a quick potion.

There had to be an antidote for older siblings who were mean . . .

an over-the-counter cure; a remedy for a rotten spleen.

It wasn’t fair, the cute angel felt, and her heart began to wither.

He had crossed a line, spoiling Christmas! would Gretchen dither.

The lass permitted her darkest impulse to come out and play.

Like any pestered youngster, she wanted a bully to go away.

But became the greater peril, infected by a wicked spirit —

who whispered rancid nothings, and only she could hear it.

Christmas Eve, the kids alone upstairs in Gretchen’s room,

shadows and monsters menacing from corners of the gloom,

a frightened child huddled in a circle of illumination,

the glow of a flashlight held by Rank, and gulped in trepidation.

A thud urged both to jump, perhaps the wind; they heard a scrape,

which even made Rank cringe, alarmed, then turn his head to gape.

The girl was amazed, for her brother nearly never acted scared!

The boy seemed to wish he could take back the terrible folktale shared.

Afraid, her sibling bade in a hushed tone — not to let an ogre enter

if he tapped a window, rapped her door; just ignore the vile tormentor!

Gretch had a better idea and nodded her head though deep inside,

excitement filled her, a giddy thrill for the secret she must hide!

Her aspect remained calm to mask a grin and a delicious tingle

at her tummy’s base, like unwrapping a present from Kriss Kringle.

A lifetime of pinches and insults had taken a grim toll,

causing a beastly brat to hatch out of an innocent girl’s soul.

“Bedtime!” yelled a weary working mom.  “Scrub faces and teeth!”

The gal obediently washed and brushed, then hung a crimson wreath

on the door to her nightmare’s bedroom, replacing a metal sign.

“I think from now on,” she softly uttered, “this should be mine.”

The red octagonal roadside marker fit well upon her portal,

which caused the child to dance for joy and gaily chortle.

Things were going to change, and it would be her time to gloat

when Brother Dear slid down a repugnant demon’s throat!

Once a tale is told to frighten a child, it cannot be undone . . .

the story will unfold, its ending not completely spun.

A snickering taunter had invited Santa’s negative to call,

posting a blood ring at his sister’s threshold with unwitting gall.

Solemn-voiced, he invoked the yarn as if it almost wasn’t play.

Words may signal a devilish dickens, so be careful what you say!

Downstairs the lights went off.  Upstairs the children lay awake,

cold and stiff as graveyard denizens, biding the advent of a snake.

Fetid huffing breaths stole to the stairs and mindfully scaled;

intent on climbing to answer the summons, a ghastly evil exhaled.

The two-horned goatman paused before a room protected by STOP.

He sniffed and snorted with frustration, did a clever jig, a Pannish hop,

moving on to the subsequent room where a bold red circle clamored

to slink inside for the promised treat.  Krampus impolitely hammered,

his foot and hoof shuffling impatient; hooked fingers ready,

a kicking bulging bag over a shoulder, to seize the next Billy or Betty.

In her bed, a girl pulled the covers overhead as concussions sounded.

Their mother must surely appear, loud as the boogeyman pounded!

To her surprise, Mom failed to arise and investigate the din.

Gretchen kind of hoped her brother wouldn’t let the goblin in.

Rank was nice at times, on the rare occasions he wasn’t cruel.

She might not be mad enough to feed him to a ghoul . . .

He didn’t intend to beckon Krampus.  How could the bandit go?

Slipping down to kneel and bow her noggin, she let emotions flow:

“Dear monster in the hallway, I don’t want you to eat my brother.

He isn’t perfect but he’s all I have, and I doubt I’ll get another.”

A pointy tongue flicked her sign; a long tail switched the wall.

A heartfelt plea annoyed sharp ears, causing the fiend to bawl,

“Little girl, I’m going to eat you and your sibling in a bite!

I can smell you darlings quiver, delightful shiverings of fright!

Children are more scrumptious than pastry, pudding, or pie.

Let me in and I’ll give you a hug, before I make you cry.”

Footsteps pranced from door to door as the hairy brute sang.

“Krampus is here, it’s the time for fear.  Jangle Bells will clang!

I’m in your house, don’t be shy as a mouse and keep me waiting.

I’ve been so hungry these months, feverishly anticipating!”

A clawed finger carved a groove across wood, plaster, wood.

“Open up, tender ones, I am out of patience.  You’re not being good!

I am starving toe to tongue and your sniveling prayer has stung.

