Alas, my loves, I think I soon must go,
As dusk has fallen, and my time’s at hand.
Ah, children, there’s one lesson you should know--
Aging, and time, have made me understand.
All of the negatives we’ve ever felt,
Any hurts that we’ve buried and denied;
Anger about the bad hands we were dealt
And wretched bitterness we’ve tried to hide,
Are washed away, like sand against the tide.

As grief and pain, like sand against the tide,
Are washed away, our hearts are free again
And we can choose just what to let inside
After deciding to let go of pain.
Against the love that’s left, nothing can win,
All of the world’s problems amount to naught
Any of you can choose now to begin
Applying all the lessons love has taught,
And storing deep the joys that can’t be bought.

Always embrace the joys that can’t be bought
Assist a friend in need without a care,
And render aide without a second thought.
Ask after those with whom you can’t be there,
Avoid leaving unsaid the words of praise,
And make sure those you do love, always know,
As no one knows the number of their days.
Ah! Gather close and kiss me, eyes aglow,
Alas my loves, it’s time for me to go.

(c) 2016 Dusty Grein

At The End - (read by the author, 03-20-17)

The old lawyer closed his case, and said “That’s all there is, I guess.”
“Did my uncle really die there?” He looked up and gave a sigh,
“In the lobby’s where they found him. It was probably the stress,
of the many renovations he was planning when he died.”
That was how it came to pass that it was now my turn to try
and fix up the old stone building, like it was when it was new.
So I moved to New Orleans. This city's beautiful, that's true,
but quite soon I learned more truth, about the evil that befell
many guests who chose to stay there, and the tales told by the crew
of the ghosts and apparitions at 
Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

When I moved into the place, I found that it was quite a mess.
It confused me and I couldn’t understand the reasons why;
till I woke up one dark midnight, to the gentlest caress
and the faintest quiet echo, sounding like a baby’s cry.
I sat up and found my blood was running cold, my mouth was dry,
while my fists were clenched quite firmly and my lips were turning blue.
Through the pounding of my heartbeat, all that I could think to do
was to calm my labored breathing, which I did… until a bell
began ringing somewhere near, and then I found that I was glued
to my bed, here in my room within 
Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

After that I knew the time had come to find a priest to bless
every room and every hall, to help those earth-bound spirits fly
off to Heaven, or to Hell, I really couldn’t care much less.
It was my place now, and I was not afraid to dig and pry
into all the secret stories there, exposing every lie.
I discovered there’d been voodoo rituals, which blasted through
the thin veil between the realms. Into this hole, the spirits flew.
The old ju-ju woman in the swamp refused to cast a spell
which would mend the rip. Instead she laughed and said that I would rue
the day I stepped o’er the threshold of 
Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

The true horror of the situation only bloomed and grew
after my attempt to free them, for I really had no clue,
that this failed attempt soon meant my body too, would start to smell,
from the bed where it lay rotting. See, the cost of sin comes due,
and it must be paid with interest, to 
Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

Hôtel Le Fontanelle

https://theprose.com/post/736346/steel-and-me

Steel And Me

a double refrained chant royal crafted in
catalectic tertius paeonic tetrameter

Dust lies thick in empty hallways; as the light begins to fade
chill wind swirls down ancient chimneys, cold and dry as brittle bone.
The old mansion lies uneasy, knowing dues must still be paid.
Even though there is no movement in its rooms it’s not alone,
for the restless souls who died here have been trapped and still remain
and the house, once filled with laughter, has grown evil and insane;
now no happiness is found here, only anguish, fear and pain.
In the attic is a nursery, used by little ones no more,
where abandoned in one corner, sits a broken china doll;
while the bowels of the building hold a pit in earthen floor.
From this well without a bottom, comes the curse of 
Greymoor Hall.

In the days before the curse fell, when the house was newly made—
standing strong against the weather, its foundation solid stone—
there was light and there was laughter, and here children gaily played.
Often music could be heard, as peaceful moonlight sweetly shone,
every season was spent happy in the sun, and snow, and rain
but the house, once filled with love, has now completely gone insane,
for its memories of those years, although skewed, are yet retained.
It remembers distant yesterdays, bright waves upon a shore,
but an evil and dark undertow has clouded its recall.
The despair of hope abandoned is a throaty distant roar
from the well without a bottom, in the heart of 
Greymoor Hall.

In those days beautiful young Anna was a sweet and buxom maid,
but her love for Paul Greymoor ensured the seeds of death were sown,
for she gave to him her flower—in the basement dirt they laid.
There, the final drop of virgin blood was spilled with breathy moans,
and her sacrifice of innocence, into the well did drain.
Soon the house was filled with screaming and the sound drove it insane,
as the ductwork rang with echoes and the walls with blood were stained.
Bittersweet, her loss of purity had opened up a door;
in the depths of Hell a demon turned its head, answered the call
on its face an evil grin displayed, as if it knew the score.
From the well without a bottom, it climbed into 
Greymoor Hall.

These young lovers were the first two upon whom the demon preyed,
and their ravaged bodies, still alive, into the pit were thrown
ere the monster threw its head back, dark laughter a cannonade,
and the solid walls around it seemed to buckle and to groan.
Darkness gushed forth from the well, like blood out of an open vein;
as the house filled up with evil, all its dreams became insane
and the stench of death and decay simply could not be contained.
Through the other living residents’ weak flesh the demon tore.
With the ending of their lives, the final barrier did fall,
these environs were inhabited by living souls no more
and the well without a bottom held full sway at 
Greymoor Hall.

Near a century has passed now since that unholy parade
and the grounds around the building lie weed-choked and overgrown.
Faded wallpaper sags, peeling; window coverings are frayed,
and once lustrous marble fixtures now lie shattered and flyblown.
In the ballroom jet black spiders and white maggots darkly reign,
while the basement, full of shadows, echoes laughter quite insane
and this sound which can’t be heard, is one that science can’t explain.
Faintly glowing in the moonlight are green putrid fungus spores
which reflect upon the insects who ‘cross ancient remains crawl
near the blood red evil light source which shines forth, a blighted sore
from the well without a bottom, far below old 
Greymoor Hall.

It is said the ghosts of Anna and Paul Greymoor, though insane
are still haunting rooms and hallways now grown wicked to the core,
and the demon they set free that day still lives within the walls;
Any humans who set foot inside, will find out what’s in store,
and the well without a bottom will be fed in
Greymoor Hall.

© 2017 - Dusty Grein

Greymoor Hall

* ForJazzmyn, on her sweet sixteen *

My child, look around. This is your time.
Your journey to adulthood has begun
but not alone - I’ll help you walk that line.
In my poor darkened world, you are the sun.

Slow down a bit and look for warning signs.
Sometimes in life you’ll need to walk not run,
but never stop. Keep moving all the time
and never hesitate to have some fun.

I’ve tried, as you have grown, to teach you things
and always be a member of your team;
Believe in flight, then boldly spread your wings.

Your childhood’s gone by faster than it seems,
but when they’re cut, love, know I’ll keep the strings.
Have faith, sweet girl, and go after your dreams.

***

Have faith, sweet girl, and go after your dreams.
Sometimes the best defense is to attack,
and oft times you’ll be paddling hard upstream.
When that’s the case, let nothing hold you back.

That love’s a mystery is well known fact.
Remember human hearts are not machines,
And broken hearts are actually still intact
So never let anyone steal your gleam.

Try not to let regret invade your soul -
A bigger waste of time you’ll never know.
If life throws you a curve, just tuck and roll.

You’ll have my love no matter where you go,
So don’t be scared to chase what’s in your soul,
If your muse calls to you, you must follow.

***

If your muse calls to you, you must follow.
There is no greater joy than letting art,
In one form or another through you flow;
It opens hidden places in your heart.

Your money is a tool, and not the prize,
So never sell your soul for wealth my love.
Remember words can cut someone to size
And send a daily prayer to God above.

Your character, in honesty shines through.
Please never be afraid to speak your mind
But know that sometimes silence is the truth.

One day, quite soon, you’ll look around and find
That time has flown right by you in your youth
My child, look around. This is your time.

You're Sixteen

Once upon a field of snow
a babe was put to breast;
his mother’s sparkling eyes aglow
with love, she did impress
his love for her so deep and true
that every ounce of his soul knew
his love for her.
His love for her
waxed stronger daily as he grew.

Once upon a field of snow
a young man passed the test;
he earned the right to be her beau,
with passion he’d invest
his love for her, and thus he’d woo
his future bride; then did accrue
his love for her.
His love for her
gave his heart wings, with which they flew.

Once upon a field of snow
a heart was laid to rest;
his soul mate, he had watched her go,
his tear-filled eyes confessed
his love for her, so strong and true.
His future,  shaded gray and blue
his love for her.
His love for her
would somehow help him see it through.

© 2017 - dustygrein

Once Upon a Field of Snow

A dark wraith in the moonlight, I silently creep
as cold tendrils of ground-fog down dark alleys seep.
Avoiding the light, to the shadows I keep;
the city is mine as the innocent sleep.
A pause near the top of a stairway quite steep,
below me a tavern where whiskey is cheap.
I watch a whore exit and don’t make a peep;
but focus on waiting and timing my leap.
The sins she has sown are now all mine to reap!
My knife does its work, and she falls in a heap.

In life she was garbage; she’s better off dead
and spilling her blood means my demon is fed.
With the utmost precision I take off her head
being careful to keep her hair out of the red.
Her hands come off next, then the part that I dread;
my desire, from seeing her naked, has fled
as south of her belly, my blade cuts. Instead,
I must think of the game. The detectives I’ve led
such a merry old chase—they’ve all stumbled and sped,
yet along my true path, not a one of them treads.

