Poetry by Juleigh Howard-Hobson

The Promise

For once under the light of the full moon a werewolf stopped a priest from destroying a fairy ring, alive with unfortunate denizens of the otherworld. The fairies were trapped by a circle of thin silver chain thrown down by the priest, who was holding a can of gasoline to pour on them before setting them alight. At great personal harm to himself,(for silver can be deadly to werewolves), the werewolf grabbed the chain from the ground around the fairies, and with it choked the life from the so-called holy man, freeing the fairies, one and all. In return, their Queen promised him anything. All he asked for, though, was a decent burial, when the time came, far away from those who hunt and hurt what they do not understand. –W E Stream


The bells will be long. And they will echo
From the side of the hills across to where
Our low roads weave unseen through the meadows
Toward the woods. And we will bury you there,
Between the trunks of the Ash trees that shade
A world apart from any other. We
Will dig a hole, tearing out the root made
Tangles until a hollow grave slowly
Emerges. Held safe by deep tendrils, you
Will rest. No one will hunt you anymore.
No one will bother you. We’ll always do 
What we have promised to. A settled score
Paid in full. The bells will be long the day
We learn of your death and take you away.


(Poet’s note: the folklorist ‘W E Stream’ doesn’t actually exist, except to lend a certain explanatory base to some of my numinous pieces.)

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An Aubade, of a Sort


Don’t come back to me in nightmares, wrapped in
Old arguments, re-playing the roles of 
Antagonist and victimized… again…
Again. Don’t enter my sleep that way, rough

Edged and shrill, still poised to inflict, still
Toxic and damaging. Unchanged by death.
Don’t show up, disturbing and provoking,
Spoiling for another fight. Infernal
Fucked up mess that you became, with your meth,
With your pain, with your constant invoking

Of slights made to you, wrongs done to you, times
When you disappeared for days and no one
Cared where you were. There was no shame, no crime
When we stopped caring. What was done was done

By you to yourself. Everyone you touched
You tortured towards the end. Mangled, shredded, ripped
Apart, yelled away, pushed against…I don’t
Want the end of you in my head. It’s such
A wretched ugly part. Instead, please, slip
Back a few years in my dreams, come alone

Without the issues, without the screaming,
Without the anger emanating. Please,
Let me sleep well and let me start dreaming --
Not nightmaring -- of you. Let dawn bring peace.

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Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s poetry has appeared in Mooky Chick, Ghost City Review, The Ginger Collect, Coffin Bell, Dreams and Nightmares, Mandragora (Scarlett Imprint), Lift Every Voice (Kissing Dynamite), and many other places. She homesteads off grid with ghosts for neighbors in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. Noms: The Pushcart, The Best of the Net and the Rhysling. Pronouns: She/Her  Twitter: ForestPoet@PoetForest   

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