It burns my sensitive ears!  I’ll lick your tears as they’re wrung.

It’s foolish to delay.  I will not go away till I have you dears.

Don’t be meek, take a peek at the king of impish cavaliers!

Children are nestled snug in my pack for a delectable snack.

Join them, bashful naughties, ere I give your mumsy a heart attack!”

His song was discordant, the melody uneven, yet a harsh meaning

rang clear.  Gretchen pressed an ear to her door, panic keening.

She heard a click and a creak; her brother obeyed the demand.

“Leave our mother alone!” a voice would shakily command.

“And stay away from my sister!  It’s my fault, claim me instead,

but don’t you dare harm a hair on that little girl’s head!”

The boy was starting to cry.  It seemed unbelievable that Rank

stood up to a monster for her!  Gretchen suspected a prank.

Still she did the most difficult thing, determined to be brave,

and swung wide a Stop-Signed barrier, desiring him to save.

“I’m sorry,” wept she.  “It’s supposed to be me who gets picked.

I put the wreath on your door so Krampus would be tricked.”

Her brother confessed, “I brought him.  I’m the one he should take.”

A grinning Krampus snatched the pair.  “Oh, for badness sake!

Allow me to settle your dispute by shoving you both in my bag.”

The kids were engulfed and sealed; their captor began to drag

a writhing sack along the floor while he strode and giggled.

A voice emerged from its depths as the pouch slid and wiggled.

“Santa, I believe in you even if my brother thinks you aren’t real.

We need your help, and I know you’re busy but here’s the deal —

we’re about to be eaten by a hairy troll who looks like a goat.

Santa, please hurry!”  A muffled choir of wails escaped the tote.

“Be silent, you runts!” scolded Krampus.  “Pipe down, whiners!

You’ll give me indigestion.  Quit squalling like trapped miners.”

The diabolic grump pulled his noisy burden down the stairs . . .

and was met at the bottom by a plumper fellow’s blares:

“What’s this disrupting my munch?  Ah yes, I can see!

It’s my dark side, corrupting Yule for children and me!”

The white-bearded old coot brushed crumbs off a red suit

and peered up at the tall creature hauling a bag of young loot.

“If it isn’t the saintly Nick,” jeered his unjolly rival.

“Such a Goody Two Boots.  Come to threaten my survival?”

“You always were a taker.”  Santa scowled at the cretin.

“And you, a sugarcoated giver, disapproving what I’ve eaten.”

Krampus poked at Kriss’s girth.  “But I could do the same.”

He plucked a chocolate chip from Santa’s beard.  “For shame.

Shouldn’t you be on a diet?  Kid meat is lean.  Why don’t you try it?”

Nick’s cheeks turned rosier than his coat.  “You should be quiet.

There’s nothing worse than a skinny Santa, and I’m very content.

If I didn’t eat the cookies, how would it seem, a tradition bent?

You’re the one who’s unsightly — your feet don’t even match!

You look like you belong in a Halloween pumpkin patch.”

Saint Nicholas stretched to grip the goatman by a horn.

“And you have no shame, a miserable thief!” would he scorn.

“Your child-eating days are over!” bade the merry fat man.

“’Tis the season for joy and peace, not kid soup in a can.

Release them and apologize, or I’ll make you sorry!

I’m tired of you profaning Christmas to something gory.

Noël is a special feeling, like giving the world a hug,

and it mustn’t be spoiled by a scummy humbug of a thug!

I banish you and your despicable bane.  Return to the nether.

If you protest, I might stitch your foul lips together!”

Kriss Kringle aimed a gloved finger.  A thunderous peal —

Krampus dropped the neck of his sack with an injured squeal.

Blue magic encasing him like a lopsided bubble,

he was swept from the property, causing no further trouble.

The children crawled out, rather weepy and unsettled,

their fettle slightly tarnished; hearts free as fish unkettled.

Santa Claus would deliver the rest of them to their homes,

tucked in to slumber and dream of dancing gnomes.

“You are on my Good List.”  He patted Gretchen’s head.

“But your brother is Undecided.  Now go back to bed.”

He kissed the girl’s brow and gave them each a bright box

wrapped in shiny silver paper, the size of wood blocks.

“Open these and you will have a small gift, nothing more.

Keep them closed and there will always be wonder in store.

Mystery and surprises.  Fascinations of untold worth.

