The Very Best Halloween Poetry and other October Occurrences
In an attempt to offer a little structure I've grouped the spookier Halloween themed poems at the top. Prepare yourself.
Casper threw a bed sheet over his head and cut some eye holes in it and drew on a scary mouth with felt tips.
He smashed on old Betsy's door and demanded a Twix.
She only had the singles.
He insisted on taking a second to create a full Twix package.
"It's called a Twix you know, not a Onex"
Casper was very pleased with himself.
He swished between doors and repeated the process for a variety of inadequately sized chocolate bars.
The rest of the night passed with him ooOOooing around and generally mucking about throwing bricks at windows and things of that sort.
Agnes rebelled against the commercialisation of Halloween.
She stood proudly over the gravestones.
Flicked muck off some old bones and shoved them into her giant sack.
It was a particularly hefty sack made out of old bagpipes.
It hung nicely over her shoulder.
Sometimes air got in and the pipes began to wheeze.
Agnes didn’t like that.
In all of my years on this planet I haven't bought a single holiday decoration. This is because I simply steal them all from friends, family, and sometimes even strangers. They fill their house with so much junk that they don’t even notice the odd skeleton, Santa, or dreidel going missing. I once made off with the ashes of some guy’s grandma, he didn’t notice for months, and that urn looked wonderful next to my collection of brooms and pointed hats. On another occasion I hooked an entire Christmas tree over my shoulders and, honestly, I think the father was pleased to get that bloody thing out of his living room. I paid close attention to that guy throughout the day before I scooped it up. He kept craning his neck around the tree to see the football score and tutting to himself. I did end up having to write a letter of complaint about that family to the council though. I'm convinced they saw me coming, once Christmas was done with I was buried in an ocean of pine needles. Very, very inconsiderate.
Christopher wrapped himself in tinsel.
He wrapped himself in fairy lights.
He smiled as he thought about Christmas.
He was going to have presents at his feet.
And ornaments on his fingers.
Don't get me wrong, I'll be the first to admit this isn't about Halloween, but it is about decorating for a specific day, which in all honesty, I think is close enough. Especially with the way people go on about Halloween these days, you'd think they have piles of presents waiting to be unsheathed beneath a stack of pumpkins or something.
Adam peeled his heart from his chest and bared it to Meg.
It beats and beats and beats again more slowly.
She called an ambulance.
Ultimately Adam came to appreciate the interruption.
This one’s a bit gory so I’ve put it at the end of the Halloween poem collection, so it’s sort of there if you want it, but if you don’t you can pretend it belongs in the next category, which will be poems related to love, probably. That’s what most poetry ends up being anyway. I can't imagine myself not finding a few love related poems to clump together.
Nicholas firmly grasped Lynn’s hand.
He squeezed it ever tighter.
Strived to pass along a message.
The bones in her hand creaked and ached.
What he really wanted to be doing was holding her arse.
But he wouldn't like to admit that out loud.
Every once in a while I give moving things with my mind a shot, just to verify I haven’t yet advanced beyond the rest of the human race. I’ll also try to telepathically say ‘hello’ to some clown in a nearby room and listen carefully for a response. So far, nothing. It’s always worth checking these things though, because you never know.
Maude’s dirt brown eyes attracted him.
Her curly hair ensnared him.
He couldn't escape.
When he tried the tangles just got worse.
I’m glad my hair isn’t particularly long, nor particularly curly. That stuff seems like a nightmare. I once had a friend who lost three pens in a giant cluster of curls. She just bent down to pick up a slice of your standard office paper and it vacuumed them up as she brushed against her desk. She was furious with the entire office until she finally found them a week later nesting in her curls. When reading this poem I’ll occasionally find myself thinking about Medusa. Perhaps that’s something you’d like to do too. In much the same way as I wouldn’t enjoy a head filled with curls, I wouldn’t like a head filled with snakes either. I’m not particularly fond of those slithery little things even when they’re not attached to me, I can’t imagine having them dangle in front of my eyes constantly.
