Ophelia is Dead
by Dawn Pisturino
Dead! Ophelia is dead!
Her hair bound with daisies,
Gold locks floating free,
She drowned in the river,
Cursing me.
She told me I was ugly,
She pulled my frizzy hair,
She teased me by the water,
And I pushed her there.
Dead! Ophelia is dead!
And I really don’t care.
Dawn Pisturino
February 1, 2012; March 3, 2022
Copyright 2012-2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
SPIDERS
A girl who ate spiders for lunch,
Found shiny black widows to munch.
The poison contained in their bodies remained,
Giving that girl quite a punch!
July 12, 2011
~
SPIDER CIDER
A girl who liked spiders inside her,
Washed them down with a very fine cider.
“Two parts cyanide makes them slither and slide,”
She wrote to her secret confider.
July 13, 2011
~
SPIDERS II
A girl who liked spiders to eat,
Found poisonous spiders a treat.
Their sweet-tasting nectar
Began to infect her,
Turning her into dead meat!
July 13, 2011
All limericks by:
Dawn Pisturino
March 2, 2022
Copyright 2011-2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
The Sleeping Beauty
Dedicated to my daughter, Ariel Pisturino
Lying there in sweet repose,
Lips as red as any rose,
The Sleeping Beauty rests her head
Upon a gold and velvet bed;
Golden tresses fair displayed
Around the shoulders softly laid,
Be-decked in sequined, jeweled dress,
Her slender hands across her breast.
Fair Maid! — What evil cast you here
To sleep a full one hundred year
Until a Prince with noble pride
Into the castle court should ride
And climb the steeply winding stair
To find a maid with golden hair
Lying on a couch asleep,
Lost in dreaming long and deep,
And drop upon the tender lips
A kiss so pure the magic slips.
And, lo! — the eyelids flutter wide
And see a vision at her side:
A handsome Prince so near and nigh,
The maiden cannot help but sigh
And stretch out pleading hands to him
Who kissed her softly on a whim,
And thanking him with grateful smile,
Requests of him to stay a while.
The Prince proves better than a guest
And presses her against his breast;
Then carries her, swift as the wind,
Upon his horse across the land
To marble castle rising high
Against the purple morning sky.
And when she curtsies to the King,
The Queen presents her with a ring
And crown of jewels sparkling white —
Gifts of softly glowing light —
That bind her to her Prince’s life:
No more a maid! — but now, his wife!
Dawn Pisturino
April 25, 1987/February 10, 2022
Copyright 1987-2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
I was going to post something else today, but then it happened again – some guy contacted me on Facebook wanting to be best buds. I immediately responded that my husband and daughter are my best friends. If I never hear from him again, that’s okay. More than likely, he’s a romance scammer.
Most of my social media activity is on WordPress. I enjoy posting things I’ve written and visiting other people’s blogs. I stay on Facebook mostly to stay in touch with family. I like looking at people’s photography on Instagram. I never liked Twitter and don’t use it. Not only do I not like Twitter management or Twitter as a company, but the nastiest people seem to hang out there. I’ve met some real kooks who just can’t get it through their heads that we live in a free country where all points of view are valuable. I’m not obligated to agree with them, no matter how nasty they get. LinkedIn is supposed to be a professional site, but it’s now used for dating purposes. I try to be polite and friendly to everyone, but it’s impossible when someone has hurt feelings because you rejected their romantic advances. So much for professionalism.
Facebook, Instagram, and WhatsApp are notorious sites for predators trying to pick up vulnerable women and children. And it has gotten worse with the isolating effects of COVID-19 and all the restrictions placed on us. People are hungry for affection and communication, and this sets them up as victims of romance scammers, if they aren’t careful.
Scammers will contact you with credentials like “widower living in San Diego but currently working for the UN in Yemen.” They often pose as a doctor or other humanitarian worker. They may have at least one child in boarding school. They send you enticing photos of themselves which have probably been stolen or faked. They come off as real friendly and understanding, sincerely looking for a good friend and/or partner. They try to win your trust through flattery and play on your burning need for affection. As you become more involved, they try to control the conversation, control you, and put guilt trips on you if you try to back off. They can be downright abusive in maintaining that control. Eventually, they will hit you up for money or sex or whatever they are looking to get from you.
They don’t care if you are married, how many children you have, or how old you are. They will tell you that such things don’t matter with true love. Many of these scams come out of Nigeria, so talking on video chat is questionable. After all, it’s hard to explain how the white man in the photos working as a doctor in Yemen suddenly turned into a black man living in Nigeria.
Valentine’s Day is a day when we honor our spouses, our partners, our love interests, our children, and our friends. Everybody wants a little romance in their life. But online scammers know this and will make you pay a heavy price for that digital experience.
Dawn Pisturino, RN
February 9, 2022
Copyright 2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
The Girl who Hated the Sun
by Dawn Pisturino
she hated the sun
how it filled up heaven
with energy and light
too hot and bright . . .