A thing to treasure.”  He shook with festive mirth . . .

evanescing to twinkles and sparkles that disappeared.

Gretchen knew he wouldn’t come again.  The regret speared

her melancholy soul.  “I’ll miss you, Santa.  I’ll behave.”

She didn’t need him anymore, and lifted a hand to wave.
Good Will

by Lori R. Lopez

They met on a battlefield.

Some called it a neighborhood, a street,

but they knew better.  It was a zone where

antagonists must face off, annual games be played out

and decided as they were divided, by tradition

and spite.  Ben Harkens and Tom Crier

had been foes since the First Grade,

wanting the same toy, crushes over the same girl —

a cross between mortal enemies and best friends,

each superimposed on the other’s thoughts

and actions for decades.  They lived next door

as long as they could remember, engaged in

single-minded dares and clashes.

Something in their chemistry, perhaps a lingering

past-life conflict, had turned them into

raging idiots and opponents.

Wives were now caught in the middle;

children too.  Siblings and parents had once

been trapped in an equally awkward position . . .

moving away, abandoning homes to the contests

and disputes of grown yet immature boys.

A feud that seemed to possess

no beginning and no end, it simply was.

There were no rules of combat, no guidelines

or barriers.  Only a figurative line

etched in the dirt . . . along with quite visible

property lines.  Fences, gates, hedges, locked doors;

motion detectors and security cameras, the best

defenses.  No other laws existed between them —

as far as the two men were concerned, anyway.

Holidays made them the most competitive.

Labor Day, The Fourth Of July, it was who could throw

the largest loudest outdoor event.  Not mere

backyard picnics or barbecues, but catered bashes

with live entertainment vied for supremacy.

Until none would accept their invitations to be used

for pawns, eardrums abused in an unfriendly zone

of hostile blatant oneupmanship.

Such affairs were consequently scaled down

to family-sized shindigs during which police would be

summoned, if not by surrounding community members,

then sicced like attack dogs by the bitter

rivals themselves.

Halloween, it was a matter of whose abode

could be rendered more dilapidated and grotesque:

coated with cobwebs, giant spiders and bats;

windows and exterior walls grimy, slimy;

porches cluttered by sarcophagus or iron maiden;

noose, guillotine, executioner’s axe;

casket, tombstone, skeleton or ghost;

assorted ghouls caped, hooded, zombified —

who greeted passersby with macabre laughs

and creepy suggestions such as

hanging out for a while, or visiting the crypt

for a dead tea party.

Yuletide, ah, that brought a new height to the madness!

Levels of hypertension, insanity and seriousness

rose to screaming boiling dimensions of

dementedness.  The Santas and snowmen grew bigger

each year.  Reindeer evolved from plastic to animatronic.

Garish light displays occupied nearly every inch

of every surface, becoming elaborate extravaganzas

that could be seen from Outer Space.  Not to mention

the candy-cane, icicle, and gingerbread trim.

There were angels, manger scenes, stars;

oversized elves and gaily wrapped gifts.

The trees, inside or out, were festooned with

so much glitter and gewgaws that their limbs

sagged at the weight.  But this year Ben and Tom

singularly vowed to have the tallest broadest

evergreen possible squeezed into their living-room!

A logging truck pulled up before the Harkens residence;

a rig hauling a trailer parked in front of The Criers.

Enormities were unloaded.  Teams of lumberjacks

and movers arrived in vans to carry massive

obelisks to entrances, where bulky bundled logs

were angled, shoved, jammed with expertise

(and much prayer or prestidigitation)

through strained doorways.

The nemeses nervously supervised

and peeped to glimpse adjacent progress,

anxious to beat the other at this lofty latest challenge.

Trunks and boughs were boosted in crowded quarters

with objects breaking, voices shouting, choruses of grunts

and groans, the protests of timber contorted to improbable

extremes.  Then at last twin monoliths were erected

to stand wide and straight, branches unbound —

smashing windows, crumbling ceilings, raising roofs

as they towered to full unyielding glory!

An argument immediately ensued

over whose was higher, grander, thickest . . .

the victor of a Christmas tree wrestling bout.

Two wives packed kids and luggage into matching

sedans then backed out of ruined garages

and drove in separate directions away from

a chaotic spectacle of sirens and gawpers

coming to inspect the rubble of envy and excess.


sputtered across an eave, stuttering on the left house;


blinked then fell from the gable of the right,

flashing in a heap of shattered sentiment

scattered on a walkway.

