Grilled Cheese

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Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-17 03:54:26 EDT

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Image promoting Bill Kochman's poem Money-Suckin' Preacher with author portrait, ink quills and website URL
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Promotional image for Bill Kochman's "Self-Righteous" poem and song featuring author portrait, blue quills and website link
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Corpse-Candles by Richard H. Fay Glittering bright orbs Move through naked trees, Dancing and darting Like restless children Playing hide-and-seek In a quaint garden. Souls lost in the night Soar in the still air. They gather near me, But stay out of reach. They lead me deeper Into the dark wood. As a moth to flame I follow the lights. Blackness surrounds me. Only the flicker Of spectral candles Guides my reckless steps. The ancient oaks part To reveal headstones Hidden in the wood. A forlorn graveyard Choked with thorny weeds Lays beneath the stars. Lights cavort above The overgrown graves, Then descend groundward. I spy pale phantoms Pining for warm flesh Long reduced to dust. The sad shades beckon And draw me along A perilous ridge. Blindly I stumble And tumble headfirst Down a rocky grade. Broken and bloodied, My body grows cold. As life ebbs away From this mortal shell, My spirit will join That fey troupe of lights. (Originally published June 2008 in Niteblade)
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"Truth" by Claude McKay — musical poem on V2Melody
My Haunted House by Richard H. Fay Troubled memories drag me back To the site of my deepest fears. I travel once more to the spot That spawned my most terrible dreams. I draw near the frowning facade, Set to face my personal Hell. I must confront the ghosts within For my soul to be truly free. I ascend the rickety stairs And turn the knob with sweaty palms. An acrid, choking dust wells up As I open the creaking door. The scent of death hangs in the air. Hot blood drums in my throbbing head As I cross the crooked threshold And enter my forsaken home. 1 of 3
i. like a dry river waiting for Winter when down from the hills – fast-flowing, foaming – flash flooding scours the cluttered channel: fallen branches, wind-blown paper, and leaf litter. ii. like a shadow that’s been stolen yearning for the sun for anchorage and for a third dimension waking up bereft “whose am I?” iii. like a comic anecdote tried out for the first time on a roomful of depressives struggling to find a rhythm pierce the fog cause one mouth to twitch one eye to widen in surprised amusement
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