Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

Samhain



Dear sweet Diana,
Your pale silvery face
gleaming brightly and
smiling sweetly
to those souls down below.

Ghosts, ghouls, are amongst
the peaceful tombstones,
they quake with anticipation.
Given tonight, they may dance again.

They are all brown bread,
wishing the hand of time
would go anti-clockwise.
But tonight it doesn't matter,
for the door is open.

It is an odd sight,
Demons and the Fae
dancing the Milonga in
Diana full sweet graces,
and their little bonfire.

The gapes, and gawks
of the blokes amongst the
crowded carriageway.
Turn away quickly,
didn't see a thing.

The carriageway dissipates,
while the skeleton does
his bony jigs, and falls on
his bony arse.
While the black cats scampers.

Witches must hover upon their brooms,
being careful not to land upon,
the hallowed ground underneath.
The bounty of apple skins tossed,
landing in letters upon the grass.
J, M, C, and E (Just to name a few)

Jackie and Jack O'lantern
wandered in search of the party
with turnip, lit with the eternal
flame of hell in hand.
Bats flee, screech and fly. Flying away.

Diana's face, full and bright,
she is at her peak now.
Illuminating the way of the
nightly, and yearly visitors to the bone-yard
fenced in by iron black, and webbed by spiders.

Bubbling black cauldrons over a wooded fire,
warms the stew for this brisk, soul bound night.
An eerie mist flows from the rim,
the liquid inside, to the chilled aire,
magick is afoot tonight young soul.

This is only one out of many,
since the time of druids, Celts, and pagans
roamed freely in the earthly domain.
Ancient traditions, and rituals,
can still be seen tonight. Here and now.

The smouldering ashes of lonely Hazelnuts
paired with one another upon the ground,
contrasting against the shadowed,
bright yellow, orange, and red coloured leaves.

The mortals of the day, head to their beds.
Candy apple in hand. But the night is still young,
for those of night. This party is far to short,
and too much fun, for only one night a year.
Font size:
 

Submitted on May 28, 2013

1:45 min read
1 View

Discuss this Phillip Mears poem with the community:

0 Comments

    Translation

    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)

    Citation

    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:

    Style:MLAChicagoAPA

    "Samhain" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 23 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/83419/samhain>.

    Become a member!

    Join our community of poets and poetry lovers to share your work and offer feedback and encouragement to writers all over the world!

    More poems by

    Phillip Mears

    »

    January 2022

    Poetry Contest

    Enter our monthly contest for the chance to win cash prizes and gain recognition for your talent.
    8
    days
    12
    hours
    23
    minutes
    89 entries submitted — 61 remaining

    Browse Poetry.com

    Quiz

    Are you a poetry master?

    »
    The long poem “The Waste Land” was written by which poet?
    • A. C. S Lewis
    • B. Emma Lazarus
    • C. T. S. Eliot
    • D. W. H. Auden