Sunday, December 11, 2016

Christmas Light, Christmas Dark Poetry
Trends and Traditions 2016
Compiled and Formatted
Anthony Servante


For Christmas 2016, we welcome Rick Mohl Sr., the jovial spirit of the season, family man and promising poet, Lemmy Rushmore, with his dark tidings that nevertheless bring joy on this occasion, Billie Sue Mosiman, the Star atop our Christmas tree this year, and Jaye Tomas, whose haunting words would give the Krampus pause.This year we add a short piece of Christmas Dark fiction to the poetry. So add Toy Davis to our group of writers. As is our tradition, we alternate dark Christmas verse with light Christmas verse and so on. Thus we begin with Ms. Rowe, who opens the proceedings with a bit of dark poetry.

Rick Mohl Sr.


My name is Ricky Lyn Mohl Sr.-- An aspiring poet.
This is who I am: Fifty-seven years I've lived upon this Earth.
This is what I am: My wife of thirty years, three children of birth.
This is where I am: A city in Washington State you've never heard.
This is why I am: I make that which is beautiful out of words.

Light Poetry

Christmas Came Early

Christmas came early to a little boy, 
It didn't come wrapped, it wasn't a toy.
It wasn't in a box with a ribbon or bow,
But still a gift, the best he would know.

Christmas came early to a little girl,
It wasn't a dress nor earrings of pearl.
Won't be seen under the Christmas tree,
But still it filled her with so much glee.

Christmas came early to a loving wife,
Yet it wasn't breathless but full of life.
There wasn't a card saying to and from,
But here was a gift she knew would come.

Christmas came early to a proud husband,
His gift was to us and now his gift is done.
So it's return to sender, I believe we agree,
Christmas this year to share with family.

Christmas came early to a precious three,
Cannot be bought cause it came for free.
On Christmas eve, a knock at the door,
Here is a gift from which love will pour.

Ricky L. Mohl Sr,
December 23, 2014

Christmas Time

Christmas time is here,
Your money disappears.
Everyone on this Earth,
Spending all their worth.

To the malls, all ye come,
Shopping till you are numb.
Will that be cash today?
Or charge it off your pay?

Spend and spend some more,
Into each and every store.
One of these, two of those,
Is it needed? No one knows.

Soon the money is all gone,
There is no more to call on.
Not one dime to your name,
A Merry Christmas all the same.

And when it's said and done,
In the end it was all in fun.
Because it's all about the joy,
Every man, woman, girl and boy.

Ricky L. Mohl Sr.
December 5, 2104


Lemmy Rushmore

Coming Soon...


A lifelong resident of northern Pennsylvania, Lemmy Rushmore is a mechanic by trade and father of three who occasionally dares dabble in the world of words. He now resides in Roulette PA with his girlfriend of nearly 30 years and his youngest son Zayden. Ranging from emotionally dark to horror, his pieces touch on many topics, but tend to lean more toward the darker side of those things encountered daily. First published in the anthology No Sight for the Saved, which features the superbly dark art of Niall Parkinson, Lemmy's poetry can now be seen in several anthologies including: We are Dust and Shadow, Demonic Possession, Hell II: Citizens/Cellar Door III: Animals, Indiana Horror Review 2014, Bones III, The Grays, In The Trenches, Doorway to Death, JEApers Creepers, Ugly Babies 3, and Toys in the Attic: A Collection of Evil Playthings for which he won the editors choice award. He has released an art and poetry collection through JWK publishing that features nearly 90 of his poems illustrated by Niall Parkinson, titled Between the Walls. Besides finishing up work on a soon to be released poetry collection titled A Trip into Madness that features over 200 poems, Lemmy is also in the beginning stages of putting together a horror anthology with friend and fellow writer/poet D.S. Scott, which will be called A Love That Lingers…

Dark Light Poetry

All One Could Want

my whole world lies asleep
each one tucked in their beds
with Christmas, I’m sure
dancing ‘round in their heads

all the halls have been decked
and the mistletoe hung
the tree stands complete
and the lights have been strung

it’s for Santa they wait
while they’re dreaming away
hoping good things he brings
in that sack, in that sleigh

but I no longer wait
not for Santa, nor sleigh
I have all one could want
and they slumber away…