The poem popped into Katie’s head as she stood on the front porch, eyes closed, arms wide open, daring the Sun to kill her. Kill me, she urged, like you spoiled our farm, drove away my father, and wasted my mother. Go ahead. Do it!
The Sun swallowed her whole, dissolving her in his fiery belly.
Now that she was part of the Sun, Katie could ride through the heavens and visualize everything that happened down below.
She saw the grim black hearse pull up to the farm, and wept, as two men in plain black suits carried her mother away on a gurney. She sailed freely over the dusty brown fields that no longer yielded crops. She mourned the beds of sunflowers whose heads sagged, like dying children, out by the barn. And she said good-bye to the rusty old truck that sat, without tires, in a patch of yellow weeds.
Soon, the Pacific Ocean sparkled down below. Dolphins leaped among the waves. Throngs of people crowded the streets of Beijing, scurrying around like busy mice. Katie soared above the icy peaks of the Himalayas and swooped down to burn the white sands of Arabia. She waved at the Statue of Liberty, rejoicing that she finally got to see it.
And then she was home again, viewing the crumbling barn in pinkish light that gradually turned to yellow. She counted the shingles missing from the roof of the old house and peeked through the windows of her shabby bedroom.
And the journey repeated itself as the earth slowly turned, like a giant spit — repeated itself, day after day, until Katie cried with weariness and pain.
Now, she hovered over the old farm, shining brightly against a piece of broken glass lying in the withered grass, until one small yellow flame burst forth, catching the grass on fire. A passing breeze nudged the fire toward the house. The splintered wood burned brightly, throwing sparks into the sky. The old barn caught the sparks and exploded, fueled by old cans of paint. Showers of burning wood and straw ignited the patch of weeds. The ripped out upholstery in the old truck burst into flame. The oil pan smoldered, sending black smoke into the sky. And finally, with one burst of energy, the fuel tank exploded.
With grim satisfaction Katie cried, “I’ve killed it! I’ve killed my past life!” She snuggled up to the Sun, melting deeper into his fiery depths . . . while down below, a tiny piece of the world disappeared forever.
Dawn Pisturino
November 14, 2012
Copyright 2012-2022 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
The first white snow of winter
Falls softly on the ground;
The world looks like a fairy land
With snowflakes all around;
The trees dress up like fairies
Dancing on the snow: —
Magic happens everywhere
The fairies dance, you know.
I love the first white winter storm,
The air is cold and frosty;
I stay indoors where it is warm,
But through the windows I can see
How suddenly the world turns white
And disappears beneath the snow;
The season changes overnight
From autumn’s bright to winter’s glow.
by Dawn Pisturino, 1985.
For my daughter, Ariel.
Copyright 1985-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
(Still photo from Bigfoot film by Roger Patterson and Robert Gimlin, October 1967)
Crack! The bullet zings past my ear, hitting an old oak tree.
I drop the salmon wiggling in my hands and run along the bank of the Mokelumne River, propelling my long, hairy arms for speed. Behind me, the hunters move carefully through the dense underbrush, tracking my movements.
Sharp green thorns snag on my hair and tear at my flesh as I struggle through the blackberry briars and wild grapevines. I hike deeper into the wilderness on two strong legs, climbing skillfully around granite boulders barring my way. In the distance, the jagged outline of Deadwood Peak rises above the trees. If I can only get there, I will be safe.
Rounding a bend I see her, tearing meat from a rabbit carcass with big, sharp teeth. Mama! Her shaggy brown head turns in my direction. With a low growl, she opens her long, hairy arms as if to embrace me.
And then she smells it, the distinct odor of musky sweat. The hunters are near!
We run, ignoring the stones piercing our feet, causing us to stumble. Behind us, the humans call back and forth, “Bigfoot!”
Together, we melt into the shade of a thick stand of pines, hoping to slow down and catch our breath. But our feet become tangled in nets concealed by pine needles, and suddenly, we are swinging up, up into the air, and dangling from the limbs of a sturdy pine tree.
Mama struggles inside her net, growling with rage. I struggle, too, yelping helplessly as the net swings back and forth above the hard ground.
“We’ve got them now,” says a bearded hunter to his companions. “Bigfoot! That TV show, Monster Search, will pay us big bucks for these babies.”
“We’ll be famous,” cries a husky hunter with red hair. “Scientists won’t laugh at us anymore. Finally! Proof that Bigfoot exists!”
“How are we going to get them back to San Francisco?” asks an old man with spectacles. “I mean, we weren’t really expecting to find anything.”
The bearded hunter pulls out his camera. “I’m taking plenty of pictures, just in case something goes wrong. They can’t call it a hoax this time!”
While the camera clicks and the three men argue over the best way to get us back to the city, I turn my head from view and gnaw on the net’s thick webbing with my teeth. Pretty soon I’ve made a small opening, large enough to stick my fingers through. I wiggle them at Mama, and she understands what to do.
