The monster mash

Dark shaded eyes on pale faces in black and white.
Sharp teeth and claws shine the hovering full moon light,
while onix capes and ivory gowns give gloom life
to the uncomprehended children of the night.

The milky gleam baptizes hairy howling hound,
the enchanting piercing focus of femme fatal,
the unseen, arms crossed, in shades is covered in cloth,
a thirsty count with capturing sight bares his fangs,
a gilled humanoid high-fives with long webbed fingers,
all wrapped in the musty stench of rotten corpses:
mummified, brought to life or assembled from parts.

This is the ancient unholy mash of monsters,
the welcoming post card to real Halloween,
may their emo flash mob sweeten your careless dreams.

Halloween Grinch

Knock... knock...

And I open the door.

What are all these masks for?

The night is fought
by candles and lanterns
carved from vegetables
in my front porch.
Loafs of pumpkin and spice
must reach the roads end,
the perfect bait!

A spider on a web over a face,
pale olive completion with hollow screws,
a surgeon holding a plastic saw and a brace
where dripping blood was reproduced.
All huge eyes and brightened teeth,
hands extended in gluttonous cheers
begging for candy and all sorts of treats.

A cold gulf of air freed through the frame
on queue I unfold my dark heavy cape
unleashing a flash bellow a bony square chin
curated with rice powder and gin.

With blood thirst in my ruby stare
petting my hissing black cat
with the lowest voice I can set
I tower over them and declare:

"Your costumes were bought!
You cannot contain your glee!
Take some paste for your tooth
that is all that it is worth here."

Before they could piss in their pants
I turn the door shut and echoed two laughs.
Well done Simba! Let's turn off the fans
check their picture and wait for their parents.

🍃 Autumn has come

That                                                                                                           
quiet                                                                                                 
whistle...                before the tempest,                               
a strand of hair lifted with stormy sent
advertising how time certainly went
without a signal or formal request.
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You recognize the Summer has nightfall
leaving fertile the ground for renewal,
where the spring seeded wild flowers were plucked
and first bronze tan burned leaves gently glided.
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Soon our feet will crack the crispy mantle,
lemon, carrot, cerise and chocolate,
colored sounds of the past paving our path
sedimented under frequent sun bath.
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Then, freezing cotton will carpet this earth,
we'll warm hands around hot beverages
from the plants we sprouted throughout these years,
covered in adventure collected cloths.
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But I'll mention Winter when I get there,
for now I need to garden...
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_________________/ | \_________________
and                                     prepare!