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Raven’s Night (poem revisit for this Halloween Night)

October 31, 2025November 3, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

Well, time to close out a week or so then, a week or so’s worth of creepy-esque things of mine leading up to this Halloween Night.

I had already planned on finishing up the week with this one but, as a true Halloween night might call and cliche for, it is actually wildly windy out there in this Albany, NY area right now, with unrelenting cold drizzly bone seeping wet, evident all day foreboding an extra blustery, chillingly dark night and most apropos too as it was a similar night I wrote about here, in this one, for the Raven just before he came to made famous.

The post explains a bit more but. simply, to write a prequel to a literary character’s story …

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January 24, 2024

So, at a newly found for me “Poet’s Pub” of a site, dVersepoets.com, I came across a post that had a prompt to write what it refers to as a poetic Quadrille, a 44 word poem (not including the title) but in this prompt it said you need include the word “pinch” in any way you saw fit.

This I did and it is the most recent post in the Attic here, “Don’t Pinch Me”.

Well, came across another poem prompt yesterday that asked that you write a prequel for a character from literature.

Write a poem that is a prequel to a particular character from a nursery rhyme, Aesop’s fable, book , mythology etc.

And the responses that I have read thus far to this prompt are so imaginative and colorful and haunting that I can’t wait to finish them all.

But for me, after running through a few possibilities in my head, I thought to Edgar Allen Poe and the Raven and of the Raven himself.

Raven’s Night

I am not dead nor demon to be read or written of

I implore you open your door

or window

shutter’s curtains

flitting

with welcome inside out air

and any manner of candlelit care

with which to let me see your floor

please

to just walk that floor

or even alight a door

that I implore

again

you

to open

outside no place for me tonight

in weary last vestige of now blustery light

that casts shadows that scare me from flight

and I don’t scare

for I am Raven

confused of crow brethren

curse-ed cousins

but stronger than they even as they crow foot in murder of friends

what they needs simple

with simple’s ends

while I seek a just solitude and to depart nights

now

tired of taking flight in dark

reputation

just a me to be me but I am scared of he me

and what I no longer want see

in the dim

even eve’s with path clear in crisp moonlight

but worse on nights like

these

this

this one

this night at hand

and I see your light

window

harks

a place maybe to land

and

I will make amends for this slight into

your solitude

For I am Raven

I can build things from sticks and stones

peck and grab and stab and stack and foot place just right

or even

build things from thoughts and words alone

to assist you

in candlelight

I just don’t want to flight

in dark

any longer

and

not this night

in most simple order

I just need walk a floor

or alight a door

allow

please

me bring inside

at least

for

this just

one night

The Scrapbook And The Man In The Black Fedora (Flash Fiction revisit for this Halloween Week)

October 29, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry4 Comments

And continuing with revisiting a poem or a story every day this week that fit a creepy theme as we approach Halloween. This one from a Flash Fiction prompt, August of last year.

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August 12, 2024

It’s Monday and, at the dVerse Poets Pub, we are writing Prosery, the very short piece of prose or flash fiction . It can be in any genre of your choice, but it does have a limit of 144 words; an additional challenge is to hit 144 exactly. The special thing about Prosery is that we give you a complete line or two from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, within the 144-word limit.

The complete line or two in this case are from Leonard Cohen and his poem “Take this Waltz” with the lines being …

And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss

The Scrapbook And The Man In The Black Fedora

“Hey Jaimie, check this out, just found this covered in moss behind a tree”

Presents a tattered book with dead flowers pinned to it and a warning “DO NOT OPEN”

“Well, let’s see what’s in it”

“It says not to open Billy”

“C’mon, probably just a note left by the 11 year old girl who lost it. It looks like a scrapbook”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right”

Billy opening the scrapbook finds it filled with photo’s of people and notations of the date/time of their deaths and scribbled inside the cover …

And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss

At that moment a man in a black fedora appeared.

The air stilled.

Then Billy was gone and all Jaimie caught as the fedora’d man closed the scrapbook was a quick glimpse of Billy’s picture.

Third Eye Harvest Moon (poem revisit for the season)

October 26, 2025November 3, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments

Another re-post of something for this creepy season.