Merry Christmas

I had seen what he did
and I caught him that night
and I righted the wrong
with each ounce of my might

he was filthy indeed
with no reason to be
but then fate intervened
and it left him to me

wasn’t dressed for the task
but I took to it still
maybe jolly I looked
but it’s blood I would spill

with one swing of the ax
he was flat on his back
and then I paused a bit
while I went for my sack

with my hammer produced
I proceeded to pound
and I sure must admit
that I relished the sound

with his digits reduced
down to no more than stumps
I continued the act
till the flesh flew in clumps

and then back to my bag
I would head in a flash
for the next tool I’d use
on that sniveling trash

for his bits I would go
with some rusty old shears
and I hacked and I hacked
while he drowned in his tears

once I’d seen quite enough
and I’d heard all I could
Merry Christmas I’d say
as it’s back up I stood

I then stomped on his skull
with the heel of my boot
and I painted the snow
just as red as my suit…

Bad Santa

the red suit said one thing
but I read in between
I saw there at the store
he was truly unclean

every kiddie he’d touch
every mommy he’d slap
and he’d beg and he’d plead
please come set on my lap

he would grope and he’d grab
he’d dare fondle and feel
and he’d say to each wish
let me make you a deal

he had one thing in mind
hidden there ‘neath his hat
and that fact became clear
if on his lap they sat

‘pon his whiskey drenched breath
came the half whispered lies
from the devil himself
in a Christmas disguise

but I saw through it all
and I watched as he played
for I knew he’d soon sleep
in the bed that he’d made

as he slipped off to break
I would follow in tow
and with pain as the means
I’d see off he would go

so, no sleigh shall you hear
not a hoof tap, nor bell
because jolly St. Nick
will be burning in Hell…

That One You Call Claus

Not one reindeer will come
Nor will you see his sleigh
For that one you call Claus
Won’t be coming your way

You won’t hear any bells
Nor those hooves upon roof
See your Santa is gone
And this night is your proof

Though your stockings are hung
Though your tree is in place
You’ve but wasted your time
For you shan’t see his face

Though they put cookies out
And they placed the milk too
Not one present shall show
Not for Bobby nor Sue

Seems I hated that guy
Hated him and his suit
So I picked up my gun
And I caught him en route

Gave him two in the chest
And then one in the head
So you better believe
That your Santa is dead

But I didn’t stop there
There was more to be done
I shot this deer then that
To the very last one

With some time left to kill
I then looted his sack
Stuffing this gift then that
In the pack on my back

So no reindeer shall come
Nor will you see his sleigh
Nor will he you called Claus
Soon be coming your way

You won’t hear any bells
Nor those hooves upon roof
See your Santa is gone
And this night is your proof…


Billie Sue Mosiman


Author of more than 60 books on Amazon, Mosiman is a thriller, suspense, and horror novelist, a short fiction writer, and a lover of words. In a diary when she was thirteen years old she wrote, "I want to grow up to be a writer." Her books have been published since 1984 and two of them received an Edgar Award Nomination for best novel and a Bram Stoker Award Nomination for most superior novel. In 2014 THE GREY MATTER received a Nomination for the Kindle Book Award. She has been a regular contributor to a myriad of anthologies and magazines, with more than 200 short stories published. Her work has been in such diverse publications as Horror Show Magazine and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. She taught writing for Writer's Digest and for AOL online, and gave writing workshops locally in Texas. She was an assistant editor at a Houston literary magazine and co-edited several trade paperback anthologies with Martin Greenberg. Her latest work in paperback and Kindle digital is SINISTER-Tales of Dread 2013, a compilation of fourteen new short stories. In December 2014 SINISTER-Tales of Dread 2014 debuted, with 13 new stories.

Recently she sold short fiction to JAMAIS VU, the premier magazine, and the anthologies BETTER WEIRD edited by Paul F. Olson from Cemetery Dance, ALLEGORIES OF THE TAROT edited by Annetta Ribken, FRESH FEAR edited by William Cook, WRAPPED IN RED edited by Jennifer Greene, and SOMEONE WICKED and INSIDIOUS ASSASSINS edited by Weldon Burge. Her latest suspense novel, THE GREY MATTER, was published by Post Mortem Press in April 2014. February 2016 DM Publishing published FRIGHT MARE-WOMEN WRITE HORROR, an anthology edited by Billie Sue MOSIMAN.

