POETRY BY DAVE JEFFERY

Dave Jeffery is the author of 18 novels and novellas, two collections, and numerous short stories. His Necropolis Rising series and yeti adventure Frostbite have both featured on the Amazon #1 bestseller list. His YA work features the Beatrice Beecham supernatural adventures. Jeffery is also the creator of the A Quiet Apocalypse series which has received worldwide critical acclaim.

Actively involved in the Horror Writers Association (HWA), Jeffery is a mentor on the HWA Mentorship Scheme for which he was awarded Mentor of the Year in 2023, and he is also co-chair of the HWA Wellness Committee.

HOUSE OF SHAPES

In the forest lies the ruin,
a house etched; black against green, and the great oaks bear witness,
to a past as twisted as the wrought iron gates
that embody the boundaries of a demise.

Foundations lay bare,
where fern and flower smother buckled boards,
infrastructure a perfumed skeleton, once home to poisoned privilege,
now good nesting for a different kind of rodent.

Nothing to be seen of blood, or despair,
The true essence of this place,
Is masked by the chitter of birdsong, and the breeze as it tousles foliage and canopy, wanton and without limits, new masters of this old home.

More sounds come, new layers to the din, casual talk, and laughter,
brings the flurry of feather, the crackle of undergrowth,
and carefree spirits in search of peace, nature works its charm, banishing the weight of the world, a weekend in the wilderness.

Footsteps on the trail, take to the air,
and become more than movement’s wake, they are now a rite of passage, the inspiration for the house to return to former glory,
A great trap baited and waiting to receive.

Groans and moans, the complaints of stiffened beams stirring from sleep,
Refashioned with the hiss of sand and rasp of stone
Puddles of glass, become chandelier tears, weeping with cruel joy,
This house of shapes reanimates, keen to welcome prey fashioned as guests.

Now to the fore, restored to spit and splendor,
the house calls to dark fate,
and the storm clouds gather, shelter sought from sudden fat raindrops and whirling wind.

And here it is, temptation in the tempest,
comfort comes in promises:
Images of steaming hot baths, and feasts fit for kings and queens,
yet all food is bait, waiting and eager.

A thunder crash, a squeal
and lightning splashes lashing rain, a door opens up the desire of sanctuary,
pulling forward the unwitting
as lamplight brings alive dead windows, beguiled with drapes of false promise.

Decision made, four souls seek respite across the threshold,
Their flavors savored upon the tongue of plush hallway carpets, 
The house is courteous; grateful for their company and the vile pleasure they bring, and it starts with the screams but, ever the host, it closes its doors behind them.
Its lips sealed.

Pain sustains, bright like a summer sun,
but warmth never reaches the house’s cold cellar of a heart,
as life wains so does the will to keep shape and sated for a while
it gives in until others come to give into it.

The birdsong returns, the clouds drift, unruffled and heavenly,
A fawn snuffling through leaves and detritus,
its heart at ease,
simplicity is its own reward.

In the forest lies the ruin…

PATIENT “M”

I am
a patient man,
I have no quarrel with hours, days, weeks, years,
You know, the usual things that the reckless fear
I am…
Considered,
Unhindered by the constraints of the here and now.

This place
In which I must save face is
By and large testament to my convictions,
the walls
scrawled with line after line,
the passage of time etched,
as a narrative to despair.

They watch
me,
I know they are there
Feel their stare; relentless and clinical as they
seek and study the despicable
in every nuanced moment.
Trying to
Trip me up
To expose what is going on
Inside a mind that
considers so many strange yet beautiful endings.

So here
I shall look past
one-way glass, beyond coarse concrete and sleek screens
to a world that is perfumed with smoke and the broken promise of love.
But not yet,
Not yet,
I shall sit in the silicon silence of scrutiny and judgment, waiting.
Waiting.

For I am
a patient man…

TINY FEET

The pitter-pat of tiny feet,
Coming as I fall to sleep,
Then at once I’m awake,
Tim tells me he has tummy ache.

With a groan I’m sitting up,
Rankled by all this fuss,
When a terrible truth begins to grow,
We buried Tim three days ago.