Ever since Ebby and me announced the Poems of the Living Dead Contest in rec.arts.poems fer All Hallow's Eve 1998, mine Ebby an' I hae spent many a loovely night in me king-size coffin perusing the various entries an' wunderin' which ones Mistress Karla wud take a shine to. We thrilled to reade Sir Greg's inSpired senryu, Missis Jeanne's chilling "Alternatives for Working Girls," SLL's cynical "dear widow," la nilo's chilling "The Bride, and j r sherman's foot tapping "Zombie Love." We came t' treasure all the poems submitted as if they were our own body parts! Terrible 'twas the burden t' choose betwixt an' between 'em, so it is wit great gratitude that we thank Mistress Karla fer undertakin' this formidable task.

We hope that yule moochly enjoy the three horrifyinly goode winning poems.

yer Servante,
Bramwell Cadavaghan

Earth breathes steam
Your exhale I remember
With the little things
That drove me here
Your skin was soft
Like fresh turned fields
Fingers lost in muddy quest

"Warm hearts leave cold hands"
You said, I remember clasping
Inside mine, palms one by one
Or stuffed inside a pocket
Beside mine, it meant we had
To walk much closer

Your nose is cold as winter kisses
I remember, and I touch
Your hands don't warm
Within my warm and muddy hands

The Queen of Crones
enters the New Year
turning its Wheel in
a measured pace
in four directions waving
you on,
weaving a
pattern of nights and days.

On Samhain night the veils
are thinnest
'twixt worlds of
living and of the dead;
Halloween costumes worn
for one night
like bodies
donned for one life - then shed.

A fairy dust sparkles
through night
and ghosts
drift by, silent and pale;
witches, sorcerers cross all
the lines
strong spells
are cast while banshees wail.

Immortal Priestess,
spinner of time
transforms
the jungles of urban sprawls,
knocks at your doors
offering a choice:
trick or trick
harvest of gain and loss.

Ripe pumpkins scatters
Crossroads Goddess
for you to
carve a sneer or a grin.
Gates to spirit houses
swing open -
Will you let
them out? Will you go in?

The Queen of Crones
starts another year
a spiral dance
of life and of death;
all still in bodies, all who
shed them,
circle in
rhythm with Her cosmic breath!