Mosiman was born in Alabama and lives now in Texas on a small ranch.

Her work has been predominately suspense thrillers, with her short fiction being more speculative.

She says of her hobbies, "I love to read (especially on my Kindle), watch old movies, take photographs, and travel."

News of her e-book publications can be found at:
Her Facebook page is:
Find her on Twitter @billiemosiman

Light Poetry

Old Christmas 
Billie Sue Mosiman

In the rouge red flames of castaway firelight 
A country house moves toward slumber 
On Christmas night. 
A cast iron bed is angled across the room from the corner 
And in empty deeper rooms behind the bed 
The cold holds its shoulders high and bare.

Grandpa and Grandma sip perked coffee and rock their 
Thinking of oranges and walnuts they finger 
And slip by handfuls into an old worn stocking. 
Light from the fire warms their toes 
While the grandchild sleeps easy in the iron bed.

She will wake so young and excited, the few presents 
Beneath the tree as mysterious as a rabbit down a hole.

The room cools. 
Grandpa stokes the fire to last the night. 
Before anyone knows a thing the morning comes blaring and 
Into being, the fabulous day. 
The child leaps from bed and falls to the twinkling lights 
under the tree. 
She opens two gifts and only two but those are more than 
She finds a golden hand mirror, a golden comb and brush, 
for her long hair. 
She finds a glass tea set, so precious, so perfect. 
Milky coffee is poured into the pitcher and then the little cup. 
She lifts the cup in tribute to the grandparents.

It’s Christmas. 
Three people, two old and one very young, 
know the world 
Is just as it should be. 
It will always be just as it should be in the castaway firelight.


Jaye Tomas


Jaye Tomas is a scribbler and a poet. Her latest book, "What Lies Beneath" (available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble) was released early this year with gratifying reviews. Her blog, Chimera Poetry, has attracted readers and writers from far and wide. Jaye loves all things bookish, pasta, Halloween, and has a minor obsession with hedgehogs.
Originally from Chicago, she is currently residing in the UK but has begun to cast her eyes in other directions.
She has an annoyingly long list of ways to contact her:

Twitter @JayeTomas1

Dark Poetry

Christmas Presence ~
The sign out front said, SOLD.

It was just one old house in a street of many others. 
But this one was different. 
This one nobody loved
And you could tell.
Not because it was falling apart, no broken windows or banging shutters.
No shredded curtains or splintered stairs leading up to a rotting porch.
But because it looked,
Because it felt,
And you couldn't help hunching your shoulders up around your neck as you passed.
It was just one old house but it wasn't vacant,
oh no
Something lived there....

Many years before the house was unremarkable and caused no chills,
no quickened stride,
no brave whistling to those who went past.
The man and woman who lived there had 2 daughters; 
one of sunny face,
starry eyes and twinkling dimples.
And the other
well, the other...
hard to tell because her face was hidden behind a shock of tangled, midnight hair,
like the pale moon behind a cloud,
with one sooty eye glancing quickly and dropping away heavy lidded.
"A shame." people whispered
"The contrast like night and day."
"Be patient", the woman said, "your time will come..."

Seasons change and appear like genii from a bottle,
and the love a hidden face may conceal
may burn just as hot as a bright noon day smile,
but like any unattended fire,
it can destroy everything in its path...

He never noticed the sooty eyes following him
tracking his movements,
through the school halls,
through the town center,
down the street.
Never noticed the heavy lids squinting down into slits,
as she watched the laughing pair on the porch of her house,
as she listened unseen to their whispers in the front room,
dancing to the same record played over and over.
"Our song.." they sighed...
"Be patient", the woman said, your time will come..."
But assurances were not what the nighttime girl was after.

Snowfall and garlands and the Christmas bells all shined,
the holly and berries and stockings lined up like furry soldiers...
They exchanged glossy wrapped packages.
His a scrapbook with all their favorites,
and hers a heart shaped pendant
of deep, dark onyx.

Later in front of the mirror the young lady was admiring the light playing across the stone
when a rough voice startled her,
"That's mine.
It should be mine.
My color,
my love,
my Christmas present.

