Moon Bound & Whitechapel

Moon Bound
A slave, chained and bound by the moon
Bringing forth an evil that’d make the Devil swoon
My bones shattered, skin teared and muscles shredded
Transformed into the beast every soul dreaded
Sitting in Whitechapel,
Contently cleaning my scalpel.
A busy night’s work,
Has brought forth a gentle smirk.
A kidney, fresh cut and fried
And my funny little games to keep me satisfied.

‘Moon Bound’ and ‘Whitechapel’ are two short poems that make up my attempt at doing some poetry for the Halloween season. ‘Moon Bound’ is about a werewolf going through the painful transformation process. ‘Whitechapel’ is from the perspective of Jack the Ripper having arrived home after committing another murder in Whitechapel. “my funny little games’ was taken from the ‘Dear Boss’ letter that claimed to be written by Jack the Ripper.

© 2018
Photo via Pixabay CC0


Lonely Hunt

Alone in the forest, breath frozen in my chest
Treading the dark wood, a night without rest
Stopped in my tracks, eye to eye with my prey
Both knowing that only one shall walk away


‘Lonely Hunt’ is a short poem from the perspective of a hunter, I tried to create a sense of unease and danger in the poem. I didn’t want it to be certain that the hunter will be the one to make it out alive.
© 2018
Photo via Pixabay CC0



Wielding the gifts of its ruthless kin
Its gift, received by all that basked in sin
Hades trails behind, jaws wide open
Swallowing whole the unworthy of being chosen
God, the judge and jury, while death dons the hood
One by one, their heads laid across the stained wood
No lambs blood will offer salvation
For the Lamb’s wrath shall see no cessation
Wondering a silent earth, emptied of the cursed and the blessed
The Pale horse and its kin will walk as one and lay to rest


‘Pale’ is the fourth and final entry in my poetry series on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and is about Death. I have had a lot of fun writing this series and it has been a worthwhile challenge. And I think that I’ll definitely want to do more poetry series in the future.
© 2018
Photo via Pixabay CC0


Southern Invaders


The Great Northern Lords, whose people we thought fit for plunder.
In our fine fur cloaks, sailed far north to split their mountains asunder.
We thought their loyalty would thaw with the snow,
But winter got colder and their loyalty did grow.

Valiantly they laid down their lives for the land of ice and stone,
While our men lay weeping, frozen to the bone.
Hastened across the violent red snow that stretched from sea to sea,
Across the makeshift graves that number more than the trees.
Clambering for our marred ships to take us to safety,
In our haste, men fell to the ice and discovered their frailty.

Upon our shores we thought ourselves safe,
Though in time they will make my daughter a waif.
They set their sails and followed us to the lands of Summer,
To make us realise our fatal blunder.
In their great bear cloaks they set out to ravage and reave,
With a vengeful fury that only the dead would believe.

Sat in my hold as they make the ground quiver,
Knocking on my gates with their vengeance to deliver.
As vermilion rivers split the ashen earth,
Northerners slaughter my men with gay mirth,
Few fallen foes, and my fumbling finest, feed the maggots and soil,
As I stare at the door, waiting for an end to this fruitless toil.
What a sorrowful choice we lords of summer did make,
From our bloodied makeshift graves, we shall never wake.


‘Southern Invaders’ is a medieval fantasy poem set in a fantasy world I’m attempting to build for a planned novel. The poem is supposed to be from the perspective of a southern Lord detailing the disastrous results of his invasion of the Northern territories.

© 2018

Photo via Pixabay CC0


On Valentine’s

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
Albert Kachellek, stands firm and tall.
Blood boiling beneath a stoic face,
The right hand determined to die with grace.

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
John May, can do nothing but bawl.
Just the mechanic with a wife is his plea,
They reply with a laugh, that drips with horrid glee.

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
Reinhardt Schwimmer, who the races had enthralled.
An optician with debt up to his eyes,
Accepts that he was destined for a bloody demise.

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
Peter Gusenberg, whose sins could no longer be numbed by the alcohol.
Men, Women, Children. Had all felt his wrath,
Now a tired man shall pay for his odious path.

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
Albert Weinshank, whose choice of coat and hat, prevented Moran’s downfall.
Capone’s hit thwarted by a similar taste in clothes,
So now Mrs Weinshank shall receive a rose.

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
Adam Heyer, counts the bricks, waiting for whate’er befalls.
The bookkeeper who was happy to look the other way,
But on this day, he has been made the prey.

On Valentine’s, seven men stand along a brick wall.
Frank Gusenberg, outlasted them all.
Fourteen bullets and yet without a second thought,
When asked by police, he proclaimed he hadn’t been shot.


A poem about the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. I realise that its nowhere near Valentine’s Day but I couldn’t be bothered to wait until then to post this. Please let me know your thoughts in the comments.

© 2018
Photo via Pixabay CC0