POETRY BY MICHAEL ERROL SWAIM

Michael Errol Swaim is a horror and fantasy author and proud citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma. Due to several mishaps, including a liver and kidney transplant, he was forced to stop writing when he was younger. After a 25-year hiatus, he has returned.

He currently focuses on horror but occasionally dabbles in fantasy and poetry. His first horror publication can be found in issue three of Carnage House, and more of his stories and poems will appear in several upcoming anthologies and zines. He is currently busy churning out as many words as possible, and he also writes film and book reviews for the Weird Wide Webblog.

Michael resides in Colcord, Oklahoma, with his wife, Mandy, his three kids, and his special princess, Wolfgirl the Cat.

THE ANCESTORS CALL

How pale is the sky,
as the wind sings.
The song of life,
a work of art.
How dark is the path,
that leads me here.
To my final rest,
a timeless sleep.
The time has now come,
a harsh goodbye,
I will see you again,
In the next life.
The ancestors have called,
and I must answer.
For now, I am gone,
you’ll see me in time.

THE GRAVES OF THE ANCIENT

I sit and I stare,
at the graves of the ancient, the old.
Most aged and wise,
ancestors buried deep.
I sit and I wonder,
after all these years, the centuries.
What have we lost,
and what can be found.
I sit and I weep,
all are now gone, the forgotten.
What can I do,
being a simple man.
I lay down and sleep,
at the graves of the ancient, the old.
Dreaming the dreams,
of the hopeful world.

DEATH IS BEAUTIFUL

I can hear it dripping,
onto the ground.
A heavy clamor,
the blood pools on the floor.
I can hear the labored breathing,
the tortured lungs.
A low moan,
the blood continues to pour.
I can see two sides dueling,
existence and demise.
Which will triumph?
an ordinary discourse.
I can see the beauty in death,
a part of life.
What happens next?
we’ll never know of course.

PULL THE PLUG

Your arms and legs they flail about,
but you cannot control it.
Your eyes go up and they go down,
and you can’t make it quit.
A machine beeps, it yells, it screams,
but the nurse can’t turn it down.
I watch, I cry, and I wipe my eyes,
and you try to tear your gown.
Your mind is gone and you’re in pain,
but I can’t bear to lose you.
I’ve had enough of pain and death,
and this is sad and true.
The man in white says pull the plug,
and you are alive but dead.
I know it’s what I need to do,
but fills my heart with dread