March-May 2018

The poems  “Wolfish,”  “What’s in the Attic” and “Re-Possessed”, were posted in three by 3  December 2012-February 2013,  September-November 2015, and June-August 2013, respectively. All will be published by The Horror Zine (http://www.the in their June 2018 issue. (Obs. “What’s in the Attic” was edited before submitting. The revision is posted below).  




Critters caught off guard–
then, one, two, three…
we’re as hungry as wolves can be–
which should give the shepherd
something to stew over
once it dawns on him
who sheared down
his flock.

Such goodness on the hoof
standing out
oh so soft and white
under the moonlight
makes them clearly
much more appealing
than any holed up hares,
harder to snare, tough to eat.
There’s also a corral around them,
obliging outsiders
to either leer longingly,
or find a gate
which can be pawed open
without raising a bleat.


“Brute evil’s out there,”
the shepherd bellows
while stomping his staff.
“See how it fared
during the dread of night,
disguised as darkness,
invisible to the innocent.”
He calls us sly devils,
even though we’re wolves
specialized in cunning.


Hiding behind a hedge
listening to his mad mouthing,
we’re far too full
to howl out who’s wrong.
Meanwhile, on branches,
early birds´re chirping and singing.
What music for our forked ears–
enough to lull us
into lying low for a while,
counting fewer sheep
to fall asleep.


What’s in the Attic?


One small, bare window
above the rafters,
under the roof,
lets all the light in.
During the day it comes
from sunbeams. At night,
starbright and moonglow.

Boxes, stacks, piles
of something or another
have their place.
So does a door
the size of a hatch,
which opens up,
slams shut…

Now you appear with more to store.
Not much room left?
Shelves are full, space is tight,
air cluttered with ghost dust.
Time to cleanse the attic?
It´s long overdue.



By dawn any vampire still prowling around
                                                 is as good as doomed.
It’s his turn to run scared, faster than the speed of daylight,  
                                                 toward an abandoned graveyard…

The name on the gate belongs to a family that lived
                                                high and mighty in yonder castle.

He’s their last of kin— has been since the serfs went
                                                 on a rampage, breaking in,
                                                           looting, armed with knives
                                                                     and scythes.

Hiding in the cemetery saved him. An angel or devil had them
                                                  combing the forest, until rain
                                                             and darkness finally fell,
                                                                        ending the threat.

Then came the Count’s revenge. On moonless nights he rises
                                                   to the occasion: blazing red eyes,
                                                              hand grown claws, fanged like a bat,
                                                                         shrouded in a hooded cloak.

Some die of fright, others bleed to death. Either way appeases him.
                                                    What the serfs sowed, so
                                                               shall they reap. All of them.

His down time’s spent in a coffin. It lies low, but not buried,
                                                     under a bush by the gate…
                                                                as a whole, beyond suspicion.

Once inside, he can rest on his laurels, sleep off the craving
                                                      that drove him to drink, wake up
                                                                 feeling like a new man.

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