THE CELEBRATION

By Jean Bush

It was a shifting night of eyes and things;

Of smokey fires and spells to sing.

Where witches dance and fairies prance

And night takes flight upon its wings.

October wind, chilled too soon,

Blows beneath the misty moon.

Drifting clouds like ragged shrouds

Enhance the coming gloom.

Within the woods a cat-like tread;

A hung still moment of nameless dread.

A flash of light then blackest night,

And there stood they, the walking dead.

A crackling fire they quick surround

And dance a dance of leaps and bounds.

Black hair flying, voices crying,

The dancers from the graveyard mounds.

The moon casts forth a deathlike sheen

On these creatures from a madman’s dream.

But to childhood’s ghosts they drink a toast,

And celebrate this Halloween.

THE WITCHING HOUR

By Jean Bush

Shadow, shadow on the wall;

Merry monsters in the hall.

Ghostly goblins gently peek

At little children faking sleep.

The night is strange as low it roams

Around the snugly lighted homes.

The young ones feel its magic power.

The clock has struck the children’s hour!

Grabbing costumes from the wall,

Then down the stairs and past the hall

To children’s promised midnight feast

As grownups fall for trick or treat.

Grinning faces laughing merry;

Crouching shadows dark and scary.

Late this night there are no dreams

For this night’s name is HALLOWEEN!