A cinquain composed by the Were-Man (before a paw-shattered mirror)
describes the shameful state
halfway between werewolf and man:
By David Edwards
By Harris Coverley
a gap in the clouds
moonbeam—the briefest of howls
a spilling of blood
By DJ Tyrer
Porphyria, claws and fangs
Killer Queen stalks night
Howling for the Test of Winter
By Christopher Collingwood
Test the shaping wolf –
the rage of winter,
defiant of the man,
a cabin lost to nowhere,
tragedy carves words,
‘freed man’ above the door;
snowflakes set upon
its fur, clinging with a
a deadly calm, the fireplace
crackling inside, eyes
burning, the door left open;
footprints dig deep
into the snow, the beast
drawn out for the hunt,
free to rage in solitude,
endless snow fields – too distant
for the winds, moon evoking
wild intent, unburdened morality,
pounding through the snow,
bitting branches, howling
in fever; the cold contains
the worst, nature concealing
the smallest prey, the chill of the
winter keeping tally;
catching sent, the wolf is born –
a raw instinct, the animal engages,
instilled by the moon, it races
against the cold, mile after mile,
tree after tree, over the white horizon,
travelling beyond humanity;
until the wild can be no
wilder – the deepest forest,
staggering the beast gathers
strength, stained breath clinging
to unnatural life, panting by
a rotted log, exhaustion almost
summoning its human state;
a sniff – a growl, something
behind the rock, mouth salivating,
it peers over – ‘howling’ in fury,
the trap is sensed, a deer’s head impaled
upon a stake, inner betrayal,
the words ‘freed man’ carved
upon the wooden stake; the wolf feels
the moon receding, death is coming,
gnawing at the meat, it gathers strength,
wild instinct returns,
it heads back to the cabin –
and the test begins
By DJ Tyrer
Magic conceals fur beneath the skin
A masquerade to hide the beast within
By night revealed to stalk its prey
A pious man by light of day
No faith, no force can those jaws withstand
No weapon held in mortal hand
A bullet blessed or blade anointed
Perhaps might slay the one appointed
By the Devil as his hunting hound
Assuming the beast can ever be found
Ravenous, unstopped so many shall perish
That the tale none shall need embellish
Originally published in Siren’s Call issue 34
A kid who is a werewolf
By Mark Hudson
Last night a full moon gleamed in the sky,
I awoke with sleep escaping my eyes.
I found a book upon my shelf,
a werewolf tale by someone else.
A book I got free at the local library,
I snatched it thinking it might be scary.
I noticed the targeted age was ten,
I read it in one night in my den.
I wondered what a kid would think,
but then again, I’m not a shrink.
But I wonder how the editors decide
what kids can read, or else they will hide?
In the first chapter there is a boy
living on a farm with a life of joy.
When a monster comes and kills his mother,
enough to scare kids to hide under covers.
The boy then turns into a werewolf, too,
but he is the hero in this twisted zoo.
The book is fantasy, nothing is real,
but what in it gives it it’s appeal?
Are some of the scenes just G-rated gore?
Is it something that kids have seen before?
Is it just a preview of future junk?
Is this what you read before you turn to punk?
If you want to know, I’ll tell you the truth,
I’m the wolf man, I’m the youth.
Discover more of Mark Hudson’s poetry here
By DS Davidson
Like Little Red Riding Hood
Stalked in the woods
Unseen pursuer dogs your trail
Start to mean that literally
As howls haunt your flight
Headlights in the distance
An offer of hope
Flag down the car – phew!
Driver is strangely hairy
Smiles a fanged howl
His pack mates reach the road
No fairy tale ending for you…