Peter Steele is the May Featured Poet
Please feel free to visit Peter at: vs005u3305@blueyonder.co.uk
THE MIDNIGHT STAGE
The night was stormy and bitterly cold.
The coachman cracked the whip in his fist.
From out of the dark the midnight stage rode,
Shrouded in a blanket of emanating mist.
The stage was silhouetted against the hilltop boldly.
I could hear the horses’ frantic, rhythmic pace.
Icy wind ran down their spines so coldly
And hail beat painfully against their face.
From beneath a clock a skeletal face glimmered,
Rotted, weather-torn and overwhelmingly old.
The raindrops on the coachman’s hand shimmered
Has the stage journeyed on down destiny’s road.
Manifestations lurked in the shadows,
Playing hide and go seek all through the night.
When will this journey end, who knows?
And then, lightning blinded my sight.
The witching hour was three quarters done—
The graveyard clock said so.
I could see that the ghosts were having fun.
In through the gates the stage did go.
Up along gravel path the surreal stage sped,
And then the coachman pulled hard on the reins.
Watching on were the damned souls of the dead,
And their rotten faces bore a grimace of pain.
The coachman jumped down and opened the door.
His rancid hand grabbed and held me tight.
He dragged me out and across the floor.
His cadaver face was truly a ghastly sight.
I wondered aimlessly at his game,
While through the graveyard we did tread.
He showed me a gravestone that bore my name!
Then grinned and croaked, “You’re dead!”
I quivered uncontrollably with fright,
Wondering if this could be real.
The night was lit by a flash of light,
And the one o’clock bell did peel.
UNCLE GEORGE IS DEAD
Our ever so sweet
Uncle George passed away
At ten o’clock
Only yesterday.
His body lies inside a beautiful coffin
Which is tucked away in the back room.
It won’t be long
Until he is sealed in his tomb!
Oh, sweet uncle George. . .
How we all hated him!
And very soon now,
We will cremate him.
We just can’t
Wait for the day,
So we can watch
His ashes blow away.
We all had a joke
And then went to bed.
We all kissed the coffin and whispered
Excitedly, “Uncle George is dead!”
I lay awake in bed that night
And marveled at the full moon.
Then, I thought of uncle George’s wealth.
It will be ours. . . soon!
I fell off to sleep
But woke at 3 AM, in fear.
A very peculiar tapping sound
I could hear.
Its eerie tempo sent a chill
Through all of my hairs.
I came to the conclusion
That the tapping was coming from downstairs.
So, I got out of bed
And went in search of it!
As I strolled into the lounge,
I sensed I was close to it.
The back room—
It had to be.
I plucked up the courage
And went to see.
On the table, before my eyes,
Lay the casket,
With the corpse of uncle George
Concealed within it.
My nerves were alive
Because what I discovered was shocking.
From uncle George’s coffin,
Came the knocking!
It would seem the poison
Had not done him in!
Through the window on the lid,
I could see his desperate grin.
And I could also see
Those evil eyes,
The ones we had all
Come to despise!
“Uncle George. . .
You can scream and shout,
But I am never
Going to let you out!”
Tomorrow is the
Beautiful day
When uncle George
Will be taken away!
Morning. . .
Nine o’clock in the morning,
And the hearse pulled up out front.
We all acted broken-hearted
And looked so innocent!
Uncle George. . .
The infamous star,
Was locked into
The back of the car.
Our minds were filled
With merry bliss.
We all smiled to ourselves
And sealed his end with a kiss.
At the crematorium. . .
We all strolled casually in
And each took up a seat.
We all relaxed and got ready
For yet another repeat!
On the rollers
Perched the coffin
With the corpse
Of sweet uncle George within.
The coffin slowly ascended
Towards the door,
Through which so many George’s
Had passed before.
Our eyes lit when the coffin
Was engulfed with flames,
And destroyed the only evidence
Of our sweet games!
We all sighed
Because it was such a relief.
And in a single act of merriment,
We all pissed on his wreath.
Our tears were of joy,
Not from a heart that has bled.
But total joy. . .
Uncle George is dead!
We all went home
And had the time of our life.
Passionately, we made love
To each other’s wife.
HALLOWE’EN (TRICK. . . OR TREAT?)
The dead are getting restless—
I can see it in your eyes,
And feel the ground beneath me move
As hands begin to rise.
Such long, rotted faces,
Belonging to anguished cries.
Long, twisted fingernails
Gouge out your evil eyes.
Time has no meaning
For the faces so long gone.
Decayed smiles
And from white eyes, madness shone.
Death has long since rotted
But he left a few behind.
And you will cry for madness
When their teeth chew on your mind.
It is only the coffin
That keeps us apart.
And six feet of ground
That covers your heart.
Hallowe’en—cast your spell.
“Sweets to the sweet!”
A twisted mouth leers
And yells “trick. . . or treat?”
You might think I’m joking
But Sam Hain will set them free.
At midnight, look out your window—
It’s not insanity!
They are hiding in the garden,
Making a stupid sound.
They will show no mercy,
A way out, they have found.
You will hear them knocking
On your old front door.
Open it with caution
Because only death knows for sure!
Don’t look in the mirror
Because there’s no reflection there;
Just a bright white skull;
No flesh, no eyes, no hair.
It is only the coffin
That keeps them at bay.
A silver coin for Charon—
The toll you must pay.
Hallowe’en—shades of Hell.
“Sweets to the sweet!”
A twisted mouth leers
And yells “trick. . . or treat?”
Peter Steele was born on November 5, 1961 in Gloucester, England. He started writing at the age of fourteen and has succeeded in getting extracts from his books, short stories and poems published in over 150 anthologies. He has also written three horror novelettes entitled Cannibal killer, Cloven Hoof—Mark Of The Devil, and Demon Slayer; a collection of short stories entitled 24 Tales Of Darkness and three collections of dark horror poems entitled A Primeval Child, A Thought From The Dead and Anarchy In Hell, all of which are available in Kindle on Amazon.com and on Mobipocket in Europe.
Peter is the recipient of The American Biographical Institute’s Golden Academy Award and Gold Medal of Honour. His biography has been featured in many biographical “Who’s Whos” such as The International Authors & Writers Who’s Who, Men of Achievement, International Book of Honour, and others. He has been short-listed twice for the Forward Prize. He also creates his own artwork that appears on his book covers and album sleeves.
In addition to writing and art, Peter is also a composer, songwriter, musician and live entertainer. His albums include Alienator, Andromeda, Ectoplasm, Utopia, Phantasmagoria, Automaton, Omega, Ancient Realms, City Of The Dead, and many more, all available in MP3 on Amazon and iTunes.