National Poetry Day

It's the day for the poet in all of us to shine.

I couldn't resist the urge to write something in the Halloween vein.  It is the month of scary, after all.

Here's mine:  Where's yours?

Old Pete

By Andrea McDonald

There was an old man who was far from sweet,

He cuffed boy’s heads, he tripped their feet,

He lured their dogs with poisoned meat,

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.

His eyebrows hung thick, his hair was like sleet,

And the jeans he wore had never been neat

He scuffed along with splayed boots on his feet

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.

He ran at the girls who lived on his street,

He scared all the adults he was to meet,

He snarled and he growled, and he bared his teeth,

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.

But the pain he hid ran red and ran deep,

Within his heart was a black, wizened seed,

A seed of hatred, a seed of need,

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.

He wanted to hurt them, to make them scream,

To shock them and make them too scared to breathe,

He connived to ruin their scary glee,

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.

So he climbed on the bridge that Hallow’s Eve,

Shook his fist at the world he planned to leave,

And leapt with a curse, and a howling scream,

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.

Oh, he swung low, swung low, did Pete.