—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
ALL HALLOW’S EVE
Comes the Witching Hour into the darkling night,
When the black veil between worlds is lifted,
And the spirits and specters which haunt our sleep
Take leave of our subconscious,
Floating into shadowlight to wander through blackening wood.
Ghost moon grins its lopsided grin.
Stars dance out of reach of the brittle fingers of old trees
Clawing at the night sky.
Owl blinks awake, its spectral call answered by
The howling wolf on the hill.
A witch’s cold cackle sends a shiver down the spine.
In long-forgotten graveyards, tombstones shift
In and out of the moonlight.
Black cat arches its back to shriek at shadows
Dancing atop graves.
A bat’s wing taps at the windowpane.
A footfall on the porch stair.
A scratching at the door.
Click of the latch.
Rattle of the doorknob.
But the door is barred,
And safe around the hearth we huddle together
As night presses against the window glass
With whatever goblin or grim may be peering in.
We roast apples on sticks, drink our ale,
And tell ghost stories deep into the gloom of night.
For we have the rowan branch over the doorpost
And garlic hanging on a hook in the corner.
There’s the candle in the pumpkin and the poppet on the shelf.
We’ve the charm about our necks to keep us each from harm.
So spirits be gone! Specters take your leave!
Goblins and bogeys go back from whence you came!
For night will not last.
Morn will soon come.
The sun will chase the moon from the sky.
The wheel of the year turns once again.
The veil is dropped once more.
Spells disperse, shadows shake and shudder and are gone
In a twinkling.
And the light in the pumpkin goes out.
Comes the Witching Hour into the darkling night,
When the black veil between worlds is lifted,
And the spirits and specters which haunt our sleep
Take leave of our subconscious,
Floating into shadowlight to wander through blackening wood.
Ghost moon grins its lopsided grin.
Stars dance out of reach of the brittle fingers of old trees
Clawing at the night sky.
Owl blinks awake, its spectral call answered by
The howling wolf on the hill.
A witch’s cold cackle sends a shiver down the spine.
In long-forgotten graveyards, tombstones shift
In and out of the moonlight.
Black cat arches its back to shriek at shadows
Dancing atop graves.
A bat’s wing taps at the windowpane.
A footfall on the porch stair.
A scratching at the door.
Click of the latch.
Rattle of the doorknob.
But the door is barred,
And safe around the hearth we huddle together
As night presses against the window glass
With whatever goblin or grim may be peering in.
We roast apples on sticks, drink our ale,
And tell ghost stories deep into the gloom of night.
For we have the rowan branch over the doorpost
And garlic hanging on a hook in the corner.
There’s the candle in the pumpkin and the poppet on the shelf.
We’ve the charm about our necks to keep us each from harm.
So spirits be gone! Specters take your leave!
Goblins and bogeys go back from whence you came!
For night will not last.
Morn will soon come.
The sun will chase the moon from the sky.
The wheel of the year turns once again.
The veil is dropped once more.
Spells disperse, shadows shake and shudder and are gone
In a twinkling.
And the light in the pumpkin goes out.
A GHOST STORY
When the timing is just right and the night full dark,
And the moon sits low in the sky,
I sense her there, when I am alone.
I am not disturbed by her presence,
Nor she by mine.
We keep company together, she and I.
Now, it may be that the empty rocking chair in the corner
Sways back and forth once . . . twice . . . three times . . .
Or a door swings gently on its hinges,
Of its own accord, so she’d like me to think.
Perhaps I hear a creak on the stair that draws my attention.
This is how I know she is there.
Sometimes the curtains billow out gently,
With the window shut tight.
On occasion things go missing,
Only to turn up in the oddest of places,
And I know she means for me to find them.
There are nights I glimpse her from the corner of my eye.
Other times she’s a soft dark shade bending into the shadows
That haunt the nooks and crannies of this old house.
Yet, if I turn and face her, the bashful creature vanishes,
Like a will o’ the wisp.
She’s a shy little specter,
Not apt to cause trouble.
Her haunting is harmless.
She cherishes the peace and quiet
We share.
We both prefer candlelight,
And the sound of rain on the roof at night,
And the tap of tree limb on the window pane.
The comfort of sharing a fire in the hearth.
Once, I glanced into the gilt-framed mirror in the parlor
And caught her looking back at me with a look of melancholy curiosity
That only a spirit can manifest toward the living.
