Stan Petrovich (10/27/1950 / Fort Riley, KS)
Admixture in October
The burymen sit smokng and contemplating
Their new dig. It is a musty morning fog
They rest in. Then as they dig
They hit a hard hand, with curling nails twitching crust.
It is the Beast.
The creature now stands up through the tenuous dirt
And coughs a laugh at them.
No man, I am. I am no man. Its one eye spreads,
Spouting obscenities: he is Polyblasphemus.
The arms entangle the two and rife with horror
Tears them to shreds. Blood flies across the tired moor.
It is All Hollow's Eve. The fortelling was true.
What are gravedigers to do tonight,
Except call in with a vicious cough of their own?
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Admixture in October by Stan Petrovich )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings