Art, Books, Experimental, Hauntings, Poims, short-short, Young Adult

Were I the Reflection within the Mirror

Were I the Reflection Within the Mirror

Were I the reflection within the mirror,
So skillfully,
So tastefully drawn, by time
And circumstance,
To stand erect and aloof, contemplating the contour lines
Of a face drawn and haggard
By the ravages of age.
I could dance amidst the tick-tock
Magic of days,
Wander through the empty, labyrinthine halls
Of SELF,
Scream at the lonely hours hissing by
In somnolent reverie; and wonder, oh wonder, Where truth ends,
Reality stops,
And reflective illusion takes the reigns…

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Books, Fiction, Ghosts, Poims, Public Domain, Quotes, Spiritism, Young Adult

The Silver Sixpence by Ethel Clem (?) 1905 (?)

The following poem was found, uncredited, in an edition of the book The Tower of Wye by William Henry Babcock. The book dates from 1901. This copy is inscribed to “Ethel Clem, 3-05” and a card inside proclaims “from Sophomore and Junior.” A yellowed piece of paper has the following poem written, uncredited, in shaky pencil.

The Silver Sixpence

BY

Unknown (Ethel Clem?)

It was only a silver sixpence,
battered and worn and old,
But worth to the child that held it,
As much as a piece of gold.

A poor little crossing-sweeper,
In the wind and rain all day —
For one who gave her a penny,
There were twenty who bade her nay.

But she carried the bit of silver–
A light in her steady face,
And her step on the crowded pavement,
Full of childish grace.

Straight to the tender pastor,
And, “Send it,” she said, “for me,
“Dear Sir, to the heathen children,
On the other side of the sea.”
***

I don’t believe in coincidences, nor do I think a poem such as this should be lost. If anyone knows the true authorship, let me know.

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Books, Fiction, Ghosts, Humor, Murder, Music, Poims, Short Stories, short-short, Weird, Young Adult

The Ballad of Klondike Kate

Oh the roughest young gal that you ever did see
Was a pert young lass out of Tennesee;
Who fancied finding gold was in her fate–
So she headed up north did Klondike Kate.

Klondike Kate just couldn’t wait,
Fancied findin’ gold was in her fate;
Klondike Kate was her brand new name–
She was rootin’,tootin’, scootin, shootin gold rush dame.

She went up north to the frozen land
(Was the mighty Yukon not the Rio Grande)
Was cold as ice and frozen too,
But Kate surried on cause she was tried and true.

Klondike Kate was a prospecting lass,
With a tin pan gullet and a burro ass;
She went to cities, she drank in the towns;
Klondike Kate knew her way around.

She hired a team to go with her,
Into the mountains where the gold diggers were;
But the indians said stay away from there,
“There’s a winter storm coming so you must beware!”

Klondike Kate just couldn’t wait!
Never mind the dark clouds hanging over her fate:
She lead her team of miners up the mountain trail
To a log cabin perched right on the edge of hell.

Well the wind started howling and the snow did blow
(And the men knew they had no other place to go)
Stuck in the mountains they found a shack–
But were soon gettin’ hungry caus for food they lacked!

Klondike Kate had sealed their fate!
Now huddled together for death they wait!
Gettin’ hungrier and hungrier they soon debate:
Which one of the dead would be best to eat?

Nobody knew Kate wasn’t a man,
For she glued on whiskers and called heself Dan!
In the middle of the night old Dan did rise,
While the others were asleep to give them a surprise

Klondike Kate never had no hate,
But she knew she would starve if she had to wait,
To eat her fill as they were snowed in–
And she didn’t think survivin’ was a terrible sin

One jumped up and begin to fight,
But Kate aimed the barrel and put that one right!
The other started howling and begin to moan
So Kate slit his throat to the spinal bone!

Klondike Kate never did debate,
If killing the men was or wasn’t her fate!
Of their cold blue flesh she surely ate;
All the better for her powerful hunger to sate!

