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Ed Blundell

The February Selected Poet is Ed Blundell

Please feel free to email Ed at: edblundell@talktalk.net

Ed Blundell

UNDEAD

You lie like a ghost in your fevered bed,
And dark devil dreams chase through your sweet head,
Phantoms and demons with eyes that blaze bright,
Teeth stained with blood from the feast of the night.

Your sleeping is fitful, you cannot rest,
Your hands crawl like spiders across your breast,
They stroke your soft throat, they push back your hair,
Revealing the marks of the vampire there.

You rise and you open the window wide,
The air of the damp night rushes inside,
Bats swoop swiftly in the light of the moon,
And I sense your master is coming soon.

You are of the undead, he taints your blood,
I can do nothing, I wish that I could.
I hold the sharp stake, to plunge in your breast,
To kill you, to free you, to give you rest.

MISSED

The mist rolled down the moorland side,
Dulling and cloaking the way,
A shroud of cloud and murkiness,
Sombre and empty and grey.

The farmers in the village
Gave up their work for the day,
Gathered in the village inn,
To pass their time away.

One old man told the story,
His father told him as a child,
About a creature of the mist,
Savage and vicious and wild.

Shapeless, formless like the mist,
From a time before the flood,
It came out of the darkness
And drained men of their blood.

One of the local farmers,
A young man too full of beer,
Laughed at the old man's story,
Dismissing it with a sneer.

Here’s silver on the table,
You know my word is good,
So double it when I return
From this night spent in the woods.

He would not be dissuaded,
Once the thought was in his head.
So to the woods he ventured,
Regardless of what they said.

They never saw the man again,
No one knew where he had gone.
He disappeared like moorland mist,
In the rays of the morning sun.

THE SCREAMER

On the twisted bridge I dream,
A face convulsed in silent scream,
Terror trapped amidst the mist.
Voices of despair insist,
There’s no escape, there’s no way out,
A silent, desperate shout.
The swirling mist distorts and changes,
Blurred reality rearranges,
Bridge gone, I hang outside it all,
An artist’s daubings on a wall.

Ed Blundell worked as a teacher of English, a school inspector and as Director of Education for the town of Stockport, found in the UK in the county of Cheshire.

Ed has had short stories and poetry published in over thirty magazines in the U.K. and the U.S.A. and has had a collection of his poems, “Sweet Nothings” published by Atlantean Press.

He has appeared in several horror zines including Abandoned Towers, Death Throes, Hellfirecrossroads, Lorelei Signal and Death Head Grin.