Thursday, April 29, 2021

Throwback Thursday Poem

"Standing at the Door of Death"


We are all standing at the door of death

waiting for our final judgment

falling onto our knees

begging for salvation

from a graven image

who can easily plague us with damnation

We keep spinning a new web of dreams

creating new stories to tell

but we turn away when they

turn into demon fairy tales

We long to shed our skin

into the blood red sea

but we never lift ourselves out of the mire

because we're afraid of what we'll see

fecundated in this holy fire

we are stuck here in reality

I'd rather be standing at the door of dreams

where things aren't what they seem to be

where there is no good or evil to speak of

where pleasure emanates from pain

where reality is an illusion

and death is just the same


(published in Outer Darkness, 1997. My Clive Barker inspiration seems to shine through in this poem!)

Thursday, April 22, 2021

Throwback Thursday Poem

 "Field of Death"

by Stephanie Smith


this place is a wasteland

for angels with glass wings

decrepit and shattered--demon angels

that fly through fields of death


this place is a haven of horrors

a grave of tired souls

where skin is a sacred illusion

and the life inside is left unknown


this place is a junkyard for dead minds

that crush their angel babies with their fists

it's just a craving they have

they've no tears of their own to shed


(published in Outer Darkness, Issue 13, 1997...Looking back I feel honored to have been published in such great small press 'zines as this alongside writers like the late Charlee Jacob. I miss her.)

Thursday, April 15, 2021

Throwback Thursday Poem

 "Sphere"

by Stephanie Smith


Mixing midnight oils on a darkened canvas.

an artist professed his view of the world.


He birthed a sea

and found Earth's children had drowned.

Firewater had scalded their skin

and left them fleshless on the ocean floor.

Dead before they got here.


He created a setting sun through crimson tears.

A dreamless day gone by,

As banal as days forgotten.


The morning found his images as dust.

And he an illusionist

inspired by the night to work magic

on a world that left him feeling

nothing at all.


(published in Not One of Us, #19, 1997)