One Silent Night

December 23, 2020 at 11:58 pm (Christmas, Culture, History, Music, Poetry, Songs) (, , )

It was a quiet night in 1816
When a young Austrian priest
Joseph Mohr
Went for a walk
Around the village of Oberndorf
In Austria

He looked out over a very quiet
snow-laden town
And the stars glistening
In the frosty heavens above

In his mind’s eye
He saw a beautiful young maiden
Wrapping a newborn babe
In a blanket
In a stable
In the back courtyard
Of an old inn
At the edge of a small town

The young maiden sang the sweetest lullaby
To her young son
He did not understand the words to the song
The young maiden sang
But it was the sweetest melody he had ever heard

He went home and wrote words to the melody
He did not know the words the young maiden sang
But he wrote the words of what he himself
Saw that night

A couple of years later
Franz Zaber Gruber
The choir director
Of Saint Nicholas Church
In Oberndorf
Wrote music to accompany
The words that Father Mohr
Had written to accompany
The melody he heard in his mind

And that Christmas Eve in 1818
At Saint Nicholas Church in Oberndorf
Austrian villagers first heard
The song lyrics and melody
To
Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht

Silent night, holy night.

-A poem written by Christopher
Wednesday December 23rd 2020
The Night Before
Christmas Eve 2020.

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Selena

December 1, 2020 at 11:31 pm (Arts, Culture, Entertainment, Gothic, Gothic romance, History, Life, love, Plays, Poetry, Romance, theatre) (, , , , )

The old playhouse was closing
It had a successful run throughout its long life
As a playhouse theatre
For 25 years
From comedies to tragedies
Romance to dramas
Several hits
And a few flops

It was a victim of its own success
For so many people
Were wanting to subscribe to its season
Of plays
This old playhouse
Could not seat all those who wanted to attend
What its company of performers and directors
Stage hands and lighting technicians
Had to offer.

So last night was the last performance
In the old playhouse
And now this 1st of December 1945
The new playhouse with new seats
And a much larger seating capacity
For a much larger audience
Would be opening its run
Of Dickens’ classic tale
For Christmas
A Christmas Carol

A Christmas Carol
With Ebenezer Scrooge
And his longsuffering clerk
Bob Cratchit
And Tiny Tim
And the ghost of Scrooge’s
7-years dead partner
Jacob Marley
With chains upon his feet
And the Ghosts of Christmas Past
Present
and Yet To Come

Selena was an actress

She wasn’t appearing in A Christmas Carol
But she had appeared in the last play
Ever performed in this old playhouse
The play that had finished its run last night
Wuthering Heights
Emily Bronte’s classic tale
of tragic doomed love
Of lovers who went far beyond star-crossed
Trying to reach the heavens
And end up
Falling
Into the abyss.
Of ghosts
And knocking outside the window
And howling winds
And desolate moors
And souls that are damned
And what happens when compassion is lacking
And revenge is always served
Hot or cold.

Selena had played Cathy
The love of Heathcliff’s life
And the woman who loved Heathcliff
Hot love
Passionate love
Forbidden love
The love only hinted at by Emily Bronte
As if Orestes and Electra
Had come from tragic Mycenae of old
To perform unfinished business
On the early 19th Century
Yorkshire Moors

Selena sat on coverings
On the sofa
Where she as Cathy
Had sat with the man
Who was Cathy’s husband
But not Cathy’s love or lover
Edgar Linton
In Bronte’s classic tale

And then
As if in one magic moment
A lighting technician
Suddenly shone the spotlight
On Selena
(Who was dressed to attend
The new theatre playhouse
Christmas Carol
Opening night party)
As she sat on that sofa

And that spotlight
Shone on one promising young actress
Who had performed many great performances
In that old playhouse
And soon would perform many more
In a new playhouse theatre

The spotlight would soon fade
And the lights would come down
For good
on the old playhouse
It may not have been Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre of London
But it had been the town’s old playhouse
Bringing joy and sadness
Heartache and hearbreak
To so many spectators
And audiences over the years

Like many old buildings
This old playhouse
Had character
And thus would be missed
And its old plays
And many performances
Would only be played again
In the memories
of the theatre
Of the mind

-A poem written by Christopher
Tuesday December 1st
2020.

