Three Poems
LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Hallowe’en Window Painting
Ghosts rise, my brush broad-stroking outdoor glass,
The store already closed, fluorescents on,
Illuminating my half-finished sketch.
Stray skeletons, masked witches, pumpkin kings,
All smiles and hope, parade down bat streaked blocks,
Embracing trick-or-treat bags — pirate’s loot.
Despite my weariness, my brush takes flight,
Creating doors that open to a reign
Of orange bliss just harvested: plump yams,
Carrots, spaghetti squash. A scarecrow smirks,
His jack-o-lantern head lit, menacing
Owls, bellowing harsh candlelight. Unnerved,
I freeze, aware I’m not alone, about
To curse the closed mouth sky, providing no
Clues where this strange farm lies — nor how to leave.
Sly skeletons, loud witches, pumpkin kings
Approach, aggressive country primitives.
My horsehair brush is weaponized, collects
Enough white tempera to cover each one,
Obliterating malefactors with
Ruthless efficiency. Strong stubborn winds
Convey me to a secret corridor
That’s underneath the Brooklyn store where I
Was working on my mini masterpiece —
Completed in my absence. Can it be?
A painted scarecrow meets my eyes and winks.
A Sleepy Hollow Harvest
— Inspired by Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"
Clashes with spectral hussars oft retold
By superstitious idlers keep doors locked
In Sleepy Hollow after suppertime.
October’s harvest beckons thieves. We prowl
Lush farms, wheelbarrows hidden in the woods.
A jack-o-lantern moon illuminates
Gold grinning gourds, arousing appetites.
Ideal for tasty pies or windowsills,
Pumpkins pump cash into our patched pockets.
If thefts are noticed, we’d blame that horse-ghost —
Or Raven Rock’s forlorn white-gowned vexed wraith,
Who haunts the dark glen where she froze to death.
Our local drunkards keep wild myths alive,
Explaining how a Hessian warrior,
Who fought alongside Brits, caught cannonfire.
Entombed without his skull, this German ghoul
Continues searching, mounted on his steed.
“Believe your eyes and ears,” my father said,
“Instead of old wives’ tales. Dead men lie still.”
Yet I confess I’d hesitate to be
Alone within view of such restless graves —
Especially tonight, All Hallow’s Eve.
With loaded sacks of fresh-picked plundered gourds,
We make our way to where we hid the cart,
Aware of hidden eyes observing us.
Fruitbats screech, scything mournful autumn skies.
Shushed evergreens’ tips whisper “witching hour.”
Deserted greensward. We’re defenseless here.
Treetops are rustling spectral rapture: hooves.
Our brains jump their calm borders, go insane.
Damp forest floor seeps wet death through our bones.
A galloping gigantic man appears,
Wrapped in a cloak and military wear.
His head’s on the protruding saddle horn.
We three disperse as fright ignites my speed.
A distant silhouette of homes greets me.
Tomorrow I’ll discover my friends’ fate.
Removing muddy boots, I’m now aware
This unnatural creature’s real enough.
Dracula Plans His Hallowe’en Soiree
Near Hallowe’en, routine tension sets in.
Expected entertainment, catering,
Décor: a bachelor like Dracula
Tries to outdo last year’s event — though some
Attended by mistake and won’t return.
Tradition dictates hospitality’s
Essential to his kind. Longevity
Must be preserved. Drinks are but one concern.
His entourage deserves to be amused.
Instead of necks turned red as after-birth,
Refreshments can be served by a blood bank,
Thanks to a generous donation made.
Exquisite concentration on details
Is a tourniquet for his unquiet mind,
Obsessed with real estate, castle upkeep,
Demands imposed by vamphood’s life-in-death.
His party plans completed, its checklist ticked,
The Transylvanian lord licked his lips,
Succumbed to tempting pleasure-crested pricks.
Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo (she/her), a four time nominee for The Pushcart Prize, has also been nominated for Best of the Net, Balcones Poetry Prize, an Ippy, a Firecracker Award, the Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars. In 2023, "Vampire Ventures" & 2 other books were published. She is an October Scorpio who never checks her g-mail account.