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October 2, 2024

In response to Merril’s “Haunted Harvest” prompt at dVerse poets.

“You can take the themes of harvest or haunted literally or use them metaphorically in any way you wish. Harvest grain, organs, fish, or emotions; imagine the grim reaper with a scythe. Write about something that haunts you, regret, a long-ago love, thoughts of someone who has died, or actual ghosts. Explore a haunted harvest”.

You may also use the painting above “The Harvest Moon” by Samuel Palmer as inspiration.

Took a little bit of both of these ideas …

Third Eye Harvest Moon

He woke in a long field itching

of tall blades and short hungry bugs

chilled but not cold wondering of from where that single pocked light

hung high

had fell

“From my third eye” said a voice

he sudden colding and chilled now

as there was no from where for a lone voice to fall

no trees above nor craggy hills distance

far called with walls

to call back

friend or foe

score or none

to settle

or even from rock tall

smoke black

altars he may have been layed upon

in the stark

back

then

You are man are you not?

I am?

Yes, you are

Then from why where do you ask?

To see if you knew

But I just woke, food for bugs in tall grass in almost dark task

save for one light

high hung

just

right

Will you rise and pay threshed tithes

under my third eye

Why?

It is that time of harvest, of tall grasses wrapped with long blades twined

tribute

in the richness of grains

… and the harvest of souls

From why where must you have mine after such riches?

Because you are the first and quench a stronger thirst

Headstone (a gothic flash fiction video short by Stephen Murray & Frankenberry)

October 22, 2025October 24, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry3 Comments

Was talking a little while ago with good friend and co-worker, Steve, about this current spooky season, a one still more “on the way” then when we spoke and he mentioned that he wanted to build something for it, a dramatic piece of some sort, a video short, with a haunting story as well as some music, effects, images and, of course, said story that he could voice and make a cool production of.

Besides doing what we do for our jobs, radio production, he is also a working voice actor and wanted to be creative with something as he had put together such productions in the past, plus, he also wanted to add another something to his body of voice work +.

Now when it came to a possible story I noted that he had liked some things of mine that I had sent his way in the past, plus some others I had and that a number were short, quick and might just fit into what he was looking to do.

So, I re-sent the few previously seen things and also some he hadn’t and he eventually told me that he liked a flash fiction piece I had done a year or so ago courtesy of a prompt from a writing community’s website that I frequent and collaborate at quite often, dVerse Poets, everything from poetry to fictions of one sort or another, a place that I will forever be grateful that I found and even more grateful that I was welcomed with open arms when I did join in even though, in some regards, I felt like I was sort of starting from scratch, especially with poetry.

Anyway, the flash fiction piece he liked was one I called “Headstone” and was a short story of a graveyard’s groundskeeper coming across Death kneeling at a “lost” headstone that the dVerse Poets flash fiction prompt asked to include a line from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Sleeper”

I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye.

This then, is Steve’s production.

Cheers and well done my friend!

Cricket the Cat Poet: Stepping In Tongues And Boo Moons / Boo Blood Moon (poems)

October 8, 2025October 13, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments

So the latest in the way of a Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets is this one that asks for your 44 worder, this time around to include the word “Boo”, a something for a “pre-Halloween hullabaloo”.

Now let me explain what follows.

As I was working on the beginnings of this with an eventual thought coming to mind of current everyday nightmarish “Boo’s”, Cricket, my cat, who you have met here in the Attic before (one of my two, along with Bella, though obviously Cricket the more creative one) thought to get up out of my lap and involve herself in the writing process again with her own stepped thoughts which really are as they look in the first half of this.

All I did was finish it up for her (I think she may have even been offering to help cleanse this a bit with the 8’s after reading a little on the possible significance of 8’s ) and it is still 44 “words”.

Then I got to mine.