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Faustina

November 19, 2020 at 11:40 pm (Arts, Culture, Gothic, Gothic poem, Gothic romance, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , )


Faustina with her cat Lenore Belle Noir in front of the fireplace in her room in Vienna

Flames in the fireplace
Flames that burn
Like thousands of tiny suns
Sending out a cosmic glow
Across the universe
Sending out heat
And ripple effects

Those flames so like her memories
That burn and scorch her mind
In the neverending passages of time
When will her memories become
Like the blackened embers
That sit below the base
of the fire
Becoming galactic black holes
That never emit any light
And become darkness
And a huge void of nothingness
That brings relief
To neverending pain.

Faustina had dressed like she was going to a ball
A cascading symphony of Strauss Waltzes
Dancing in a joyous celebration
Of the Blue Danube
and the Vienna Woods
But there were no Viennese waltzes
And grand balls happening
In this time of Covid

For the Covid virus did decree
like Kubla Khan
At those now forgotten gates of Xanadu
But its decree differered
From that cultured Emperor
For it decreed
And health and political authorities assented
That henceforth
Humans must only exist
And not live

They must no longer interact
No song, dinner or dance
They must cover half their face
With a mask
For if the image of God
Could not be erased from humanity
Then it must at least be distorted
Or cut in half

It is for your own good they tell us,
Faustina thought,
But did not despots throughout history
Always say the same?

On this night
Faustina wore a beautiful white silvery
Evening dress
And necklace
Imagining she’d meet a handsome prince
Or duke or count
But instead her only true friend
Her cat
Lenore Belle Noire
Sat on the train
Of her dress
As the pair
Listened to Strauss waltzes
On the old Gramophone

Lenore Belle Noir
Looked at her mistress
Trying to emit the power of healing
Through her kind and compassionate eyes
To heal her mistress’ tortured soul

For Faustina was the daughter
Of Johann Georg Faust (1480-1541)
Known to history as Faust
If one liked Goethe
Or Doctor Faustus
If one preferred
Christopher Marlowe

Her mother was Hecate
Greek goddess of witchcraft
Who had fallen hopelessly
In love
With that dark tortured soul
Faust
He who had sold his soul
To Mephistopheles

They had made love in the 1580s
And at midnight on the evening of
August 7th to 8th 1588
The night Francis Drake
Defeated the Spanish Armada
Faustina had been born

Born to Hecate
Born to Faust
Born to immortality
For that had been the curse
Inherited from her parents
For immortality for her
Had been a curse
And not a blessing

So many memories
So many painful memories
How long would they burn
In her mind
Like the flames in the fireplace?
How long before they finally
Turn into glowing embers
And at last mercifully into darkened ash?

The sound of the clock
Ticking on the wall
Provided no answer
Would that it did
Would that it did
Tick tock! Tick tock!

-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Thursday November 19th
2020.

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Minerva

August 21, 2020 at 11:02 pm (Commentary, Culture, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, Mythology, News, Poetry) (, , , , , )

And all the leather bound volumes on shelves were buried under dust
And all the gold on many crowns had finally turned to rust
A wireless library stretched across the globe
which technocrats wanted implants in everyone’s frontal lobe

Every fact and every fiction was now determined by Google
10 years hence you may see pic of Siamese cat when you search for “poodle”
And all will say it must be so
For high tech is not our foe

Alexa has replaced the shrink by the couch
With bar codes in your hands, no money to welch
Social interaction is missing like a person’s lips
Buried under a mask with one’s nose and no sinking ships

All that one sees are the other person’s eyes
Which have been Net trained to show nothing but lies
“The truth is out there” is a phrase now foreign as ancient Etruscan
if Truth ever existed, it’s as dead as electoral collusion with a Russian

The truth is not out there, it’s neither here nor there
For every day is filled with hope previous generations labelled “despair”
They march in tune to the beat of a non-existent drummer
where an eternal winter is labelled an endless summer

Good little sheep they all are
Marching near and far
For 2020 was the year most lost perfect vision
As their minds were infected by a diabolical incision

2030 was the UN’s sustainable goal
But the world’s elites bet on a closer running foal
And they got their wish
from the bottom of a Wuhan petri dish

The medium was indeed the message like Marshall McLuhan predicted
And people soon ceased calling themselves “homeless” after they were evicted
The media echoed the same message day after day
And people’s souls were lost like needle in the hay
And the Devil smiled as he sang “You’re all going my way”

“Be careful what you wish for” was now an old forgotten refrain
lost in a forgotten past like the whistle of ancient steam train
They had spent so much time in the late 20th Century watching movies
about lands of Dystopia and the post-Apocalypse
That finally when in reality it came to pass, no one asked, what is this?