There she was, transposed on the silvered glass,
The objects in the room behind me reflected through her.
I reached out to touch her image in the mirror,
And in a single second she was gone.
I wondered then, as I have wondered since,
What am I to her in her ethereal existence?
A phantasm?
A thing that is at once there and not there?
Am I the elusive spirit she glimpses
From the corner of her eye?
The nightshade that blends into shadow?
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I have fallen in love with the imagination. And if you fall in love with the imagination, you understand that it is a free spirit. It will go anywhere, and it can do anything.
—Alice Walker
_____________________
Welcome back to Medusa’s Kitchen, Kimberly, and thanks for kicking off the Halloween season for us with two tales of the season! Kimberly Bolton has a new book out, Tales from Grindstone Creek. Based on the true-life events of the Redford-Hall families, these narrative poems describe the drama and the lives of two couples a generation apart. Rhoda and William leave the stony ground of North Carolina behind to travel through the Cumberland Gap and on into Missouri to make a new life for themselves and their children on Grindstone Creek. A generation later, Jesse and Valetha Redford will fight the Civil War, each in their own way, to defend their home along the banks of Grindstone Creek. The book itself is their story, and each poem is a chapter in that story. It is a tale of endurance and survival in the young state of Missouri, and parts of it have been posted in Medusa’s Kitchen from time to time.
When the timing is just right and the night full dark,
And the moon sits low in the sky,
I sense her there, when I am alone.
I am not disturbed by her presence,
Nor she by mine.
We keep company together, she and I.
Now, it may be that the empty rocking chair in the corner
Sways back and forth once . . . twice . . . three times . . .
Or a door swings gently on its hinges,
Of its own accord, so she’d like me to think.
Perhaps I hear a creak on the stair that draws my attention.
This is how I know she is there.
Sometimes the curtains billow out gently,
With the window shut tight.
On occasion things go missing,
Only to turn up in the oddest of places,
And I know she means for me to find them.
There are nights I glimpse her from the corner of my eye.
Other times she’s a soft dark shade bending into the shadows
That haunt the nooks and crannies of this old house.
Yet, if I turn and face her, the bashful creature vanishes,
Like a will o’ the wisp.
She’s a shy little specter,
Not apt to cause trouble.
Her haunting is harmless.
She cherishes the peace and quiet
We share.
We both prefer candlelight,
And the sound of rain on the roof at night,
And the tap of tree limb on the window pane.
The comfort of sharing a fire in the hearth.
Once, I glanced into the gilt-framed mirror in the parlor
And caught her looking back at me with a look of melancholy curiosity
That only a spirit can manifest toward the living.
There she was, transposed on the silvered glass,
The objects in the room behind me reflected through her.
I reached out to touch her image in the mirror,
And in a single second she was gone.
I wondered then, as I have wondered since,
What am I to her in her ethereal existence?
A phantasm?
A thing that is at once there and not there?
Am I the elusive spirit she glimpses
From the corner of her eye?
The nightshade that blends into shadow?
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I have fallen in love with the imagination. And if you fall in love with the imagination, you understand that it is a free spirit. It will go anywhere, and it can do anything.
—Alice Walker
_____________________
Welcome back to Medusa’s Kitchen, Kimberly, and thanks for kicking off the Halloween season for us with two tales of the season! Kimberly Bolton has a new book out, Tales from Grindstone Creek. Based on the true-life events of the Redford-Hall families, these narrative poems describe the drama and the lives of two couples a generation apart. Rhoda and William leave the stony ground of North Carolina behind to travel through the Cumberland Gap and on into Missouri to make a new life for themselves and their children on Grindstone Creek. A generation later, Jesse and Valetha Redford will fight the Civil War, each in their own way, to defend their home along the banks of Grindstone Creek. The book itself is their story, and each poem is a chapter in that story. It is a tale of endurance and survival in the young state of Missouri, and parts of it have been posted in Medusa’s Kitchen from time to time.
Anyone interested in purchasing the book can contact Kimberly at boltonk@mrrl.org. Tales From Grindstone Creek is $12 a copy. Her first book, Folk, is $8.
Kimberly Bolton lives in Jefferson City, Missouri, near her beloved Missouri River.
_____________________
—Medusa
Kimberly with her new book!
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