Of the daughters disappearance there was never a word of explanation, 
no burial, no transport, no suitcase packed or letter sent.
Of the broken man and woman there was a whirlwind of whispers, 
but the train took them away,
with eyes like ash pits,
and the whirlwind faded with nothing to give it strength.

The house was patient.
The house stayed.
And waited.

Mr Jacob Williams was the name on the deed and the title and other yellowed crispy bits of paper
beloved of accountants and lawyers.
The house bought for a song,
the evasive sellers ignored and he gleefully jaunty over having his own property
because now he felt he was Someone, a fine fellow, a homeowner!

Jacob dragged his sleeping bag and bulging knapsack up the stairs
turned the key in the unwilling lock and sighed in tune with the door as it opened.
No mouse scamper or draft met him
only the stillness and setting sun sifting through dingy windows.
As he ate he made his plans for renovations and parties and grand schemes
and planned his Christmas celebrations for the coming years...
yet without knowing why
began to watch the hour hand tick slowly by...

When the first sliding step was heard he found he was expecting it.
It moved closer,
it was in the room,
and then the whisper...

"What have you brought me?
Where is my present?
Where is mine....where IS MINE....?"

The sun rose on a clear cold Christmas morning,
rose on a silent house,
and on Jacob still in his sleeping bag,
never to tumble out,
stretching to meet the church bells.
His marbled eyes and ivory limbs  
evidence that he had shaken hands with the Reaper,
that he had wrestled with a different kind of angel,
and lost.

The house settled back to wait,
for there will always be another
there will be another
and one day
there will be a present...
The present.
Be patient.
The time will come...
Our time will come.




Toy Davis

Disappearance of Claus
Toy Davis


      Santa felt weak. His time was coming to an end, and he knew it. The children of the world no longer believed in him. Corporations had turned him into a joke.
     His red suit hung loosely on his body. He was wasting away. His home no longer smelt of ginger bread and hot chocolate, it smelt of stall air and mold. Dark shadows painted the corners and hid the insects that had nested here. Rats crawled within the walls.
     His elves no longer made toys. The greed of the children had tainted them. They turned on each other, and eventually they turned on Santa. He now carried a machete on him at all times for protection, but he was becoming weak. He knew it was only a matter of time before he fell victim to their hungry. They would eat him like they ate his beloved reindeers.
     His boots thudded on the wooden floor as he walked to the bedroom. His wife Mrs. Claus sat in a rocking chair. She knitted a cap for a child who no longer believed in them. She had hope, and that hope kept her spark of life glowing bright. She looked the same as she always had. His heart cried out, knowing what he had to do.
     She looked up at him and smiled. “I love you,” she told him.
     His stomach knotted and somehow he managed to keep the vomit down. He had to do this. He was dying, and the elves were waiting to feed. He heard a giggle beneath the window, they were watching now. He forced a smile onto his lips. “I love you too.”
      She looked down at the cap, releasing him for a moment from her stare. He briefly closed his eyes as he deeply inhaled. He knew now was the time, soon he would be too weak to save her.
He brought the machete down onto her head. The yarn and knitting needle dropped to the floor. She hadn’t seen it coming so she didn’t cry out. He pulled the blade free of her skull and stumbled out of the room.
     He dropped to his knees as acidy bale erupted from his mouth. The warm liquid splashed onto his hands as it thickly covered the floor. He pulled himself together and rose to his feet. His wiped his hands on his pants.
     A window broke in another room. The flesh-eating elves were coming. He lit his chimney one last time. The stockings still hung, but now they were covered with dust and cobwebs.
     He sat down in his chair and stared into the flames. He was as old as mankind. He had survived wars, plagues, gunshots and time itself. But he couldn’t survive disbelief. The children’s dreams and wishes gave him strength, without them he could not exist.
     His vision blurred. He was dying. He heard the hate filled giggles as the elves entered the room. Santa had loved them one time before the world’s greed corrupted them, now he feared them. The last spark of life left him and the elves fed.





On December 24th, Christmas Eve 2016, Servante of Darkness readers can receive a free copy of "Urban Graves: 13 Poems from the Machine" by Anthony Servante. Please accept this gift from me to you for visiting my blog. 

Click Here for your gift on December 24th, 2016.