(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.    
Written by Gahddess_Worship (Osomajestuoso)
Published | Edited 17th Aug 2018
Author's Note
I wrote this for the "Ghost Cub' competition. It's based on one of E. A. Poe's stories, "The Cask of Amontillado" that frightened me most as a kid...with "The Telltale Heart" a close second, hence the "palpitating bass." I have so many favorite poets here in DUP and I did not include a good percentage in this piece. My admiration for those left out is by no means diminished. I also thought much of poets i miss as I wrote this poem. TommieLynn, Souladareatease, BlueAngel, L'il Southern Belle, and so many others.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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