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Cricket the Cat poet

Stepping in tongues and Boo Moons

“Boo////////////////////////////////////////////////////8/8/8/8/8/8/8/8/8’”
said the season

Off/ering to frighten

Ag/ain

But just

corn mazes for fun

and snuck kisses

A/nd Halloween h/a21?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”/+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”/+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+?”+
/rmless haunts

But nothing frightens more this season

than

blind mice

and orange taunts

even keyboard cats stepping in tongues

with questions

can’t relieve

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Boo Blood Moon

“Boo!” said the season

offering to frighten

you

again

but

just with corn mazes and snuck kisses for fun

and Halloween housed harmless runs

but nothing to frighten more this season

than orange warning’s

bellows of demise

with a blood orange Moon to rise

Headstone & The Walk (short fictions)

October 4, 2025October 25, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

Well, with it being that time of year for these types of stories I thought to revisit a short bit from last year, one I have posted before in a couple of spots and one that started with a dVerse Poets “prosery” prompt from June of 2024 and also to liberally revise the second part to it that, truthfully, I had forgotten I had written …

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June 4, 2024

A prosery challenge at dVerse Poets

A very short piece of poetry or flash fiction that tells a story, just one with a limit of 144 words, but, somewhere within your story, includes a line from a poem

Here?

From Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Sleeper”

I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye

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Headstone

In a graveyard nearing dusk the groundskeeper came upon Death, leaning heavily upon his knot gnarl anguish handled scythe as he knelt at an almost hidden, fallen stone, shunned, just outside the cemetery, alone, at the edge of a large forest. He wept quietly.

“Are you alright old man?”

Death was startled

“What?!” as he tried to stand

“No need. Pay your respects”

“Why don’t you shudder, cold, at the sight of me, cringe, run to escape who I am, maybe to you?”

“I know death. I have been here as long as you have searched … for your mother right? How did you know?”

“I had this inscribed in her stone, I pray to God that she may lie forever with unopened eye hoping she would never see my shame and what I had become and wrought”

The groundskeeper said “Let’s walk my friend” …

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Then I thought to continue the story …

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October 19, 2024 (revised) October 3, 2025

The Walk

The groundskeeper walked his headstone common with Death alongside.

“I knew her, I was there, she begged me not to, not just yet

I knew him too, he was an ass, he was having an affair and was found out with a jealous bullet … I assisted the trigger

This one wanted to experience the sadness of flying, I gave her a bit of a nudge while the crowd scattered below

He here? He was a case of life unexpectedly cut short … on a Tuesday I think, an unusually busy Tuesday if I remember too

Pointing “That one over there was an unfortunate result of small minds but …

This one was a way back where they marked doors and wore masks… some of those scared even me, I really had my bones full then

And whole sections in the distance there the result of religious fervor …”

“STOP!” as the groundskeeper came to a halt looking directly at and through Death with a chill

“What?” Death paused, shrunk a little, actually, finally frightened

“We’re just walking here, so stop.”

“But? …”

“You know all of them, of course, I, we all are well aware of that. Jobs are jobs. You have yours, though your glibness is wearing me very thin, and you don’t want that, you REALLY do not want that, but I have mine … look to the distance, the Lily fields that surround us here? This is my keep and all that lay in it away from you, at last, but also for all those who come now or have in the past, their memories just wisps scattered to the Lilies, to pay respects or seek absolution, to mourn or even rejoice in some cases, to just be seen or wish to only blend into and under the grass as well or to apologize for being late for someone’s birthday.

To come here, for most of them, is just to sit and wonder and talk to the wind as if their words can be carried, wisped away to other places by it to be heard somewhere in it

That is Angie, talking to her dad

Those are flowers left by Peter who feels better now even though he was an awful son and knows he hastened his father’s death

That is Bart, off to the left, who comes here only because he feels if he doesn’t he will lose whatever semblance of sanity he has left

That’s Michelle, after years away, who feels that wiping off the dust and grime and dirt of time will somehow make everything alright

Then there is Thomas, who I truly feel for, his loss that just destroyed him as that headstone is the last, only, thing he has left in whatever it was that tied him in this, his world. She was, under that stone, the only person that kept him safe in his differences.

Know that your job has consequences”

“But what are we to do?”

“Nothing, we can do nothing, but we can have a little respect. I take comfort in some genuine words spoke at knelt stone, when there are some, when loss is so profound that it brings a tear to even this old groundskeeper’s eye”

“This is what you do?”

“It is, but I don’t fault you for doing what YOU do. Now stand …”

“But I don’t even remember having knelt”

“… use that scythe for balance and stand up from your creaky knees and bony fingers and let’s go over to that corner and to Maribel”

“Maribel? Who … Maribel … is she?”

