|Here is Mocha, the grandmother, posing with her one day old grandbaby.|
|My book of poetry is available to buy on Amazon, just follow this link...|
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to Jewel MoonSilver Knight, aka NocturneJewel.
DO NOT repost, claim, alter, sell, redistribute, make layouts, create avatars. NOTHING!!! without my EXPRESSED WRITTEN PERMISSION
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FROM A WHISPER TO A SCREAMOnce, I used to trace the Dark's veins into a map I never had to read twice,FROM A WHISPER TO A SCREAM by NocturneJewel
I thought I knew how to see her fairest friends and never asked for advice,
my mother told me not to go in the attic where the shadows never slept,
I thought her wickedly overbearing, and from my bed one night I crept.
Through the cobwebs where spiders spun strange stories of unseen things,
up the stairs where bats haunted a morbid world, what could it mean?
I was not afraid, instead I laughed at my mother's cautious word,
I went where I was not to go-to a place where my screams will never be heard.
I came upon a room full of a feral stench and sights that had no friend,
jars full of slimy green things, bowls of eyes and deboned starlings sent
me into a fit of fright, so many bottled heads-were they from lover of foe?
These must be the macabre mayhem my ancestors committed long ago.
Three-headed dogs and rats strung up by their own entrails,
without a care they were bottled, babies with a tail
and other things
I am a prolific pagan poet and have over 1000 poems. I love rainy days and thunderstorms at night. My favorite season is Autumn, it is so full of color and beauty, inner reflection and subtle wisdom. I love the night, it is then I get most inspired and write the majority of my poetry. I have a close relationship with nature, especially reptiles. I have quite a large reptile family at home which includes nineteen geckos, seven snakes, and twelve tarantulas. They are my family. I get such a pure feeling of fulfillment from being with my reptile family.|
Besides reptiles, my favorite animals are bats and owls. I also have several tattoos and piercings. My very first tattoo were vampire bite marks on my necks. I love them.
The beautiful has written a review of me as a writer. I am so honored! So this is what she has to say about my writing style:
~NocturneJewel is an intensely prolific poet, and in reading just a sampling of her work, you quickly come to realize that to be a prolific poet with work of such vision and depth is a great achievement indeed. Her style may be unusual, but it is all hers, and she is nothing but proud. Each line blends seamlessly into the next, and the fluid rhythm and potent imagery weave together into a tapestry of literary enchantment.
Current Residence: The Dark Side of the Moon
Favourite genre of music: Celtic, New Age, Nature, Goth
Favourite style of art: Nocturnal
Shell of choice: Home
Skin of choice: Reptilian
Personal Quote: Don't try to fix me, I'm not broken.
AUTUMN WOMANDeep within the belly of my home...
I sip gingerbread tea and line my bed with
the skin of October, groaning beneath my feet
the floor creaks like aging bones, I hear the
air's cookie crunch outside, it breaks up the
fast of my fantasies with its crackling cold,
whispering that Autumn's pantry has been
stocked with a bounty of seasonal reruns,
I see the Sky skirt low before the nibbling
frost as I step outside, I am not as cold as
others may be, I am warmed by Autumn's
plump lips upon mine, keeping me warm
with her mulled applespice, I kiss her-deep
and probing even deeper-our love leaves us
tangled on the Earth, steaming and sweating
-but the mirror has never been clearer, looking
into the slow simmer of creeping years when
I will age into a crone-I do not fear them or her.
Age will make me an Autumn Woman, my belly
full of Wealth and Wisdom, an abundance only
matched by Autumn's full harvest belly, sinking
low, sunken hollow, this little world of me will
be drawn into the slow steady
A DEADLY RESURRECTIONI have made candles, their burning flames fed without denial
from dead man's fat, and bottled babies too, their unborn ire
swaddled in alcoholic water, hearts and livers fill my phials
and Death's prostitutes please my morbid desires.
I have moved stone by stone to resurrect from the grave
corpses once committed to enjoying their coffin's rest,
now lay upon the anatomist's table-the surgeon's slave-
while I make the unholy cut into what used to be blessed.
Severed heads and dismembered limbs are my perverse pastime,
flaying bodies for their skin to upholster my favorite chair,
slicing flesh from bone, caricatures of morality tell of my crimes
and desire for the dead, the living shy away from me, scared.
And I who have stolen sentient corpses, disturbing the dust
from their bones, my macabre mentality is all I will ever own
when I die, myself to be dissected to please their gruesome lust
before my derelict grave I go, but eternal rest I will never know.
October 13, 2011
A MURDERER'S TALEShe laid crumpled in the stairwell,
a pile of flesh and bone emptied of any pale
blot of light animating her lifeless corpse,
only the streetlamp would dare tell of how
she fought against the thundering hooves
of some Nightmare assailing her in the dark
damp street, only a slab of concrete was there
to catch her when she fell like a ragdoll,
her neck bruised and broken and forever carrying
the imprints of my fingers when I found her,
so ready and willing to die as my hands squeezed
the life from her, I stared into her amber eyes
enraptured by the fear I saw embalming her
mortal depths with something almost profane,
she choked and gasped-pleading to breathe-
still I wouldn't release her from my deadlock
vise, my hands squeezed her throat until I heard
the crunch of bone and the exhale of her last
breath, her eyes were as empty as my black heart...
