Awen Online Issue 2


                     WAGES OF SIN 
                            By Maureen Braithwaite 
They travelled far on that stormy night,
Three villains out for gain,
Till they saw a light flickering white,
Through the thunder and stinging rain.

It led them to a cavern where shone
Light from chests of gold,
But to open the locks a candle must be lit,
Said the message on the Wizard's cave stone.

But beware if you fail,
Your hearts will turn cold,
So keep your hand calm
And your mind bold.

The roughest among pushed to teh front,
Burning taper in his hand,
"Let me for my hand is steady,
I will not shake like a drunken man."

Once then twice the candle
Failed to take flame,
On the third it gently spluttered
And was left smoking in the rain.

Today people travel from far and wide,
To see three figures cast in rock.
One who looks aged and two who look crazed,
All frozen in silent shock.

                         THE DEVIL'S DUE
                            By Aeronwy Dafies 
He thought build a circular house in which to hide
So that he never would pay the Devil's due:
With no corners to conceal his baleful presence
The Devil access would be denied.
But the Devil is not one to write off his debts
He always collects the souls that he is owed:
Eschewing caution and hiding out of sight
The Devil appeared in the middle of the room in all his might

             GHOSTLY GOURMET 
                          By Maureen Braithwaite 
Grand hotel
with a fancy facade,
Waiters smile
as they parade

their gourmet finery,
of sherbet dreams,
doused in brandy,
sherry and cream.

But despite all this,
I have to record
for my 'eatery guide'
and 'best of board',

that in this converted hospital
- though tastefully done -
food soon chills and
appears underdone.

Cold winds
inexplicably transpire,
moaning around
the chandelier.

Shivery fingers
brush diners' arms,
making them cry out
and start in alarm.

Breath shows white
as it leaves their lips,
to mingle with their savoury dips.

But I confess
what else can it be,
when the dining room is housed
in the old Mortuary?

                              By DS Davidson

No-one visits the old house atop the hill
It has a terrible reputation
As the place where a mad man chose to kill
Causing outrage across the nation.
The local children shun it
It has been abandoned many years
No salesman bothers to visit
For it's the sum of local fears.
The old man's ghost stalks, in his hand a knife
There's also the bloody apparition of his wife:
She staggers moaning, through dark passageways
She haunts the nights and he stalks the days:
He there is cursed for killing his wife
She there is trapped in unearthly ways.
It is said that to visit in the wan daylight
Is to risk that psycho giving you a fright
Whilst a visit in the deep dark of night
Risks that blood-dripping visage giving you a fright.
So you never should visit by night or by day
The haunted house is not a place for you to stay.
So heed my advice and run far away
This is no place for children to play!

                             By Aeronwy Dafies 
You've heard of the man who wasn't there
Who passes folk upon the stair
He who chills the very air:
To meet him I would never dare!

                             By Steve Sneyd
 just crazy that hot sweet
smell and even in dark tap
runs dark and you won't
can't turn light on don't
want to know the creak is
just the stairs settling
after  your tread and it
isn't true of course it
isn't the cold water isn't
blood of all those killed
this night runs through
veins of your house spring
once in field was once this
hillside blocked and in dawn
must come soon will all be alright
you're dreaming this to frighten
yourself you know it can't can't
ever be like this only in half
world out of this lifeworld is
only in limbo all the blood men
women spill flows everywhere blood
three nights to the knee before
last silly flickering twitch of brain is

let shut down last time

               STRANGE SOUNDS
                       By Aeronwy Dafies
 Strange sounds in the darkness
Shadows shifting ominously
Set my nerves on edge
As my half-asleep mind imagines
All sorts of horrors beneath.

                            By Steve Sneyd 
a crow cries like a baby

with real redcoated
pride of discovery
blowing smoke from
shotgun barrels kicking
damp sullen leaves

a man who has shot both