Sally reconnected her eyes.
Then turned to look at him.
His visage curled and wrinkled.
He enjoyed the attention.
His lad tingled.
It launched him from the bed.
"That's the point Florence!"
Her husband was shouting from across the way
The spear was very long indeed.
I think this one might have been inspired by a trip to the Royal Armouries Museum, which is in Leeds. I believe it's the only place in the UK you can find spears, and I won’t have anyone tell me otherwise. I've only ever been there once, because Leeds is quite far away, but at least I have this poem to remind myself of the trip, if that is indeed what inspired this.
At the pier's end Marcus raged.
He stamped and waved his pink arms vigorously through the air.
His spangly translucent jelly sandals had been washed from the beach.
None of the swimmers bothered to retrieve them.
He was quite upset about this.
He gnawed at his thumb.
Dripped blood into the ocean.
Hoped to attract the sharks.
I've been to beaches. Your foreign types and your home grown ones. I couldn't tell you which is my favourite, I don't like those stony ones though, they lead to the sort of problem mentioned in the poem. As a child I once ended up in France, during one of those rare family trips abroad. Whilst lugging around a baguette, beret, and some garlic, I found myself on one of those far flung exotic French beaches. I'm not quite sure where in France I was at the time, but it certainly wasn't Paris. I'd remember that on account of the big old metal thing. This French beach was approximately 90% jellyfish. That beach goes down pretty low on my list of beaches. While you can’t blame the beach itself, the ocean is to blame if anything, I really don’t like the look of jellyfish. Like most creatures of the sea, those things are far too alien for me.
I contemplate
What if politicians were evil
And instead of carrying briefcases they carried knives.
I cut out my stencils and spray paint this imagery onto a wall.
Don’t let this poem fool you, I love art. Especially art on external walls. It’s considerably more convenient than museum art as you don’t have to fully commit. Unless someone has gone and called it a fresco, then you’re practically forced to lock yourself in for a good 15 minutes. It’s a nightmare when you approach a bit of wall art and someone suddenly pipes up with the word ‘fresco’, let me tell you.
Mike got himself a pet chimpanzee.
It swung on the curtains
Threw pillows about carelessly
And generally made a mess of things.
Mike was regretting the decision.
But thought it best to keep his distance.
I’ve not had many pets. I don’t think I’d go out of my way to get a monkey or monkey adjacent creature either. Too many bad things have been said about them, like faces going missing and arms falling off and that sort of thing. As a general rule, I’m aiming to keep my body as intact as possible. It’s one of several reasons I haven’t yet decided to chop off an ear or a finger or something. I don’t really care how much better it would make me as an artist, I just like my body parts too much.
Gideon was shouting so violently his teeth kept clacking together.
They shattered into hundreds of pieces.
He scooped them up and handed them to his mother
Spluttered bloody demands of five hundred pounds from the tooth fairy.
He sat down and sucked yoghurt through his gums.
A man went to the Natural History Museum.
He gawked at the animals on display.
Did his best impressions of them to nearby grown-ups.
They scuttled the children away as he beat his chest.
Unleashed mighty roars.
And hopped around flapping his arms producing haunting squawks.
He seemed to be doing a very good job with his impressions.
This is about the Natural History Museum in London. I’ve been there a few times, for various reasons.
Keith hammered away on his drum kit.
He'd never had lessons.
Didn’t see the need.
He simply enjoyed knowing the loud thudding irritated housemates and neighbours.
I once had a housemate who decided to become one of those hippy types. This broadly resulted in her getting fired from a job, making food no one else wanted to eat, and buying a drum. During this period of my life I came up with the concept of a drum licence. Much like the driving licence before it, this would require an array of tests, including clicking a crusty old yellowing mouse to the beat in an almost indescribably featureless test centre. There was certainly more to it, but that was the general idea. I still think it's an idea worth pursuing, and if some officials would like to get in touch then I'd be more than willing to recall a little more of the scheme.
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