Falconhead – Poetry

When not walking the moonlit streets of the Night, Falconhead is writing poetry, short stories and plays. His work has appeared in Antiphon, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine, Wilde Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Thick Jam, Poetica Magazine, Camas: The Nature of The West, Thin Air Magazine, Glitterwolf, Whistling Fire, Two Hawks Quarterly, Rock & Sling, and Adanna Literary Journal, Green Wind Press’s “Words Fly Away” Anthology, among others, and is forthcoming in several publications.

The Tale of Sir Leir Bag

hus, wakes he
At eventide
An arcane law
He must abide

Dressed in wears
Centuries gone
A top hat fair,
A black cane drawn

His shoes as sharp
As daggers’ tips,
A curled moustache
Above his lips

A pocket watch
Of solid gold,
A monocle
As he strolls

Through the
Darken’d, wett’d night
He a half-moon lit’d

Goes amongst
The rodent woke,
The serpent slid,
The toadish crook

The skulking wolf
Not hidden far,
The night orchid
Bloom’d ajar

Greeting him
His winged friends
The moth alights,
The bat descends

And to a church-
Yard goes he
Where the fog
Ascends the knee

To kneel before
A crumbling tomb
The wight leans nigh
To read his doom

Here the soul
Of Sir Leir Bags
Of solemn verse
And choice glad rags

‘Twas lain low
And put to rest
But not an eye
Could attest

Let him come,
Let him return
To find his bed
Here undisturbed

And let the man
Know peace ahead
From war, or woe
Or worries dread

So it is told
The night he pass’d
By a hand,
His own, alas

Atop the bed
Perch’d the owl
The cat, the wolf
They took to howl

And he was not
Again once seen
By man nor maid
Friend, nor fiend

Thus, to the grave
His tombstone went
Nor tear nor sorrow
For him spent

A hollow’d coffin
Then was laid
A rite was by
Custom made

And just as
The soil fell
A thunderclap wroth

Henceforth, the tale
The gentle man
False perceived

It is warn’d
By widows gray
And the vicars wise
Of the day

When all the world
Is abed
The moon–
A jack-o-’lantern’s head

And furry’d
Foot’d things abound
With mouths of fang
Or wings unwound

Comes a well-
Suit’d gent
Who from the day
Long has went

To rove the
Wonton, wither’d path
With some long un-
Bidden wrath!


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