Far from the madd’ing crowd that was so maddening
He lived in a home far away
surrounded by books and old leather volumes
where the sun ruled the day and the moon ruled the night
And 2 +2 = 5 was never ever right

In his mind’s eye he saw the lovely Athena
ancient goddess of wisdom that haunted his dreama’
Minerva was her Roman name
and she bore wisdom’s flame

Holding ancient scrolls
She pointed towards those
Who sought her light still
like one man alone on the side of a hill
Who sought neither the blue nor the Matrix red pill
For all medication inclined for a soul to kill

Her owl flew in the direction
of a world far from perfection
Knowledge to impart
Even just for one was a start.

-A poem written by Christopher
Friday August 20th
2020.

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Millicent Patrick’s Creation

August 1, 2020 at 10:35 pm (Culture, Entertainment, Film, Poetry) (, , )

Millicent Patrick at work: Giving personality and soul to the Creature From The Black Lagoon

Millicent Patrick was the artist
who sketched and designed the creature
who was the Creature From The Black Lagoon

A 1954 film made in 3D
And for those with eyes to see
The Creature was 3 dimensional in more ways than one

In toy model kits of the 1960s
The Creature was considered
one of the Universal Pictures film monsters

But the Creature was no monster
It was scientists who came to his Amazon River habitat
To grab him and take him back to captivity for scientific study

They were the monsters
As for the Creature, who defended his habitat
and tried to escape from captivity

Monster they called him
but monster he was not
He was the proverbial fish out of water

The woman in the film
who he was portrayed as menacing her in film posters
She showed some sympathy for the Creature

Millicent was a true artist
one who showed great sensitivity
Like all true artists, she imbued her creation with life and soul

As she sat at her sketch board
etching and sketching and drawing and painting
She slowly brought her creation to life

And that Creature
moved from drawing board to clay model
and then to celluoid film

But a Creature with soul
who showed more signs of humanity
than the humans who captured him

Almost 50 years later
The Creature still provokes empathy from those who feel
And a sense of pathos to be found within that tragedy called “modern science”

A woman artist gave him soul on her sketch board
And that tragic soul still calls out to all those who see, hear and feel
Across a vast stretch of space and time so many years later

-A poem written by Christopher
Saturday August 1st 2020.

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Young Sherlock Meets The Maiden of Glencoe

July 17, 2020 at 10:52 pm (Culture, Entertainment, History, Literature, Poetry, Romance) (, , , , , )


The Maiden of Glencoe

It was the summer of 1870
Otto von Bismarck was up to no good
as far as the French were concerned
On July 15th the French Army mobilized
The North German Confederation
responded with its own mobilization
later that same day.
A day later July 16th
The French Parliament
voted to declare
war on Prussia.
Due to lengthy wine and cheese breaks
among French postal service employees
and lengthy beer and Wiener Schnitzel breaks
among German postal service employees
The declaration of war didn’t reach Berlin
until 3 days later
July 19th 1870
when the war officially began.

But that was a couple of days away
For this was July 17th 1870
and young Sherlock Holmes
wasn’t all that concerned
with Europe’s geopolitical problems anyways
as he strode through the highlands of Scotland

He was walking through the valley of Glencoe
site of the infamous massacre of Glencoe
that took place on February 13th 1692
in which 30 members of the Clan MacDonald of Glencoe
were brutally murdered by members of the Campbell family

Sherlock had a sturdy staff in hand
as he walked
and talked to his imaginary friend
a talking bear
that he called Doctor Clawson

“Well, Clawson,” young Sherlock lit his imaginary pipe,
“This is the site of the Glencoe Massacre.
What do you make of it?”.
“Where’s all the blood, Holmes?”
Clawson asked
as he took in the spellbinding scenery.

“You’ve glanced through my history textbooks but obviously never read them,”
Holmes deduced as he blew imaginary smoke ,
“The Glencoe Massacre happened almost 200 years ago.
The blood has probably long dried up since then.”