“No, leave her be, she has time, still has a daughter to come, but she sings, she even extols YOUR virtues”

“Me? MY virtues?”

“She sings of what is done and understands, as do I, though in a lesser chord, as I am no singer, and in such a glorious voice”

“Her loss?”

“It is of no matter, she just comes here, twice a week, sometimes more, to sing of all our losses, just sings along with the trees and the breezes and wisps of what was once of seas and suns and moons that drown and pass and of short lived birds sung in pretty flights above us all through the stones underneath her feet that look out over the hills at this place, all of these places, that are as one as they always have been, are here as intended to be stretching to the Lily’s”

“Oh my, is that heaven?’

“Could be, I don’t know, not sure”

“You said she still has a daughter to come?” Death remarked with a glint.

“STOP!! Were tears for your Mother back there even real?

“Moment of weakness I guess”

“ENOUGH!! You know, my expanse can include you, death can die, if I will it and then cover it in grass and Lily fields in the all encompassing distance, but for you? the Lily’s will wilt. There will be another to fill your shoes, if need be, it just won’t be you, gone at your own bones arrogance”.

A Petal’s Grace (poem)

September 23, 2025September 30, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments

A new Quadrille prompt at dVerse Poets this week, this one from Lillian, a 44 word poem, not counting the title, that is to include one word directed in the prompt.

Lillian’s word?

“Petal”

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A Petal’s Grace

Sitting alone outside the Market

he counts people

not known

together with those gone

in slow

hurries

from one stand

one world

to another

a young girl

holding her mother’s hand

pauses and smiles him

a petal

from the rose held under her balloon

Kenny, The Yellow Fog (flash fiction)

September 17, 2025September 18, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry2 Comments

Something from earlier this week at dVerse Poets ….

“Björn here, trying to inspire you to write prose. It is always hard to find a good line to embed in a piece of prose, but after looking around this line caught my attention:

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Elliot

To write a contribution you will have to incorporate the given line into a piece of prose of no longer than 144 words (including the given line but excluding the title). You may punctuate and divide the line as you want, but you cannot insert any words into the line“

So to it then, and keeping in place and spirit with a couple of recent things of mine.

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Kenny, The Yellow Fog

“Kenny, why you scratchin’ up window panes like Bear on a tree?”

“Hey Barry” he said to Fox “just checking I haven’t been followed”

“By who?”

“By Witch, making sure she doesn’t find me messing with these new weekenders, trying to frighten them off”

“Oh, that’s Ok, but old days new ways my friend. See, you’re just The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes … nothing personal Kenny, but the smell of sulfur and farts isn’t all that scary, just stinky … but turning that old cottage into a B&B for some hipsters from the village for “Nether Wood Tours”?

Genius!

They come willingly now, no need for abduction which always brought unneeded attention from the Constable, and they even sign “gone missing” waivers now, about not leaving at night”

“Really?”

“Just add glowing eyeballs or something to your smelly fogginess”

The Failed Painter (poem)

September 9, 2025September 9, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry6 Comments

New quadrille prompt this week at dVerse Poets from De Jackson (WhimsyGizmo) and the word to include for this latest 44 word dVerse special?

“Much”

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The Failed Painter

I amended you the canvas

that one proving

again

I am no painter

no artist

not even willing walls

of new heart’s homes

edging tape, drop cloths

always

balled, tossed

but it needed

not much

just subtle signature

later

like forger or vandal

again

A Grimm’s New Tale (poem)

September 6, 2025September 7, 2025by Stephen J Frankenberry8 Comments

From Bjorn at dVerse Poets, a Cinquain, a short poem based on syllable count, a five-line poem with a count of 2-4-6-8-2, “but there are plenty of variations”

“You may use this form as a single stanza, you may reverse and/or or do it as a mirror”

So I thought to that, to stack some, four mirrored Cinquains together into one piece.

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A Grimm’s New Tale

In dream

of dire dark wood

I stumbled, there you stood

I’d been warned stray not to dark’s could

in hood

you stood

shushing me, pointing at a wolf

of kind in his own hood