Dark Poetry
Poems by Matthew Wilson, Stanley Wilkin, Denny E. Marshall
and Alexa Findlay
Home of Dark Places
By Matthew Wilson

A is for Arkham, home of dark places
B is for branches wearing dead faces
C is for Coven dancing in the glade
D is for Damsel shaking small and afraid
E is for Ember colour of her eyes
F is for Fire bought down from the skies
G is for ground concealer of bones
H is for Hades lord of all thrones
I is for Island where creatures live
J is for Jester with meat hooks to give
K is for Killer, hater of men
L is for Late walkers never seen again
M is for Murder, hobby of ghouls
N is for Night, intruded by fools
O is for Open, a blooded sign
P is for Prisoner drugged by wine
Q is for Queen drinker of blood
R is for Ravens eating meat in the wood
S is for Silver killer of beasts
T is for Troll master of feasts
U is for Under, bones neath the soil
V is for Victim boiling in oil
W is for Wonder the beauty of Dawn
X is for crosses strung out on the lawn
Y is for Yes, an adventurous mistake
Z is for Zenith, cut short by the stake.
To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
About Matthew Wilson

Matthew Wilson has been
published over 150 times in
such places as horror*zine,
Star*Line, zimbell house
publishing and many others. He
is currently editing his first novel.
About Stanley Wilkin

Stanley Wilkin Lecturer, now
living Outeiro, Lisboa, Portugal
Four Haiku
   By Denny E. Marshall

shake under blanket
afraid to take a peak since
monster had litter

silver bullets spray
stops the creature in its tracks
son moans behind mask

deep in the jungle
ancient tribe play baseball game
pitching shrunken heads

like the new old house
except the night walking sound
from the hallway - ghosts
About Denny E. Marshall

Denny E. Marshall has had art,
poetry, and fiction published.
One recent credit is poetry and
artwork in Spill Yr Guts #3. See
more at
When The Golden Flowers In The Churchyard Bloom
                                                                 By Stanley Wilkin

When the golden flowers in the churchyard bloom
Helen awakes in her crumbling tomb
slithering out on the cold stone floor
eyes darting fire towards the opening door
as in her crumbling lover crawls
and beneath the moon's silver shards drools:

bat, snake, slug, owl, raven, snail
quake as Helen begins her pulsating wail
her hollow resonating cries
alternating with crackling sighs
her lover closing the huge stone door
with one gnarled and taloned paw
sinks his moistened fangs
into her brain, his hunger pangs
at once allayed, while in the night
eternal blackness mutilates glistering light.

In this wild, distorted hour
only the dead have power,
and the living hide in suppurating sleep
away from the creatures that slide and creep
who never pause for breath
energised by corrupt effusive death.
The menstruation of shimmering fogs
of vampires, ghouls and spectral frogs
that croak with each passing soul
and the simpering grin of every neighbourhood ghoul,
in sickly mixtures of crafted crapulence stare
as their distinguished peers gambol from lair to lair.

Abbie strolled out that tormented night
her youthful lust consuming fright,
her patterned woollen shawl around her
its effervescent warmth chiding her fear,
stealing to her lover's side,
her lover, a married man with wife and child:
the sky was filled with bitter clouds
resembling coarse phlegm-stained  shrouds,
brown-stained, blood-stained and grim;
It was by the abandoned church she found him.

Owls lurking in the frozen trees moaned
as their frozen perches groaned,
the dead mice in their beaks revived
and into their hearts dived,
munching on the pulsating flesh
turning vulnerable innards into useless mesh.

Helen waited in the dark,
waited for the dogs to bark,
waited for the moon to howl
then hidden within a shimmering cowl
stepped forward to watch the lovers fornicate
by the church’s broken gate.
Helen considered humans tasted best
when after exercise they’d had time to rest,
and pounced only when their lust was satisfied
one by one she took their lives.
The passion of their love made both taste better
tenderised to the finest cook’s letter,
saving only arms, legs and feet
once her hunger was replete.
But lovers in that small town knew
that they took a risk of becoming a Queen ghoul’s stew
if they focused only on their lust
forgetting the tragedies of the past
and wandered out into the night-
becoming quickly  a Halloween take-a-way delight.
State Of Zombies
   By Denny E. Marshall

Zombies have taken control of the state
None can leave, checkpoints at every road.
Plan to escape before it is too late.
Pack small backpack, easier with light load.

Stay off the roads, to avoid being found.
Hide behind trees or lay in the tall grass.
If detecting the slightest move or sound.
Wait patiently for vehicles to pass.

Near end of slow journey measured in weeks.
See border-crossing marker up ahead.
Zombies patrol fields and the shallow creeks.
If caught not questioned, instead wind up dead.

Once in a different state, sigh of relief.
Learn zombies now here, instantly feel grief.
Two Tanka
   By Denny E. Marshall

captain on sea ship
travels familiar voyage
friends and family
no clue he’s dumping bodies
from above Challenger Deep

land on new planet
inhabited by giants
they lock you in cage
four walls of clear acrylic
then hear blender blades turn on
Clandestine Dwelling
   By Denny E. Marshall

Clandestine dwelling home of long undead.
Obscure castle sits upon barren hill.
When passing by gave travelers a chill.
Until out of sight, feel linger of dread.

Journey on silently and quietly thread.
Look forward to narrow road up ahead.
All who look upon structure feel cold chill.
Obscure castle sits upon barren hill.

After one passage, nightmares haunt the head.
Legends in nearby town, occupants kill.
Drink all the blood they murderously spill.
Once a shortcut all take long route instead.
Clandestine dwelling home of long undead.
Four Haiku
 By Denny E. Marshall

grim reaper

you with all your friends
though not what you had in mind
frankenstein collage

cops announce arrest
of serial killer suspect
your date said. “Wrong guy”

the zombie parade
is moving at a slow pace
it seems dead this year
By Alexa Findlay

a snowman
with eyes made
of coal, & teeth
made of icicles
waits anxiously
for a bite to eat
to taste
human flesh
once again
on this stormy
winter night—
About Alexa Findlay

Alexa Findlay is an
Undergraduate student at the
University of California,
Riverside. She spends her time
writing poetry and fiction. Her
work has been featured in El
Camino College’s Literary Arts
Journal: Myriad, See Beyond
Magazine, Pomona Valley
Review, Better than Starbucks
Magazine, amongst others.
For poems by Stanley Wilkin,
Denny E. Marshall and Alexa
click here