I'm really not a poet. Every now and again one pops into my head so I write it down. These are some of those poetical musings. -- Faintly
The Thing in Your Closet - 1989
by Faintly Macabre
Hello, I'm the Thing in your closet,
I'm the one that fills you with dread.
All shapeless and black,
I'm prone to attack,
'Cause you know that I haven't been fed.
Oh my yes, I'm the Thing in your closet,
With my eyes burning fiery red.
Pull your covers up tight,
For I come out at night,
No matter what Mommy has said.
How are you? I'm the Thing in your closet,
With your nightmares I often am wed.
I'm grim and I'm gray,
And I won't go away,
After bedtime stories are read.
Listen up! I'm the Thing in your closet,
As off to your bedroom you're led.
A low warning growl,
Means I'm ready to prowl,
And I'm going to get into your head.
Pardon me, I'm the Thing in your closet,
There's a frightening time just ahead.
I've sharp teeth that bite,
Once you've turned out the light,
And I'll drink up the tears that you shed.
Go to sleep! I'm the Thing in your closet,
Sometimes you might wish me dead.
Don't scream and don't shout,
Or I'll ask my friend out,
He's the Thing that Lives under Your Bed.
I'm the one that fills you with dread.
All shapeless and black,
I'm prone to attack,
'Cause you know that I haven't been fed.
Oh my yes, I'm the Thing in your closet,
With my eyes burning fiery red.
Pull your covers up tight,
For I come out at night,
No matter what Mommy has said.
How are you? I'm the Thing in your closet,
With your nightmares I often am wed.
I'm grim and I'm gray,
And I won't go away,
After bedtime stories are read.
Listen up! I'm the Thing in your closet,
As off to your bedroom you're led.
A low warning growl,
Means I'm ready to prowl,
And I'm going to get into your head.
Pardon me, I'm the Thing in your closet,
There's a frightening time just ahead.
I've sharp teeth that bite,
Once you've turned out the light,
And I'll drink up the tears that you shed.
Go to sleep! I'm the Thing in your closet,
Sometimes you might wish me dead.
Don't scream and don't shout,
Or I'll ask my friend out,
He's the Thing that Lives under Your Bed.
Do Not Call Me - March 26, 2015
-by Faintly Macabre
Do not try to call me,
Or get me out of bed.
To say they’re in a better place,
Just means that they’re still dead.
Do you mean to suggest,
That they preferred the grave?
Than staying here with those they loved,
In our family enclave?
Each day the pain is bittersweet,
The healing scar does grow.
Time pads on with kittens feet,
Yet drags when shadows low.
The pain is both a joy and curse,
To feel their loss this way,
Yet knowing that it could be worse,
As I relive that day.
I could’ve tried to love them less,
But that would’ve been a lie.
Because loving them had naught to do,
With when they chose to die.
The specter came with his scythe,
To cut away those bonds.
That kept them shackled to disease,
While Charon stilled their ponds.
Do not try to call me,
Or say you understand.
For if you do, then you belong
To this sad and lonely clan.
It helps to know you’ve thought of them,
On this anniversary,
But don’t try to dry my tears today,
Just love and let me be.
-Faintly Macabre
--- March 26, 2015
Or get me out of bed.
To say they’re in a better place,
Just means that they’re still dead.
Do you mean to suggest,
That they preferred the grave?
Than staying here with those they loved,
In our family enclave?
Each day the pain is bittersweet,
The healing scar does grow.
Time pads on with kittens feet,
Yet drags when shadows low.
The pain is both a joy and curse,
To feel their loss this way,
Yet knowing that it could be worse,
As I relive that day.
I could’ve tried to love them less,
But that would’ve been a lie.
Because loving them had naught to do,
With when they chose to die.
The specter came with his scythe,
To cut away those bonds.
That kept them shackled to disease,
While Charon stilled their ponds.
Do not try to call me,
Or say you understand.
For if you do, then you belong
To this sad and lonely clan.
It helps to know you’ve thought of them,
On this anniversary,
But don’t try to dry my tears today,
Just love and let me be.
-Faintly Macabre
--- March 26, 2015
Peonies in Heaven - June 9, 2015
-by Faintly Macabre
There’s a rusty tool by the door,
I don’t even know what it is for.
There’s weeds, and vines, and creepers, too,
I’m not sure what I should do.
There’s shovels, spades, hoes, and picks,
I’m sure the place is full of ticks.
There’s compost, mulch, and potting soil,
Hours of labor, love and toil.
There’s watering that I don’t shirk,
And weeding is some dreadful work.
There’s plants and flowers still in bloom,
One whose name begins with plume.
There’s one I know, a tiger-lily,
Another whose name just sounds silly.
There’s hydrangea bushes near the door,
And a poke weed with a stalk of lore.
There’s all of this that I’m to tend,
But each one is a dear-old friend.
There’s irises and roses here,
And wisteria, she held so dear.
There’s phlox, snowballs, and bride’s bouquet,
Some have names that I can’t say.
There’s clematis that grows up a wall,
And wild mint hides a gazing ball.
There’s ivy that winds round a tree,
Oops, dandelions, one, two, three.
There’s lilacs with their dreamy scent,
And hostas what a temperament!
There’s times she checks on how we’re farin’
Dang, did I just kill that Rose of Sharon?
There’s much here to make me smile,
And I think about her all the while.
There’s God above with His Master Plan,
Who took His master gardener, Ann.
There’s such a pain within my heart,
It’s hard to know we all must part.
There’s seasons it’s said for everything,
So I should live and laugh and sing.
There’s minutes within every day,
I stop and miss her, then I pray.
There’s love and memories that I send,
As on my aching knees I bend.
There’s a tear, a laugh, I turn off the hose,
I stop and smell proverbial rose.
There’s her voice again, like when I was seven,
Saying, “But Honey, there’s peonies in heaven.”
I don’t even know what it is for.
There’s weeds, and vines, and creepers, too,
I’m not sure what I should do.
There’s shovels, spades, hoes, and picks,
I’m sure the place is full of ticks.
There’s compost, mulch, and potting soil,
Hours of labor, love and toil.
There’s watering that I don’t shirk,
And weeding is some dreadful work.
There’s plants and flowers still in bloom,
One whose name begins with plume.
There’s one I know, a tiger-lily,
Another whose name just sounds silly.
There’s hydrangea bushes near the door,
And a poke weed with a stalk of lore.
There’s all of this that I’m to tend,
But each one is a dear-old friend.
There’s irises and roses here,
And wisteria, she held so dear.
There’s phlox, snowballs, and bride’s bouquet,
Some have names that I can’t say.
There’s clematis that grows up a wall,
And wild mint hides a gazing ball.
There’s ivy that winds round a tree,
Oops, dandelions, one, two, three.
There’s lilacs with their dreamy scent,
And hostas what a temperament!
There’s times she checks on how we’re farin’
Dang, did I just kill that Rose of Sharon?
There’s much here to make me smile,
And I think about her all the while.
There’s God above with His Master Plan,
Who took His master gardener, Ann.
There’s such a pain within my heart,
It’s hard to know we all must part.
There’s seasons it’s said for everything,
So I should live and laugh and sing.
There’s minutes within every day,
I stop and miss her, then I pray.
There’s love and memories that I send,
As on my aching knees I bend.
There’s a tear, a laugh, I turn off the hose,
I stop and smell proverbial rose.
There’s her voice again, like when I was seven,
Saying, “But Honey, there’s peonies in heaven.”