“Well then if I was a vampire, I’d be shit out of luck,”
the colourful talking bear with the rather colourful vocabulary
remarked.

“Up among the heather…” young Sherlock started dancing like a young English public school boy dandy
as the imaginary bear Clawson covered his eyes in shock and horror
He had obviously put too much fruit helpings on his porridge this morning, Clawson deduced about young Sherlock

Sherlock stopped dancing like a dandy
when he went up over the hill
and came upon this vision below him

The Maiden of Glencoe

Young Sherlock let go of the wooden staff in his hand
and dropped his imaginary pipe
spilling non-existent ash over the heather
when he saw the maiden.

“Heavens above!” Young Sherlock gasped.

Their conversation began with a tete a tete
moved to a fete a fete
and climaxed with a pet a pet

Doctor Clawson looked on in horror
The fact that young Sherlock
would someday lose his virginity
was something the talking bear
had never deduced would happen
in his wildest dreams.

And it was after this
that Doctor Clawson the imaginary talking bear
wound up abandoned on the shelf of toys
where he would be joined by Little Jackie Piper’s friend
Puff the Magic Dragon
90 or so years later.

-A poem written by Christopher
Friday July 17th 2020.

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Notre Dame In Paris To Be Restored With Original Gothic Style Spire

July 11, 2020 at 10:18 pm (Art, Culture, Geopolitics and International Relations, International Intrigue, News, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , )

The spire of Notre Dame Cathedral which was destroyed in a fire in April of 2019 will be restored according to the original Gothic design French President Emmanuel Macron announced a couple of days ago.

Macron had originally said after the fire that he was in favour of a “contemporary gesture”.

However the French President wanted the restoration to be completed by 2024 when Paris is hosting the Olympics for that year (assuming of course that most of humanity hasn’t died off from the Covid-19 virus or died off from massive carbon dioxide poisoning after having worn face masks 24 hours a day in the last idiotic decree of the WHO and numerous politicians around the world).

The process of designing a contemporary modern spire with an international competition for architects of no doubt exceedingly bad taste would have caused unnecessary delays.

France’s National Heritage and Architecture Commission thus recommended going with a spire in the original Gothic design.

The Cathedral’s first spire was built in the 13th Century but due to extensive damage it had to be removed in the late 18th Century.

Its replacement, designed in the Gothic style by architect Eugene Violett-le-Duc, was built in the mid-19th Century.

Jean-Louis Georgelin (the French Army General put in charge of the reconstruction effort) wanted a modern or maybe even a post-modern alternative to replace Violett-le-Duc’s Gothic design.

Architects from around the world submitted designs including one design with a rooftop pool and another with a giant park and greenhouse on the roof.

Australia’s notorious Uncle Ernie had even submitted an architectural design that showed a giant male phallus surrounded by pancakes.

It was mercifully lost in the mail.

The cathedral’s chief architect Philippe Villeneuve consistently spoke out in favour of a faithful restoration of the previous 19th Century Gothic style design.

This upset Gen. Georgelin and in a heated exchange at a meeting of the French National Assembly’s Cultural Affairs Committee last November, the General told Monsieur Villeneuve to shut his mouth.

Seconds later, Gen. Georgelin had a Devonshire Cheese cream pie thrown in his face by an invisible entity.

Although a few Harvey Wallbanger imbibing members of the committee swore it was a 6 foot 8 tall bunny rabbit with big pink floppety ears who did the deed.


Esmeralda and her pet goat Djali look on in horror at some of the proposed designs for Notre Dame’s spire.

-A vampire novel written by Christopher
Saturday July 11th 2020.

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Vera Lynn

June 18, 2020 at 9:20 pm (Culture, Entertainment, History, Music, News, Obituaries, Personal essays) ()

R.I.P. Vera Lynn (March 20th 1917 – June 18th 2020) the British singer who was called England’s Sweetheart and the English Nightingale during World War II for singing such inspirational songs as We’ll Meet Again, The White Cliffs of Dover, There’ll Always Be An England, and Lily Marlene.

She died on the 80th Anniversary of Sir Winston Churchill’s This Was Their Finest Hour speech (that Churchill delivered on June 18th 1940).

80 years later was the day England’s Finest Singer went to her Heavenly Abode.

