Poetry: Halloween Poem #1

The Halloween Tree by John York 

With Apologies to A.E. Housman

An homage by Joseph Salvatore Knipper

Scraggliest of trees, the dead oak now 

Is hung with bronze along the bow.

It looms unsapped, in night to bide

And rasp the drafts of Hallowstide.

Now towards my immortal life to be

In years, I’ve traveled thirty three;

So might in heav'n there await 

A grove of oaks past iron gate

To sit when I grow bored of bliss

And pine for wind, dead leaves, and mist?

Since know not I when such be seen 

I’ll savor every Halloween.

7 Desires of Halloween Series update: I'm having a lot of trouble writing #6, so I figured I'd change gears and publish a poem I've been working on since last Halloween.  The poem isn't 100% yet (and there are major theological issues with growing "bored with bliss"), but on the third draft I think it's ready to be published.  I hope you like it. 

 I hope to have the essays on desire #6 and #5 up by the first weekend of October.

Best,

"Epimetheus"