A Tribute to the Greenman

Beautiful man, with solemn stare.

A ravens envy of coal-black hair.

With eyes that burn, and pierce the veil an entrancing green - hypnotic spell.

A voice like space - dark and deep.

A stature of Steele - over 7 feet.

His mind was burdened, but his conscious clear.

The summer-lands called him in his 48th year.

A love loss we suffered, a tragedy spent, our hearts were so heavy, but tears would relent.

Our memories live on with Pete at the helm.

Traveling oceans of Gothic realms.

In a Brooklyn garden of mortar and stone.

He sleeps for awhile but isn't alone.

Lovers adore and shadow his grave.

Pumpkins and candles cover his name.

The Ratajczyk crest marks his family plot.

To honor and love you, to not be forgot.

  Happy Birthday Peter, you are loved eternally. 

 

In honor of my first love, Peter Steele. You are missed everyday we can't spend with you. Rest well my dear.

Never doubt what you do not see.....

Contradictions of faith start with the acknowledgement of your worth.

When you build a belief on the concept of reality,

you close yourself out to the dreams and visions of the world you do not see.

Too see those dreams, opens your mind to the vastness of infinite possibilities.

 

-Faith Serafin

The Friendship Tree

The Friendship Tree

It starts by chance or intention, a seed of friendship.
Planted well in life giving soil and abundant rain to help it grow.
At first, a funny and oddly growing sprout.
Tended and tendered with affection.
A gentle plant grows with each and every day.
Bringing about appreciation, accomplishments, laughter, and smiles.
From time to time a tear or unfortunate means may postpone the growth.
Sometimes a scar can be overcome with unconditional care.
Still the tiny plant grows.
Separation is not a matter of forgetting but more a matter of circumstance.
Still the blooms come about.
Lovely in color and fragrant are the blooms.
But one may be stunted and need to be pruned.
Establishing the roots of a sturdy and well balanced trunk.
A thick ring of life spills out from the care and love given over time.
Branches grow strong.
Leaves cover the adoring tree of friendship with multiple colors.
Spreading itself widely across other life forms to help structure and grow.
At times, in coldness, the tree sheds many leaves.
With time, the dormant life returns and once again, brings new growth.
Returning season after season with more spectacular wonder.
Over time, through storms and environment, branches sever and are lost.
However, a few hearty branches, weather every bad storm.
Diligently cared for, the purpose is to sustain the tree, but not all it’s branches or blooms.
A withstanding tree now withered with age.
Even a dying tree can bring about new sprouts from good roots.
It’s life, over hundreds of years has grown, entertained, provided, shaded, adored, loved, lost, removed and more importantly persevered and lived to it’s greatest potential.


Moral: Friends will always come and go. Very few last a lifetime. What you take away from your friendships and relationships are your life lessons.

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

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

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