Both messages abruptly turned off,

the season’s meaning lost in a muddle of

selfish glitz and modern debris.

Michael H. Hanson


I wrote my first poetic works and had them published in my small town newspaper starting at the age of 15. I did not pen all that much work during my high school years, but I’m not unhappy with what I produced. My eldest brother had just started college and was an English major at that time. He encouraged me to experiment as a writer and find my voice.

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The Poetry:



by Michael H. Hanson

Its Christmastide and hope is near,

so close to the end of the year

when family and friends unite

to banish every fear and tear.

Long journeys end on green doorsteps

after pine trees are dragged within

and spiked cider traded for sips

and all are met like long lost kin.

Ridiculous sweaters are worn,

fruitcake endlessly re-gifted

and all sidewalks are quickly shorn

for snowballs thrown wild and wicked.

Then all pile on to flimsy sleds

and recklessly are launched down hills

defying all life’s frights and dreads

hearts pump hotly to banish chills.

At last inside we all dry off

holding mugs of hot chocolate

trading laughter with sneeze and cough.

Coralie Rowe


Coralie Rowe started writing poetry in early 2014 and has had twenty poems published in five different anthologies, with three more to be published soon. She is a stay at home mum, who believes reading her child so many nursery rhymes has infected her own brain.

The Poetry:


Christmas is coming

Really?… is it that time of the year again

Are you sure? Because I feel I am going insane

Really? … I think you must be lying

I just can’t believe it… can’t I just keep denying

Though I know I cannot deny the decorations

Appearing in all of the usual locations

Supermarkets, homes and of course Facebook

I cannot deny it, no matter how hard I try not to look
I am nowhere near ready, can’t it be another date

I’m sure my 5 year old won’t realise it’s late

I have one gift for her, that’s all I have gotten

Do I dare tell her… that Santa must have forgotten

Christmas is meant to be about family and love

But those damn adverts in my child’s face shove

All those things that Santa will never bring

But I will still do my best to give her a little something

I will scrape and I’ll skimp, I will juggle the bills

Just to see my darling’s dreams slightly fulfilled

I love this time of year for what it’s meant to be

But I hate this time of year… for its actuality

Do I admit that I am truly feeling slightly ‘Bah Humbug’

To the point I may just go hide under the living room rug

I know I can’t avoid it, I have to accept my fate

Christmas is coming… and it is never ever ever late


Saint Nick’s Xmas List

A silvery moon hangs heavy in the night sky

Illuminating a strange image as it flies by

Casting a shadow, it lands upon your home

It magics itself inside, and then starts to roam

Heavy footfalls heard as hobnailed boots tread

The creaking of the stairs fills your heart with dread

Jolly Saint Nick is not as nice as children believe

And of certain loved trinkets from you he will retrieve

The naughtiest of children are on his Xmas list

Like little Tommy, who hit his puppy with his fists

Sarah and Jacinta, have made the list as well

All the trouble they caused with the lies they did tell

Saint Nick collects each and every horrid litte kid

And sends them up north, to pay for what they did

Who do you think the worker elves really are

They were the naughtiest children of all by far

Sent to the north pole to make presents and gifts

Working so many hours in never ending shifts

Building the toys with which they’ll never get to play

Cos jolly old Saint Nick came and took them away

Brande Barrett


Brande Barrett is a San Jose native who works primarily in photography, mixed-media, and poetry. Her haunting imagery is echoed by her themes in written word often reflecting on loss, abandonment and the fragility of life. Current work in pastels is a response to personal tragedy and attempt to overcome fear. Brande is an artist, art and ceramics instructor and poet who lives and works in San Jose.

The Poetry: 


Photography by Brande Barrett

More Photos by Brande Barrett
Available Here

Nonsense poem for Christmas

Just hanging the stocking
Hear the bells ring
Merry Christ..mass shooting
No longer shocking.

The peace of the season
Snowflakes made of ash
Now the piece in the news
More guns sold for cash.

And the loss of so many
the girls and the boys
Should we get Kevlar vests
Instead of candy and toys?

Shall we keep them all home
From school and the mall
Til they’re called overseas
With the rest of them all?

For the spoils and profits
Of old men on the boards
Who never served a war
But fattened their hoards.

So code red has changed
To run, hide and defend
Ask when this damn nonsense
And violence will end.

