On the Day of the Dead

We have these Autumn festivals in my area all through October.  A big one is the Catoctin Colorfest, which is held every year around the second weekend in October. The weather is good, but all the trees are still green.  In fact, our trees  changed almost overnight on October 31.

Today is Saturday, and it's All Souls Day, the Day of the Dead.  I decided to post two haunted poems that I admire.

Julie Kane

DULLAHAN

with pity for all living things
being chased by a ghoul on a horse
with its head tucked under its arm
consider the plight of the rider

consigned to blank nights on a horse
or behind the wheel of an automobile
consider the plight of the rider
cruising the potholed streets of your city

headless inside her automobile
sheer muscle memory steering her home
cruising the potholed streets of your city
dullahan, headless Irish fairy

dronelike, mindless, riding home
you may have sensed her, late one night
dullahan, headless Irish fairy
caught up in repetition

you may have sensed her, many nights
with your shamed red face in your hands
caught up in repetition
with pity for all living things

 Susan Elbe

 DAY OF THE DEAD

I put a bone-white candle in the window,
a welcome, but they already know the way.

I'm not afraid. After all, the Aztecs held
there are two worlds—
one of the living, one of the dead.

This world, a dream that comes and goes.

They are always close, asking to be warmed,
asking for a scrap of meat,
begging me to not forget them.

The cold smoke of their voices whispers
at the pane, a dark nomadic alphabet
in an unfamiliar tongue
I've only just begun to understand.

He Took His Own Life

harvest moon  by Jessica Winderl

He took his own life

On October 29, my cousin Jared , age 19, took his own life.  As my cousin Michael put it, he

“ingested a shotgun.”

I learned this on Facebook last night, on Michael’s post.  Michael is Jared’s uncle.  Caroline is Jared’s mom, Michael’s sister, Tom’s daughter, and my first cousin, once removed.

Following that?

This is the Irish side of my family.  My father’s side. My father, who was the second youngest of seven.

All of the members of my father’s generation are dead now.  My father’s older brother Tom had three sons, the oldest of which is also named Tom; he is the oldest living member of our generation now. I’m at the other end – the youngest of these six cousins.

I was fifteen when I was the godmother to Caroline, Tom’s second child.   This Jared is her son.

He was 19.  

I never met him, only saw lovely photos of him from babyhood.  His life and death, his anguish and depression, are a mystery to me, but very real.

He is the third member of my family to commit suicide.

My cousin Tommy ( another Tom!) the grandson of my father’s brother, also shot himself, at age 32, in 2000.  Very different circumstances, but the same tragedy.

The first one was my uncle Dan – on the Pennsylvania Dutch side of the family.  He was probably in his forties when he shot himself back behind the barn on his farm in Lancaster County.  I remember it; I was 12 at the time. 

These tragedies of depression --- I understand them more than I want to explain.

Poem for Halloween

 by      Susan Slaviero


Banshee Territory


You marvel at mosslight & owl-screech,
question if keening is important—the dirge
of bees swarming at the windowsills, the roosters
that only crow at night. And a boy said I can’t hear
anything. All the clocks have stopped chiming
at expected hours. He can see feminine shades
with tangled auburn hair seated on wedge-shaped
rocks, or perched at the tops of chimneys, hooded
crows. He sees a stoat, a weasel, a dark nostril
spotting this raddled mist. If you see a comb,
don’t pick it up. A silver lure, tightly strung
across black rivers & blood-basins. They are warm,
wanting. Their tongues unrooted, more pointed
than you’d believe. They are winding sheets,
women who’ve died from drowning, childbed
fevers. Later, you forget the sounds of mourning
waters, the dark stains on your shirt. You always
misplace yourself on the second Friday of the month,
when you’ve cashed your check, had too much bourbon,
left so many indelible kissmarks on dusty throats.

Some Autumn Poems

At the Year's Elbow

September smells in the air

like school,

like the first awareness

of freedom's limits,

of the inevitable

snow.

Still green leaves

elegant with lacy

bug eaten holes,

rustle in the

still warm sun.

A bug runs up your arm

and changes directions

at September,

at your elbow,

the year's elbow.

A slight body language of wind,

a gesture of paling light says

Yes,

you are here

at the year's elbow.

In the morning,

the children

will go back to school.

In the evening,

the light will move away

with satchels

of flowers.

At Cape May

At the bird sanctuary

in mid-September, a million silver

tree swallows

wallow and swoop in the air,

taking great swallows of air,

folding up on the tall stalks

of marsh weeds

like shining Christmas ornaments.

As one,

they flash like a flag

of silver and slate blue

against the turbulent blue sky,

unfurling south.

October in Emmitsburg

Sun backlights the gold trees.

Suddenly they jump up,

out of the dark

at the end of daylight savings time.

Moon rides the sky,

hovers over the mountain.

It’s inner trickery

to love the fall.