Poetry ~ The Great Green Graspy!


I have a mysterious memory that rattles my mind
of a monster that came knocking at story time.

Of course, it was a stormy night, all those years ago
I was a mere child, how could I possibly know?

That an old gray man, in an old green coat,
would arrive at our door with a book he wrote.

Oddly, Mother invited him in from the storm that night
and gathered the children before dimming the lights.

Then the old gray man sat in Father’s big chair
and opened his book and said with a glare,

“Come sisters and brothers and have a seat!
There’s a new monster in town I want you to meet!”

The old man’s voice was deep and raspy
as he read the story of the Great Green Graspy!

“The monster grabs children when they talk in their sleep
and he hides them in the closet where they can’t make a peep!

The Great Green Graspy is a brittle bag of bones
with ghastly green teeth and a heart made of stone.”

“So, beware, dear children,” the gray man groaned,
“for the Great Green Graspy creeps into homes!”

“He’s particularly peculiar about children who groan
when the lights go out and they’re left all alone!

Sleep soundly dear children and beware the green glow
of the Great Green Graspy, if you groan he will know!”

When the story was over and the old man stood to leave
my eyes grew wide in disbelief!

The old gray man in the old green coat
cast a ghoulish green glow and appeared to float!

All the sisters and brothers screamed and gasped
and the old gray man began to laugh.

With his big green teeth and his ghastly green eyes
the old gray man had one last surprise!

“Tonight, dear children, when you’re tucked in your beds
if you hear a door rattle, remember what I’ve said!”

That night in our room, as we tried to sleep
the sisters and brothers didn’t make a peep.

But then next door, in Mother’s room,
Father laughed and we heard a BOOM!

The closet door slammed and Mother screamed!
Was it the Great Green Graspy!
or just a dream?

Poetry ~ The Dead Poet

I’ve met a dead poet.
I’m sure you’ve read a few, but this one haunts me.
Do they haunt you too?

I call her “Lizzie” and the name suits her well,
a Victorian Poet with a story to tell.

Her voice is distinctive, lusty, and low.
The voice of a crone who died years ago.

We collided one night as the stars realigned,
two aspiring poets, immersed in our rhymes.

She’d started a poem some eons ago,
but her ‘nary and tarry’ made the going quite slow.

So, we bickered and tinkered with rhyme and verse.
We bellowed and brawled and then we rehearsed.

The poem came forth as I took center stage,
reading aloud as the audience engaged.

As the curtain closes, let me bring this back around
and acknowledge all dead poets for their rhythm, rhyme, and sound.

As for you dear reader, beware the hauntings of the night,
when the stars realign and dead poets reunite!

Post Script:  A link to our poem here, enjoy “The Path”.