He needed stronger clothes

Held together threadbare
tattered remains of once proud cloth
frayed at the edges
Pulled along the seams
Stretched and worn for almost a century
pattern lost in worm holes and beetle
textile persistent yet crumbling
To soft dark dirt and the worms
From last light’s vision
memory of something
Once worn

Long shadows cast on the late afternoon
Surrendering to the dark
Last licks of sun
Weaves into bundled knits
Empty bird cages
Piled in rust and cast out
Lay open freeing the ghostly captives
Of once golden slaves
Roses browned long dead stems
Thorns twisted sharp
Wrapped through time and dust
Leaves gather and blow into corners and the
Spider continues its web.

Jerry Langdon

Jerry Langdon is a Michigander that flew south and got confused and stranded over the pond in Germany. That was in 1992. Age? You don’t care about the price of tea in China but want to know my age. Well let’s just say I would be a damned good Whiskey. I’ve been married to the one and the same for 25 years; Hey the wine is good. I love to write, and paint; also Computer Generated Art. I’ve been writing now for a good 30 years. Are we getting closer to my age yet?

Ok Seriously. I was born 1967 in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Lived 19 years around the area, until gong into the Army. I eventually landed in Nuremberg (Nuernberg), Germany. In ’92 I exitted the Army and stayed here. Long story short; Family first. I have self published 2 books of poetry so far.

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The Poetry:


Cold Turkey

The house so silent

Decked so eloquent

All in gold and red

So hauntingly dead

Bulbs and tinsel gleam

In a Christmas dream

Festively waiting

Silently waiting

Silent night,

Bloody night

Noone survived tonight

Poor Little

Billy Dangling in tree

From his feet

Wrapped all neat

In Christmas garland

Card in his hand

Daddy here and there

Daddy everywhere

Momma’s head

Stuffed like a turkey.

© Jerry Langdon 2015


Season of Love
`Tis a time to love; to give,

Don’t care much to receive.

`Tis a time to smile; to live,

No matter if I believe.

Christmas is time with family,

Time to laugh; time to play.

The season to set a smile free.

To pack the year into one day.

With luck it might snow,

Blanketting the world in white.

Spending comfort, letting me know,

Love is in the air tonight.

© Jerry Langdon 2015

Mark Allan Gunnells

Mark Allan Gunnells loves to tell stories. He has since he was a kid, penning one-page tales that were Twilight Zone knockoffs. He likes to think he has gotten a little better since then. He loves reader feedback, and above all he loves telling stories. He lives in Greer, SC, with his fiance Craig A. Metcalf.

Amazon author page

And blog

The Poetry:



By Mark Allan Gunnells

Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the trailer,

Not a creature was stirring,

Especially not Taylor.

His boyfriend Gerard

Had discovered the pic

On Taylor’s new cellphone

Of someone else’s dick.

So Taylor was strung up

By the chimney with care

From multi-colored Christmas lights

In only his underwear.

His chestnuts were roasting

Over a roaring fire,

His throat opened in a gash

By thin piano wire.

Gerard snapped a photo

And delivered it as a text

To the number that sent the dick pic

With the message, “You’re next!”

Joseph Rubas 

Joseph Rubas is the author of over 200 short stories, many nonfiction pieces, several novels, and a nonfiction book. His work has appeared in: The Horror Zine; Eschatology Journal; Nameless Digest; The Storyteller; Horror Bound Online; and many others. His short fiction is collected in Pocketful of Fear (2012) and After Midnight (2014). He currently resides with his family in Florida.

Amazon Page:

The Poetry:


Silent Snow

By Joseph Rubas


I walked last night in a snowy wood

Lost in thought and heavy hearted

I thought of someone gone before

A fleeting phantom nevermore

When I reached the summit

Of a high crested hill

I looked upon the world

And remembered her face

So kind and gentle, wizened with age

An angel beyond time and space

Though the lights will twinkle on Christmas morn

All bright and gay and full of joy

And presents shiny and new

I can think only of you

In the warm, by the fire’s glow

I sit and listen to silent snow

Ice crusts the windowpane

My lips are numb

I speak the name

Forever, now, engrained

On a slab of stone

Drifted in silent snow

On the radio a song plays

Something about Christmas

And jingle sleighs

The weather comes next

More snow, the man says

I sip coffee and watch

The fire dance

Something reminds me

Of days gone past

Love and warmth and happiness

Then the thoughts turn dark and gray

And a thought comes

A scene from the coldest day

Walking into the room

People gathered ‘round

A sheet pulled up high

Cold clay beneath

Then it hits me

I never said good-bye

The snow piles up

At the windows now

I sit by the fire

Puzzling how

The footprint, wet and cold, came to be

On my kitchen floor


In the darkness of my shadow study

A noise

I turn

But nothing is there

Only shadows

Then a hand

Cold and gray

Reaches from the darkness

As if to pray

To the god of the dead

Or the god of snow

And when the face emerges

From the shadows’ black

I scream and faint

You’ve come back

Days pass away

And it comes no more

A fever of the brain

And nothing more

On the fifth morning

I bundle and go

Into the woods

And through the snow

The grave I find

In its peaceful glen

The snow is unbroken

A nightmare then

That and nothing more

Some fancy made of grief

But the prints on the floor!

I see them as clear as day

A person’s feet

Perhaps cold as clay

In my study the curtain flutters

A draft, I say

But a phantom it may

Silent snow

Falls from the sky

In the dark of the night

I wonder why

I smell your perfume

Strong in my nose

And find in a corner

Your burial clothes

Then, in the witching hour

Swaddled in blankets

You come to me

As cold as snow

Your face, rotted and worn

Your hands

Tattered and torn

The ground is hard

Your fingers soft

You touch me

And I shudder

With terror or pleasure


In the morning light I wake

And you aren’t there

At the grave

In only my night shirt

I find you lying

Upon fresh dirt

I lie with you

Shivering in the cold

Merry Christmas

All I want, is you to hold

And as death takes me

In its grasp

I think

I hear you rasp

“Now I’m not alone”

The Poetry:

Friends of Joseph Rubas


By Aleck Peerson

Away in a manager

On a cold winter day

Silent night

As bells ring above

Christmas has come

Christmas has come

Hark, rejoice

Every man, woman, and child

Under the Son

Thinking of Christmas

By Stephen Warner

I walk’d through a snowy glen

My hands in my pockets

Thinking of Christmas again

I thought of Santa all in red

And of reindeer

And children in bed

Dreaming of toys and joy

Shiny presents

For every girl and boy

I thought of lights hung with care

Stockings and grandpa

Sitting in his chair

Telling stories of Christmases past

A pipe in his mouth

Smoked to the last

Santa is coming, they would say

And, oh, how we waited

Anxious, impatient, night and say

To hear those bells beginning to ring

Over Cleveland Street

While the carolers sing

Silent night, holy night

We wish you a merry Christmas

And to all a good night

A Visit From Santa Claus

By Mary Dorner

High atop the world

Banked in endless snow

There lives a man

You all should know

Jolly and fat and dressed in red

It’s Santa Claus

A cap upon his head

Once every year

When the night is cold

In the silence you will hear

Bells jingling, and Santa saying

“Ho, ho, ho!”

And the reindeer neighing

So hurry to bed, kiddies big and small

Because on Christmas

Santa will visit you all

Christmas in the Heart of War

By David Tillery

Bombshells and cannon-blasts

Artillery fire and mustard gas

Dead men and dying boys

Strewn about like broken toys

Night falls on this hellish land

December 25, Christmas and

From across the way

A voice starts to sing

“Silent Night”

In a German way

Though the boys in the trench

Do not understand

The words

They pick up the verse

And before long they come

Over the top

On either side

And meet in the middle

For Christmastime

They lay their arms upon the ground

Exchange gifts

And dance around

Merry Christmas

From the heart of war

Right now, we won’t kill anymore

The Krampus Song

By Joe Clarke

Krampus comes

Just once a year

Krampus comes

And now he’s here

You were bad

And you were told

Now here comes Krampus

From the cold

He’s got a face

Like a mask

Got some claws

To take you to task

Now as you lay

In your bed

Hear the footsteps

Filled with dread

And as he comes

Into the room

No one’s to blame

Except for you

Did know

That Krampus

To visit kids

Just like you

When you’re bad

He will hear

And then he’ll gut

You like a deer

Hang your head

Atop the tree

Puts your innards

In a pie

And then he’ll eat

Both your eyes

Listen now

And listen good

Listen to

Your mom and dad

Because if you don’t

And you are bad

Krampus will come

And you’ll be sad

Stop whining

You little monster

Shut your trap

And listen here

Krampus will come

Into your house

And eat your face

Like a hungry rat

So stop acting

Like a brat

Mind your peas

And dot your ques

Listen to dad

And pay your dues

Don’t act up
Ever again

Krampus knows

What you do

And he’s waiting
For a taste of you

Howard Carlyle

Hi, I have been writing poetry for over 20 years but have been writing horror/dark poetry for about 2 years now. I am 42 years old and live in York in the UK and all my horror/dark poems and short stories can be found at my website

Forgot to mention in my bio that I have also had 6 of my other horror/dark poems published this year and it always comes as shock whenever anything I write gets published.