she laid a crumpled heap of nothing at my feet,
no one saw her fall, no one heard her cry,
no one but I and I was the moster who had
A MORTICIAN'S TALEShe laid chafed by the austere Silence of the room,
its weight a counter-clockwise pendulum to the rope
that squeezed the last gasp of life from her broken neck,
now she laid on the table limp and still and waiting
for my examination to exume the secrets of her last hour
-the minutes that demured to seconds and the seconds
that became an ether frozen by Death's fermented breath,
like a rune waiting to be deciphered by the fingers of
phantom Moonlight filtering through my basement window
I studied her, this strange girl with the fiery amber
eyes staring blankly ahead, eyes gasping up at the sterile
ceiling, a lonely tear had frosted the pale blush of
her cheek and her lips had long since dried from the
apology that once moistened them, how I yearned to kiss
those lips to life again and see if a drop of nectar
still clung to their expiring splendorous decay,
and her naked corpse all bled of virtue and modesty
I craved to caress-now succumbed to the intercourse
of my embalmer's fluid, but
TedI dream in cold blood
where air coagulates
and legs slip
on plastic chairs.
I like the way blond women
paint their toenails red
and wear tiny gold hoops
in their ears.
I can imagine them
on the chairs -
perfectly still as they
run out of things
to say to me.
of the same questions -
and I just make up answers -
things about my mother
and their sons,
stories not found on TV
or in their magazines.
But they leave me gifts -
mementoes, really -
rings from their toes
lips carelessly left behind
on my glasses
and hair -
clips of fake yellow
and that shade of brown
you find underneath sinks.
I keep them all...
And dream in cold blood.
I am the last ghastly ghost,
glib tongued and glimmering,
in the space beneath the stairs.
My name glows upon your tongue,
gleeful and dreadful
in the dreary dregs of memory -
a keening cacophony
of deadly delights.
You called me here,
made me legion -the languid
languish of laughter,
your new language of the air
and all unearthly promises
pondering their place
in this shallow grave.
Bury me in beauty,
in the bounty of wanton
wonder and I will waste
eternity, a willing wraith to wait
upon your pleasure.
THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOWMy god let me not think on her now!
Not after these past twenty years.
Torment and torture from so long ago,
my mind could not bear it again...
I was just eleven then, just a young boy,
and every morning at 4 am
I walked the sidewalks throwing newspapers;
in the dark of early morning...
One house had a beautiful bay window,
decorated with lace curtains;
at its center I saw a rocking chair,
sitting it it was a woman...
I could see she was old by her grey hair.
She waved at me, and I would wave back,
smiling I would continue on my way;
and so this went on for many weeks...
There was one morning when she did not wave,
but motioned for me to come closer.
Hesitant I drew nearer to the window,
I was frozen by what I saw...
Her skin was the color of ashen grey,
with eyes devoid of any life.
I could see her struggling to move her lips,
she pressed her hand against the window...
Her mouth opened to reveal rotted teeth;
my eyes firmly fixed upon hers.
Slowly my arm raised up and our hands met,
*The Crypt*Vampire crypt, eternal sleep
Decades pass mold does creep
Where time no longer has a place
Dormant bodies beyond embrace.
Lured to sleep in timeless portal
Ancient ones who are not mortal
Vampire hunter with garnet eye
Showed no mercy, they did die.
Millennium passed they're not missed
Secret lost like morning mist
Crypt is safe, but who knows where?
Dormant fury caught in snare.
Crimson Boulevard!Crimson boulevard creates illusion
Bathed in blood red light
Aberration of short duration
Fleeting moment, throw-up sight.
Be assured you will find trouble
Surrounded by creatures of the night
Cold skin crawls, mouth runs dry
Crimson boulevard a place to die.
Vampires rampant with fangs so white
Dangerous looking, heartless bite
Shadows and phantoms stalk the moon
Morning for them will come too soon
Slowly awake, half remembered dream
Glorious sunrise through window streams
Aberrations fade into wall
Disappointed to find no bite at all.
KnowingThe witch man knows me
He knows me by my oldest name
He speaks to me across the time
Whispers in the softness of midnight
Rain or shine, gloom or light
And I listen, I listen bright
Towards the fields of grass and trees
The depths of the forest of all seas
Towards the soul that gives me stars
Yes, I know him I know him too
© copyright of KAY MARCH - All Rights Reserved.
A Study in Dark MatterA lament,
stirs the solitude and leaves behind
ripples deep in the silence that never heals
tears apart the sky's latitude and longitude
and I... I am no longer myself.
breaks the velvet tissue of the Night
and my heart shell of mother of pearl made
lost in the capricious tides
adrift and dormant.
so meticulously as the reaper
shatters light and the mirrors between life
blinds the stars... one by one
and I... I am no longer myself.
in the silken frail nothingness
the obsidian darkness
reflects the unseen black matter
of which dreams are made
such is the shore where I belong
"I welcome thee sweet darkness
the light is hurting me..."
© copyright of KAY MARCH - All Rights Reserved.
Crow Soul There are crow plumes
in the dark corners of my soul
merging with the shadows
behind each wall
all of my scars drip... so slow,
like an autumnal waterfall…
Some kind of blue hue
driven from the tears
entwined in the wind
once, you and I touched
leaning on each other,
waiting for something in the stars
that was never named…
Ebony silhouettes lurking
on the tall grasses and scented trees