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Marianne de Lilith

June 13, 2020 at 10:18 pm (Culture, Detective story, Fantasy, Gothic romance, Literature, Poetry, Romance, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , )


Marianne de Lililth

Carson Cody Albion sat in his private eye office
From his window, he could get a good view of parts of the city burning
The private eye felt hungry so he ordered a pizza to be delivered to his office

Unbeknownst to Albion, the courier got his orders mixed-up
A pizza that was to be delivered to the leader of a rival gang
A gang in opposition to the gang that owned the pizza shop
Was delivered to Albion instead

The pizza contained several doses of toad venom
Luckily for Albion the pizza cook got his recipe books mixed up
He did not sprinkle enough toad venom on the mozzarella to deliver death
Only enough to give the eater a high

Although Albion might not have died anyways
He was immortal
Having drunk breast milk from the lovely knockers of
the Syro-Phoenician goddess Atargatis back on VE-Day
May 8th 1945

Albion ate the pizza
and drank his bourbon
And soon he was off on a hallucinogenic trip
That would have made Samuel Taylor Coleridge green with envy
For there was no storytelling sailor with an albatross around his neck
Nor a Kubla Khan in Xanadu stately decreeing a pleasure dome

Rather this sight greeted his senses

Marianne de Lilith

I am Marianne de Lilith
said the sexy redheaded witch

Well, Marianne, said Albion,
I love the way you’re holding that broomstick.

Bats flew in the light of the full moon
Behind the dead desolate tree.

“This is but a vision of the mind,” Albion reflected
“As I don’t think the Farmer’s Almanac called for a full moon this evening.”

“The tree behind me died as a result of being watered with toad venom,”
Marianne explained.
“That is a shame,” Albion reflected as he threw his cigarette lighter at Marianne’s feet.
Albion crawled over to pick it up.

“I’m reminded of fishing season for some reason,” Albion remarked as he gazed up her stockings and her skirt.
A spiked stiletto high-heeled shoe crushed his hand.

“This never happened to John Candy when he made a splash with his loose change aboard that boat,” Albion grimaced with pain.

Albion soon found himself in Marianne’s shack.
He started whistling that song “What A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts”
as he gazed at the pair of knockers that weren’t hanging on Marianne’s door.

“I take it you still like being breast fed?” Marianne asked the private eye.
“I do,” Albion nodded, “I’m like Jerry Seinfeld in that respect.”

So Marianne breast fed him.
Breasts that were loaded with toad’s venom and not milk.
Albion went into cardiac arrest and was rushed to an LA hospital.

“Beware the breasts of Marianne de Lilth!” Calpurnia’s ghost warned as she strolled the corridors of the hospital emergency ward.
Her warning came a little too late for Carson Cody Albion private eye.

-A poem and vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Saturday June 13th
2020.

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The Name of The Rose

June 11, 2020 at 10:52 pm (Commentary, Culture, Geopolitics and International Relations, History, Poetry) ()

Cities on fire
Statues torn down
First slave traders and genocidal kings
Then Philadelphia abolitionists
and Boy Scout founders
next all Maria’s favourite things

The center cannot hold, Yeats wrote
Mere anarchy is loose upon the world
The best seem to be dead and gone
The worst prefer fire to right a wrong

Solve and coagula
Motto of Freemasonry
written on the arms of Eliphas Levi’s Baphomet
In Latin, solve means to dissolve
Coagula means to congeal and coagulate
It means to tear down
And then build anew
Reduce to rubble
and start again

Such has always been the belief of a certain style of dreamer
From John Locke to Rousseau
Men who could philosophize
But a tabula rasa in the real world just doesn’t harmonize

They tried it in France in 1789
Robespierre’s reason turned to terror sublime
A reign where human blood became a French red wine
They tried it in Russia in 1917
Bloodbath and famine became the “new serene”

Mao’s Cultural Revolution – a change to even the score
And Pol Pot strolled across piles of skulls to reach Utopia’s shore
Now they’re trying it again in America in 2020
A failed optical vision test × infinity aplenty

Madness reigns
Despot’s gains
Devil’s games
Satan’s plains

The Bard wrote, A rose is a rose by any other name
Dreamers’ dreams become nightmares
Their heaven on Earth built in vain.

As for me I’ll seek the rose

For a dreamer’s new Earth is soul’s loss but a demon’s gain

-A poem written by Christopher
Thursday June 11th 2020

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