The Poetry:  


Have A Gory Christmas
It’s that time of year again
to hang some limbs on to
the wall,
Not quite sure how many
victims have contributed..
I couldn’t count them all.
I love it when those
Christmas carolers
stand at my door and
sing a song,
but whenever I invite
them in…they never seem
to stay for very long?
This old place at Christmas
has such a joyous feeling,
As last year’s guests
rotting stinking intestines
now decorate my ceiling.
Eyeballs now hang as baubles
from my Christmas tree,
It seems that everywhere I go
those eyes keep staring at me!
I didn’t bother with a turkey this year…

that tradition seems so dead,
So cooking in the oven right now
is old Mr Kennedy’s head.
I might invite some friends
this year to share all this
lovely food,
then afterwards play
Russian roulette….I’m sure
that would lighten the mood.
Then when the party is over
and all the fun’s been had,
we’ll raise a glass to toast the
fact that I really am quite MAD!
© Howard Carlyle 2015.

Merry Christmas and a Gory New Year.

Andrew D. Blacet

Andrew D. Blacet is a modern day poet in the tradition of classic poets like e.e. cummings and Dylan Thomas. His stream of consciousness prose cuts like a razor blade. His current book of poetry, The Occupant of the Ditch and Other Poems is available now on Amazon.

Click Here to Purchase

The Poetry:


Work by Sorell Matei

I sang to you where you crouched, huddled under the creeping dunes, your white bones bathed in the grist of epochs. In my heart, I felt you, silently listening, motionless as gravity, alert to the agitation of a single molecule. Alone and invisible, you sank deeper into yourself, your earthen shoulders hunched, a homunculus of mulch, your nerveless back massaged by the flat of a shovel, the hooves of a grazing deer. Tracking time in accretion disks and the shapes of root-nests, stop-motion or time-lapse footage of you crawling through dirt, the blood clot collapsed in the vein, the needle, stuck in the arm of the corpse. Above you, dancing mandrakes of sedge and wild roses bend their stalks to listen. I sang without words, without voice, as a hand reached up and hushed the sun. For a breath I was sure you had answered in the tongue of a seagull, offshore. Walking home under the trestle at midnight I thought I glimpsed you, lounging in shadow, suspended in a hammock of moonlight. I laid my hand on the timber frame and felt you shiver, shedding moon-fire and the sorrowful thrill of a night bird. Pouring my lungs to a low-flying cloud, you replied with a steam whistle; the train, counting the length of miles between cities, faded. I sang, counting light years, the distance between the living and the dead, and felt your hand in mine.




A.D. Blacet
I sang to you where you crouched, huddled under the creeping dunes, your white bones bathed in the grist of epochs. In my heart, I felt you, silently listening, motionless as gravity, alert to the agitation of a single molecule. Alone and invisible, you sank deeper into yourself, your earthen shoulders hunched, a homunculus of mulch, your nerveless back massaged by the flat of a shovel, the hooves of a grazing deer. Tracking time in accretion disks and the shapes of root-nests, stop-motion or time-lapse footage of you crawling through dirt, the blood clot collapsed in the vein, the needle, stuck in the arm of the corpse. Above you, dancing mandrakes of sedge and wild roses bend their stalks to listen. I sang without words, without voice, as a hand reached up and hushed the sun. For a breath I was sure you had answered in the tongue of a seagull, offshore. Walking home under the trestle at midnight I thought I glimpsed you, lounging in shadow, suspended in a hammock of moonlight. I laid my hand on the timber frame and felt you shiver, shedding moon-fire and the sorrowful thrill of a night bird. Pouring my lungs to a low-flying cloud, you replied with a steam whistle; the train, counting the length of miles between cities, faded. I sang, counting light years, the distance between the living and the dead, and felt your hand in mine.

