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JASMIN HORST E. P. SEILER, click here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.

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Dark shadows of the mind!
Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Rated "G" by the Author.

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A Teenagers imagination running wild!
before modern TV blunded the sensitivities......good for halloween!

There among the broken shards

Among the ruins of ages

Among the sins and glories

Among the ancient and newborn

The forefathers of our time

Among the cobwebs of the mind

And its dark caverns

The path you might have travelled

In times of yore

There the mind keeps score

It sears the layers of time

The new bulk of atoms

That formed over old

It connects the seer

To a former place

With feelings of another life

Sometimes strong

Sometimes week

Always a message

A code that connects

And translates

A place in the same space

As the new that is now

Two places at the same time

Sometimes more

If you are willing

Or not

But if you are

You will see

And feel more thereof

Than ever before!


There in the dark shadows

Among the silver silhouettes of ancient trees

The moonstruck alabaster stones and crosses

There stood I alone!



Threatened by my minds convulsions

Into an abyss

Of angst

I hear the last supper bell in the far distance

Candles and light being dimmed

In curtained and shuttered windows

Quit now the noise of children playing

It was all quiet

Very quiet

The murmur of the brook nearby

And the breeze

Moving the Iron Gate

Squealing in its hinges

The dark shadow of the ancient castle

Laying across the path home

But I was alone !

The graveyard and the moat

Separated me from the winding road, and the forest,

I knew that road well,

But at night it was different

Lights and shadows played tricks on the mind

And hastened the late traveller

To hurry his journey

I had a while yet before I would,

The clammy wet bone in my hand

Had stopped me in my work

From digging the moist ground

And replacing old with new flowers

It was my assignment

Every Wednesday

To take a fully loaded wagon

Up that long trek

To the castle cemetery

A long pushcart

It was fine in the daytime

There were always many visitors

A culture

Or a requirement of such

Not that it wasn’t beautiful

It was a showpiece of artistic pride

Better then any local flower garden

Yet when the sun set

And work demanded extra time

A burden the master had lain often on my shoulders

At fourteen it was a heavy burden

But it was common

An apprentice gardener had to work hard

Usually twelve hours a day

On Saturdays, and on many a Sunday

This Wednesday as any other

Left me with many unpleasant forebodings

And heaved upon my mind

Much torment

Which in turn would translate in nightmares and day mares?

Yes I threaded Wednesdays, I sure did

And here again was I

Trying to collect myself

To transgress abhorrent thoughts

And weakened limbs

I placed the bone back with trepidations of finding more

And sculpted my last flower arrangement in a hurry

Now I had to go all the way to the far dark end of the graveyard

To fetch another can of water

It would not do if they were wilted the next day

For the master would fine me with some unpleasant task

For my transgressions

Heavy heartedly and with a furtive look all around

I collected my courage

It did not help

That I had scared a raven off its sanctuary,

I had not seen him in the dark

And the loud caw and the upward lifting wings

And that whoosh sound

Brought my trepidations to a new high

Minutes before my departure

And walking now in almost pitch black

Toward the gate

I heard it creak

And then again

As if someone was trying to come in or leave

Panic struck me

I was frozen still

My arms were shaking holding the cart

I could not see

The moon now hiding behind a cloudy sky

Terror crept through my mind

All the ghastly stories we had told each other as young boys

And all the ones the adults had berated us with

I stood there

I was shivering now

Did not know what to do

I waited and waited


Then nothing again

And on a dare

I darted toward the gate

Hoping all the while that it was open

Praying oh please be open

Grandma watch over me

I never seen the gate

At least I don’t remember

I ran three marathon miles

Down that awful serpentine road

Ghost passing me by

That couldn’t catch me

I was to fast for anyone

A little doggie running across the road slowed me down

And as I passed the first little church

I had entered town

And followed the brook alongside

Rush down the road

Down, down,

To where the railroad tracks where

And into the bosses arms

He was a tall handsome

And broad shouldered man

He had caught the cart

He seemed to know

And smothered me tightly in his leather apron

There I shivered for a while

Then he would laugh out hardily

Holding me at arms length and looking at me

When I started to smile he led me go

Then he said laconically

All done

And when I knotted still clump

Pointed to his wife’s calling

She had brought us a hot cup of cocoa

We sat down to discuss the next day’s upcoming events

It was now ten and I trundled off to the third floor bedroom

A lonely shuttered place

A place sparsely furnished

With a bed

A ceramic washbasin

A tiny woodstove

And some old dresser

The ceiling was sloped low overhead

And the light of the moon was washing the wall in striped patterns

I prayed

That I would sleep

For six o’clock would come early

And the iron wheelbarrow

Was always twice as heavy

If bad dreams had disturbed my night,

Not that they weren’t heavy enough

For a spindly little teenager

But the boss was a kind man

Sometimes he would see

And leave me be!





at 12:12 














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Reviewed by Carvin Wallson 8/21/2009
Our fears dominate us some times, but hot cocoa can always dominate them. Good imagery--quaint little bedrooms miles away from the fiery hearth--for a communal flame is always warmer.
Reviewed by Jason Goudie 2/7/2009
I could not have written it any better myself. Darkness is a high front on Poetry and is far more widely communicated above all others. Excellent work.
Reviewed by Malcolm Watts 11/23/2007
I love this story you have written. Very poetic prose, spooky, thoughtful. If English is a second language for you - this is an astonishingly piece.

Malcolm Watts
Reviewed by Kathy Armijo 10/31/2007
Frightening is about all that comes to mind. Stories can warp the mind and play games to those who are out late on Halloween.

Good thing I'm the treat giver.


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