WHERE GIANTS REST
(A Ghost Club Story)
Somewhere in Italy we rendezvous
exploring some fresh spectral lore.
We’ve all traveled far to serve on this crew
with distinctive why and what for.
Villagers claim it’s laid deep with the bones.
Of a haunted nightspot they speak.
Late, late at night they hear drum beats and moans.
Club Amontillado we seek.
In ancient churchyard the entrance is found
to the catacombs vast and uncharted
Sir Crow volunteers to be first underground
anxious to get the quest started
Aimlessly walk cobwebbed hall after hall
when whispers Sophie, “I can hear muted laughter.”
And a bass palpitates behind this brick wall.
It seems we’ve found what we’re after.
Excited we look for the secret club door.
True to the tale no portal was made.
In haste the mason left his tools on the floor.
Trowel blades rusted, wooden handles decayed.
Slowly succumbing to aggravation.
Just barely convinced that there must be a way.
Al spied on the wall an incantation.
Scrawled in blood or red wine, hard to say.
Jade, Luna and Zazzles chant the mysterious spell.
In an instant we’re there in the room
jarred by the rush of sight, sound, and smell
A grand “WELCOME!” resounds in the tomb.
A skeletal dandy takes center stage.
Propped on a cask filled with sherry.
Bleached bones of indeterminate age.
When sober his suffering was scary.
Edgar Allan and the Poettes
playing lively yet macabre tunes.
A popular act at phantasmal fêtes.
At his Annabel smiles as he croons.
Katja dances with nary a care.
Layla waits for open mic hour
when Angelou, Plath, and Kerouac share
their wisdom in one mighty shower
Frost and Whitman bartending.
More teaching than dispensing booze.
Masterclass without ending.
We bask in their uncluttered views.
Heroes of verse occupy the seats.
Over there sits an auspicious trio.
García Lorca, Oscar Wilde, John Keats
conversing, guffawing con brio.
There in that booth, Sendek and Seuss
sipping gin with a moose and a goose.
Animatedly debating rare sightings
of the ever elusive Sibilicuss-Sleuce.
On cocktail napkins Shakespeare scribes
sonnets to Rose Jasmine and Mel.
Entranced by the bard each with gusto imbibes
every word that flows from his well.
Like moth to a flame Li’l Dragonfly glides.
Her diaphanous wings merrily flit.
Destined to land where Emily’s soul abides.
As she on Lord Byron’s waiting lap lit.
Splitsunsets senses the new day dawning.
It’s time we ascend to the surface.
Sad to abandon new friendships spawning
We promise to live with more purpose.
Some plead with our host, “please can we stay?”
Your membership here must be won.
You’ve much left to write, dues yet to pay,
love left to prove ere you’re done.