In fact, it feels like the Yard’s finest are blind;
and little do they know together we’ve dined.
Their failures to catch me, in my ear they’ve whined
and my own hand, the bulk of their warrants has signed!
The pleasure it brings to me deep in my mind,
of knowing that one of them, one day may find
that with the true monster they’ve all been aligned,
is such, that I need to replay and rewind
then replay one more time, as my soul becomes lined
with sharp memories of the most delicious kind.

It’s hard holding back my need to celebrate,
and so I remind myself that I must wait.
Arranging the body helps alleviate
the worst of the craving. I anticipate
The horror of the lone police delegate
whose duty will force him to then validate
her name and the witnesses interrogate.
Who cares? It’s not like these whores venerate
anything but the money. They proliferate
like vermin and misery’s all they create.

The beauty I’ve made from this trash makes me weep;
my blade across her breasts, this last cut goes deep.
In crimson my messages now can be read,
though “Ripper At Large” is all papers have said.
To this horrid name I have become resigned;
My surgical skills? No one yet has opined.
This insult, an attempt to alienate,
misguided and weak. I’ve discovered of late
I’m cunning and smart and have firmly resolved
these crimes will be now, and forever, unsolved.

© 2017 - Dusty Grein

Jack

Forbidden
by Dusty Grein
© 2017

My cold fingers shook as I reached for the bottle pristine . . .
what secrets of old did the note, stored within it, reveal?
The wisdom or folly of those words was yet to be seen.
I gripped the glass tight, and thus proved to myself it was real;
I’d searched the world over—my quest, till now fruitless had been,
In my eyes, the joy mixed with greed; neither one was concealed.

A flash and a puff, from the bottle did magically burst;
the cork, once I’d freed it, erupted in cold flames of blue.
No human eyes ever had read these words—mine were the first;
the dreams I’d been dreaming in my heart would now all come true!
Alas, far too late did I find out this message was cursed;
and as this truth dawned in my mind, there was naught I could do.

In horror, I felt my whole body converted to stone,
and now my mind’s trapped here, forever aware and alone.

Forbidden

DR. PAUL'S FAMILY TALK

Author Cindy Tomamichel and Dusty Grein (2-9-18)

The Choice - by Dusty Grein

Many lessons I’ve learned, in my fifty plus years,
I’ve been deeply in love and I’ve shed many tears;
I’ve seen joyous beginnings and grief-stricken ends,
as I gained and lost loved ones, both family and friends.

One stark truth I discovered, while making my way,
was that I held the power, at the end of the day,
to choose my reactions, either happy, or sad,
or quiet, or thankful, or jealous, or mad.

At times this was easy, when faith was my guide,
being thankful was something that glowed deep inside;
and yet many were times, if the truth would be known,
that my doubt, pain, and anger left me cold and alone.

Then came a fall day, just a few years ago,
when a pain in my chest and my arm laid me low—
‘myocardial infarction’ was what the doc said,
as he put in a stent, without which I’d be dead.

It was just a year later, my wife came to me
(in our lives together, this was year thirty-three,
with five kids and seven grandkids, I thought we were set)
and she told me the words that I’ll never forget.

“We got married too young, and I never explored
a life on my own!” Then she walked out the door.
With no wife, and no job, I was angry and hurt,
and I fell to my knees and I prayed, in the dirt.


“Oh, why my God, why? Am I really so bad?”
But He gave me no answer. I was way beyond mad.
I was angry with Him, and even more with my wife,
but mostly with me, and my mess of a life.

I had hit the last rung, and I simply let go.
What course would my life take? I just didn’t know—
so I opened my heart, and I looked for a clue,
and I found faith that He would tell me what to do.

I scrolled social media, in a half-hearted daze,
and froze when the screen displayed one single phrase.
Black letters on off-white pierced me to the core,
“Be bitter, or better … the choice is all yours.”

With the image were comments; the very first one,
Said “Forgiveness brings healing, like light from the sun.”
A deep paradigm shifted for my heart that day,
and I suddenly knew, one day I’d be okay.

I reached out to my wife, with forgiveness in mind,
but the voice on her phone was a much different kind.
I knew him, of course—he once was a friend,
but even his presence, my smile didn’t bend.

I wished them both well, and I really do hope
that wherever life takes them, together they’ll cope.
My next healing prayer, was my “Sorry” to God;
I knew that he’d touched me, with a wink and a nod.

Then last but not least, I focused within
and I forgave myself for mistakes, and for sins.
I found a new version of me deep inside …
when I looked with forgiveness, past anger and pride.

A boy’s hopes were still there, inside of the man,
the ones that I’d buried in work, bills, and plans.
Reignited, my passion for writing then grew
and I published a novel, and poetry too.

I now publish books for a living each day,
and sleep without nightmares getting in the way.
Life isn’t perfect; not everyone’s kind,
but I’m better, not bitter, and that suits me just fine!

© 2019 - dustygrein