H is for Heirloom

The sun is setting on All Hallows’ Eve

And here on the suburban heath

I watch what happens when horror walks masked

Through half-lit streets up to front doors.

Harmless tricks on family yards and hearth stones,

Boys in warm red hunting caps,

Young girls in pink making hearts beat nearby,

Costumes, homemade haunted houses

And hearing hounds howl to the hunter’s moon

 The horror lies here but hidden.

Housed in offices, homes and certain heads;

A havoc of hopelessness and hurt

“How?” we ask from hill fortresses of bones

Suits can’t clean the bloody stained hands

When knowledge of dire hunger demands haste

And we hearken not to a “Help!”

Just heeding the hum of dull screens and honks

Of car horns and heckling hedonists

Within hectic lives pursuing happiness

The hawthorn bushes and hedgerows

Wither before the coming hour of doom

When we will be heaved into wealth’s hecatomb



http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/2010/10/poetry-potluck-halloween.html