Lemmy Rushmore

Poet and author Lemmy Rushmore has a new book out with James Ward Kirk, Niall Parkinson (author/illustrator), and John D. Stanton (cover design) called Between the Walls in paperback and Kindle. Now available on Amazon.

Click Here to Purchase

The Poetry: 


I’ve completed my list

and I’ve proof read it twice

it’s a list of a few

something other than nice

‘neath the flickering lights
to the holiday sounds
everyone I shall see

as I’m making my rounds

I’ll see this one for that
I’ll see that one for this

but so thorough I’ll be

and not one single miss

there’s no sleigh I might ride
just a Buick instead

but I’ll still find my way

like by Rudolph I’m led

like the saint that I am
oh such gifts I shall bear

and the part I shall look

with the red suit I wear

while the stockings are hung
while it’s quiet and still

like a plague I’ll go forth

with a strong urge to kill

I shall shop till I drop
and I’ll chop and I’ll chop

but till each one is had

there’ll be no thought of stop

with an ax I shall call
as they lie in their beds

and I’ll finish the night

with a sack full of heads…

I’ve been hanging the lights
And I’ve been trimming the tree
Till it seems all is in place
For that Christmas to be

There’s a sleigh on the roof
And there’s a wreath on the door
And seems the front yard now serves
As the manger and more

All the gifts have been wrapped
And all the stockings are hung
All the garland is draped
And all the popcorn is strung

Both the wee ones now sleep
With grandest thoughts in their heads
Tucked in snug as a bug
Within their warm cozy beds

It would seem all is in place
For that Christmas to be
But it just won’t be the same
Since you’re not here with me…

Jaye Tomas


Jaye Tomas has “scribbled” all her life but found her audience growing hugely after she created her Chimera Poetry blog.

Her first Book, “Nocturnes” was very well received and the second book, “Carnevale”, was published in September 2015 and has been very successful.

Her next book “What Lies Beneath” is planned for release in early 2016.

Jaye loves all things bookish and has a minor obsession with hedgehogs.

Originally from Chicago, she is currently residing in the UK but has begun to cast her eyes in other directions. “The beauty of the story, she says, is in the journey, not the arrival.”

Where can you find the Elusive Jaye?


Books by Jaye Tomas available at –

Carnevale at Barnes & Noble:

Carnevale at Amazon:

Nocturnes at Amazon:

Amazon UK:

The Poetry


One After Another ~

It was a very cold night in December
and the room I huddled in leeched heat out through a thousand hidden cracks
and my handwriting shivered with me as I wrote out the letters
one after another
and another
and another.
I thought once I heard a clock chime
but other than the scratchings of my pen
the seedy room was silent.
I was losing the night faster than my ink could flow
and the morning would find me
spent like the straggling strips of wallpaper hanging in the damp closets.
This I knew
and still I scratched on
one after another
and another
and another.
My Yuletide greetings,
my stir up as it were,
each one carefully blotted
folded carefully with the most perfidious of kisses
and bearing the wax seal of the deepest,
oldest curse
and sent
into the flames
rising red eyed and glowing
on the hot updraft.
The recipients would get them with the first fresh north wind of the morning
they wouldn’t know exactly what they had received
until later….
much later.
Another cold night in December.
Another scratching pen
and a thousand shivering nightmares
being born
exulting on the malevolent hot air as they rise
one after another
and another
and another.


Billie Sue Mosiman

The Spirit of Christmas

Fox Fire ~

Light the stones with candles and let the dark lift from the night.
Let the frostspell hold fast the fox women,
confine them in their burrows,
just for this moment.
Let the departed hear
the poems handed into the dimmet,
like fairy coins,
like pebbles in a wishing well.
Let them once more join
in the spinning of
this spiders web of remembrance.
Warm the moss and granite with wax and golden tapers
let the holly and spruce scent the air
and the sweet straw sway with the breath
of the gathered,
keeping the grey cats away
until midnight shatters the frost.
And the fox fires light up the skies
with a plume of snow,
and the vixens once again ride to the nighthunt,
crimson mouths gleaming in the guttering light.
While the candles on the stones flicker,
and vanish.



Anthony Servante here to thank you for visiting this Christmas season. Please be sure to thank our contributors to the poetry column this year by leaving a comment below. I hope our visitors become our contributors in next year’s column. The door to the Servante of Darkness Blog is always open to friends and fiends alike. So, sharpen your dark poetry and light poetry and let me have a look at it throughout the year. Always room for one more.




About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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