Well she cut their flesh into jerky beef,
And waited and waited for a little relief;
Eventually she left that cabin of woe,
And made her way to town through the meltin’ snow.

Klondike Kate made her way to town,
As the world was turnin’ from white to brown…
And the soldiers at the fort all scratched their heads
In wonder that she wasn’t in the mountains dead!

Klondike Kate never did let on
That her menfolk companions was dead and gone.
She dropped their meat in the frozen snow…
Oh! Listen to the howlin winds scream and blow!

Now she pours the beer at the “Bucket of Grue,”
(And some say this story ain’t even true!)
But Old Kate she just a smiles and grins
That no one ever did find out that she ate them men!

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automatism, Books, Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Ghosts, Mystic, New Age, Short Stories, short-short, Spoken Word, Weird, Young Adult

The City of Dis

The City of Dis is surrounded by ice,
Freezing rivers a hundred leagues deep.
Glacial walls rise into the heavens;
The drowning man, pulled by the waves, struggles to survive.

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Books, Music, Poims, Young Adult

Only a tramp on the street,
Has known suffering and toil and pain;
Only an old bindlestiff,
Who lies drunken and soaked in the rain.
With an old sack of burlap and twine,
He carries his burdens all day;
Only a tramp on the street
Could whistle along life’s hard way.

Only a clown in the rain
Could know tragedy, heartache and grief;
As his tears spill across his red grin,
And life’s agonies test his belief.
In the sunset as children are tucked
Into sleep while the old rub their bones,
And the clown rests his head on the dust
For laughter his suffering atones.

A leper caught out in the rain,
Once grinned a cracked grin as he said:
“There’s life in these old bones of mine,
Though my body belongs with the dead.
I suffer a monstrous disease,
And my face looks a sight to behold.
But a tramp and a clown and brought me in
And I felt I was one of the fold.”

Now I’ve known me a tramp and a clown,
And a leper I’ve seen by and by,
And life’s burdens are many and hard,
And they dog at your heels till you die.
But a tramp and a leper and clown,
Have showed me a rare fortune indeed–
Don’t weep over worrisome luck,
Don’t covet the things you don’t need.
–Author Unknown

Only a Tramp on the Street (1894) Author Unknown

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Experimental, Fiction, Ghosts, Hardboiled, Hauntings, Humor, Poims, Spiritism, surreal, Weird, Young Adult

The Policeman Blew His Whistle and the Band Played On…

The Policeman Blew His Whistle and the Band Played On

(Haven’t got the music down yet. Probably sounds like it’s to the tune of “The Sailor’s Hornpipe.”)

Well I married a cadaver on a warm spring day
Then I carried my bedding all across the way
Her other husband visited to make us lunch
She said “About your philosophy, I got a hunch”

The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The policeman blew his whistle till the dream was done

Well I followed me a trio of burly men
I was wearing dirty clothing just as black as sin
Well I couldn’t see their face but they all wore hats
I threw my blanket in the alley with the cats and rats

The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The policeman blew his whistle till the dream was done

Well her husband made us chicken and he fried some fries
Then I grabbed a cob of corn but to my surprise
It had all been eaten down unto the bone
So I went into the bedroom where she slept alone

The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The policeman blew his whistle till the dream was done

Well her flesh was so cold and it was turning blue
But our day-long romance was still something new
So I rolled on over to her bandaged face
And hugged her cold, dead form in my mad embrace

The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The Policeman blew his whistle and the band played on
The policeman blew his whistle till the dream was done

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Books, Fiction, Fortean, Ghosts, Hauntings, Poims, Urban Legends, Vampires, Weird

Food for the Dead

She bloom’d, though the shroud was around her,
locks o’er her cold bosom wave,
As if the stern monarch had crowned her,
The fair speechless queen of the grave,
But what lends the grave such lustre?
O’er her cheeks what such beauty shed?
His life blood, who bent there, had nurs’d her,
The living was food for the dead!
–Author Unknown.
Published May 4, 1822
From the introduction to the book “Food for the Dead” by Michael Bell.

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