Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Midnight's Mother

Midnight's Mother

Few things I hold as sacred and valued as the moon. 

Less than most, I hold her close for I am not immune.

Infectious is her splendor, timeless her surrender, lovely is her presence, to bask in rays of pleasance.  

Softly drifting in midnight's sky, she-no doubt, meets watchful eye. 

Delightful is this silver wonder, to gaze at her turns hearts to thunder. 

Precious mother of stone and water here, on earth, I am your daughter. 

In days I wither to see your face, to hold and feel your cold embrace. 

Oh mother moon why must you go? Why can't our time be less than slow?

For tears are shed at your depart, painful shatter - lovers heart.

Until we meet at days last breath, I slumber most but wake in death.

For when your darkness harkens me, from death, I walk to be with thee.

-Faith Serafin

Friday, January 18, 2013

The 19th Day of the First Month of the Year

The 19th Day of the First Month of the Year

Born in Boston - the 19th day of 1809, or so they say.

In childhood abandoned by father’s place and lost a majestic mother’s grace.

Torn apart, his mind and soul, his love of writing was beyond control.

Gracefully, from callused finger, spilled words to parchment the stories weirder.

By midnight’s candle he did abide and spoke of death and love divine.

Annabel Lee – she was a child, and he a child, that loved with great love in a kingdom by the sea.

From The Raven, he was plunged, to stars in heaven, from which she hung.

But death would take her, his Annabel Lee, no hanging stardom would set her free.

Upon death’s cold breath he waited some, until the life died from her lungs.

Forgotten hope and darkness’ slave, she will linger - in the grave.

Abandoned life and melancholic rage, again he turned to pen and page.

What would bring him more delight, but to a fall from grace this cold dark night?

The proverbial effigy of literary fear, he became, within the year.

With darkness crept - his ghostly shadow and more than not his faith was hallowed.

Though spent from remorse and self destruction, he could not release his own mortal sin.

From Spirits of the Dead came clear his tale, of spectral forces beyond the veil.

Graced by muse and the dead perhaps, no two stories would overlap.

Wicked in thought, his concepts they came, only to defend his self as sane.

A Tell-Tale Heart of murder so true, that even your conscious can’t best the devil in you.

A Black Cat - told a tale of best friends, in Pluto he found, more than in men.

But it would be wise, if remembered so well, his loss and love perplexed him in hell.

Beyond his thought he pressed the page and became the mystical, literary mage.

Inspirations' frail hand, so pale and so cold, gave no warmth to this spirited soul.

His voice now forgotten, his pen now silent, his mind is now quiet and no longer violent.

In October, on the 7th day, he left without reason or knowing the way.

And since the fall of 1849, the Seraphim’s cry at the stroke of past nine.

For the masters death came as no surprise, but a heart ache will forever be part of his demise.

A cloaked and dark figure visits his grave, roses and cognac respectfully paid.

Sleep well now Poe, for your readers are well kept, in sweet gentle darkness we humbly respect.

~Faith Serafin

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Samhain Spirits (For my dearest sister Nicola)

Samhain Spirits

~dark some night and black as pitch~

~bringing forth the winter witch~

~in moons pale light the candle flicker~

~burning of the man of wicker~

~spirits fly from ancient graves~

~to find their way through ghostly maze~

~the Samhain Sabbath upon us now~

~forgotten magic this night we bow~

~Faith Serafin
(original publication by Faith Serafin from October 2012)

Crows in the Mist

Crows in the Mist

A matter of heart, floats on a wind like a feather.

The chill of a memory, as cold as the weather.

Locked tight away, down deep without cause.

An emotion not seen but felt like sharp claws.

The purpose of smiling is only for show.

The torment of knowing, a crushing hard blow.

If ever a love was as faithful as this, then why must it fade, like crows in the mist? 

-Faith Serafin

Creeping Shadow

Creeping Shadow

Creeping shadow tall and black.

A frightful chill upon my back.

A hooded figure with sharpened claws.

A relenting fear you always cause. 

Let me be - Oh deathly beast, for my soul is not to feast.

In denser night I run to hide, though still and silent you always find. 

Where do you hide when darkness falls, when blackness calls and creatures crawl?

No matter place, nor time, nor space, the reaper’s hands do dark embrace. 

A dead man sits upon a horse, warning you to heed the course.

Upon the wings of devils flight, the goblins plunder souls tonight.

Don’t let the shadow draw you close, for hungry demons would enjoy you most.

-Faith Serafin