The Little Avaganda Book of Poems
by
Albie Benson
Published by Albie Benson at Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 Albie Benson.
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~~~~
Love Potion
Dabbling in evil necromancy,
The elusive hunt for the invisible fancy,
The search for the witch to buy her potions,
And ask her hands to make magic motions,
And mix in her cauldron obnoxious lotions,
To satisfy their obsessive vanity,
And in the process lose their sanity.
So I found myself positioned there,
Pains in my bladder becoming hard to bear,
Skipping from one foot to the other,
Nearly crying out for my mother.
And then with stupid rash decision,
I knocked on the door with rapid precision.
And stood quivering on that cold worn stone,
Then sucked in my breath,
As I heard an eerie distant moan.
As the door creaked open with a painful groan.
I would have turned and ran,
But a bony hand with a fearsome span,
Beckoned me into that gloomy inside,
And all I wanted was a beautiful bride.
Then a face so horrible confronted me,
‘What do you want Dearie?’
I swallowed deeply and spoke somehow,
‘I’m in love with the most beautiful girl.’
Her cackling laugh put my head in a whirl.
‘But she does not love me in return.’
Suddenly I was overcome with a terrible yearn,
To leave this place of evil forevermore,
And turn and run right out the door.
She turned with dark black skirt scrapping the floor,
The sound freezing my body to its very core.
Then shuffled her bony frame to shelves stacked high.
My heart hammered so hard, I thought I would die.
Her transparent hand reached to a jar filled with red,
‘Beelzebub, fire and brimstone,
Newt’s tails, spider’s legs and crushed bone,
Hair of the virgin, dark from the East,
Cast your spell with the Beast.
This should work,’ her shrill voice said,
Filling my heart with foreboding dread.
She took it down and held it tight,
My knees knocked with a nervous might.
‘How tall is this wench so fine?’
Her voice caused a shiver along my spine.
‘About f-five f-feet t-two,’ I managed to stutter.
Her Devil’s eyes made my heart a flutter.
She floated to a table covered with magic artefacts,
And started to put them into two great sacks.
When her packing was complete,
The table was laid bare and neat.
Her hideous hands placed the jar in the middle,
And took from a shelf a small fine riddle.
I held my breath as something brushed my leg,
Hoping for my life I may beg.
I looked down and saw an enormous black cat.
Dangling from its mouth a gently fluttering bird.
It stared at me with hateful eyes that dared,
Me to rescue that poor unfortunate bird.
The monstrous cat prowled forward so elite,
And dropped the suffering bird at his mistress’ feet.
She looked down and gave a toothless chuckle,
‘What have you brought me my little honeysuckle?’
She bent and picked up the lifeless sparrow.
‘This will be our dinner on the morrow.’
Her laugh again hitting my heart like a poisoned arrow.
She placed the bird on the table,
And began chanting the words of some nebulous fable.
But to grasp the meaning I was unable.
Whilst she sang her unholy dirge,
Of madness I was on the verge.
She lifted her red jar and measured out a tot,
Into a small black common pot.
She turned to me, her shoulders bent and humped,
And spoke so fast my nervous body jumped.
‘Into this powder you must put,
Three drops of blood from your cut,
And when the moon is on the wane,
A cup of this potion she must drain.
Now pay me my wage and begone,
And keep your tongue and tell none.’
I fumbled deep in my pocket for her payment,
My hand quivering with restrained lament,
And offered my thanks and bobbed my head,
And quickly backed out the door before I was dead.
My legs carried me like the wind,
Before her mind she could rescind.
The very next day I added my red blood,
But hesitated if I really should.
That was sixty long years past,
And my beautiful bride has become as cast,
I constantly curse my blind youthful lust,
For making these last sixty years so unjust.
~~~~
Only Smell and Touch
The windows of my world are covered and obscured.
Cruel tormenting God.
Abandoning me into the soundless
World of blackness.
Deny me the right of life,
But not the right of living.
Why suffer I so when others rejoice.
The blackness of my thoughts,
Could never achieve the bleakness of your heart.
Why give me eyes?
If only to deny me sight.
Why give me ears?
If only to deny me sounds.
Have I become the joke?
The aim of derision?
The target of ridicule?
Do I create employment?
The guinea-pig of practitioners and neophytes.
Honing their knowledge on my suffering.
Wearing out pens that chronicle my sorrow.
Callousing the fingers of the statistician,
The privileged know my every function,
Charting my demise with clinical precision.
The hand again.
Cold, two strong fingers at my wrist.
Convey me to the cold white slab,
Slice my useless body.
Examine my worthless brain,
Explore my wasted life.
Sign my happy release into Death’s welcoming embrace.
Come, come sweet Nemesis,
Take your retribution,
Then let us join hand in hand,
And lead me to posthumous script,
So others may lament my void.
Another hand.
Warm and soft, loving and caring.
A hand caressing, flowing with love and hope,