The red-haired hunter chuckles as he pokes me in the back with a long stick. I give him a warning growl, but he keeps it up. My powerful jaws chew faster on the netting.
“We need some of that fur,” says the old man with spectacles. “We can send it to a lab for analysis.”
“Good idea!” says the red-haired hunter. “Then, if they get away, we’ll still have proof.”
The three men stand under the nets, looking up at our shaggy brown bodies hanging in the air. Suddenly the nets give way, and Mama and I find ourselves lying on top of the three men on the ground.
We howl victory cries and scramble to our feet. The men, tangled in the nets, shout curses at us as we run away.
The Miwok Indians tell stories about us — great hairy beasts roaming these desolate mountains. They fear us and protect our sacred habitat on Deadwood Peak. We are going there now, secure in the knowledge that we cannot be followed. Men from the city will continue to hunt us. But, with help from the Miwoks, they will never find us. And we will never let them capture us alive.
Dawn Pisturino
©2014-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
My Grandmother’s Nose
My grandmother’s nose was too long for her face
So it lay ninety years on the floor.
It was longer by half than my poor Grandma Grace,
And it weighed not a feather-weight more.
She was scorned on the morn
Of the day that she was born,
But my grandmother took it in stride.
She colored that schnozzola
With a cherry red Crayola
And painted yellow polka dots inside!
April 12, 2012
Raggedy Ann Loses Heart
Raggedy Ann liked to dress up and play
By the fire on a cold winter day.
When flames burned her dress, she cried in distress
As her candy heart melted away.
November 1, 2011
The Postman and the Snail
A postman delivering mail
Was attacked by a slithery snail.
Quickly, he trod on that fierce gastropod,
Fighting him off tooth and nail!
July 19, 2011
The Sailor and the Whale (1)
A sailor who kidnapped a whale
Got the ransom but landed in jail.
“Am I dumb!” said the crumb,
As he sucked on his thumb.
“I shouldn’t have sent him by mail!”
July 19, 2011
The Sailor and the Whale (2)
A sailor who kidnapped a whale
Got the ransom but landed in jail.
“Am I dumb!” said the crumb,
As he sucked on his thumb.
“There isn’t enough to make bail!”
July 19, 2011
The Man from New York
There was a young man from New York
Who stuffed down a very large pork.
He doubled in size, for he wasn’t too wise,
And popped off his head like a cork!
July 11, 2011
Dawn Pisturino
Copyright 2011-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
Artwork by John Federis
(Warning! If you hate going to the dentist, don’t read this poem!)
The Dentist
by Dawn Pisturino
Now I’ve got you in my chair,
You’re not going anywhere.
So open wide, let me in,
And let the painful games begin!
See that molar on the right?
It’s in the socket way too tight.
Here’s my plier. Please don’t move.
I’ll pry that sucker from its groove!
Look, there’s a cavity over there.
My drill’s all ready. Please don’t stare!
My hands are shaking, can’t you see?
I need your confidence in me.
Oops! The blood is squirting out.
I didn’t mean to make you shout!
Your bloody tongue is in my hand.
Sit down! Don’t even try to stand!
Come back! I need to suture in—-
Oh well, another toothless grin.
February 6, 2012
Published in the April 2012 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.
Copyright 2012-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
Artwork by Ken Lamug
Poem by Dawn Pisturino
CHELSEA HAD A LITTLE LAMB
Chelsea had a little lamb,
Its fleece was black as soot.
And everywhere that Chelsea went,
That lamb was underfoot.
It followed her to school until
The cooking class went wild
And served that lamb with mint and dill,
One chop for every child!
October 6, 2011
Published in the December 2011 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.
Copyright 2011-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
Artwork by Jason Smith
Poem by Dawn Pisturino
DIRTY DONALD
Dirty Donald!
His hair, full of lice,
Grows down to his shoulders,
A haven for mice.
His teeth are all rotten,
Mildewed and black,
His tongue is so long,
He could pass for a yak.
His breath stinks of corpses
Dug fresh from their graves,
A delicate morsel
He constantly craves.
He glares at the ravens,
Surrounding his head,
With murderous eyes,
Pronouncing them dead.
Then yanks out their feathers
And nibbles their toes,
Lining them up
In neat little rows.
His clothes are so tattered,
The buzzards all say,
“What a fine looking fellow!
Let’s eat him today!”
July 3, 2011
Published on Underneath the Juniper Tree, July 17, 2011.
Published in the August 2011 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.
Copyright 2011-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
Illustration by Job van Gelder
Poem by Dawn Pisturino
Down in the Graveyard
Down in the graveyard by the old oak tree
Roamed an old mother zombie and her little zombies three.
“Fresh meat!” cried the mother. “Tastes sweet!” cried the three.
And they ripped out the intestines from the caretaker, Lee.
Down in the graveyard by the mausoleum door
Lived an old mother werewolf and her little wolfies four.
“Fresh fat!” howled the mother. “Tastes great!” howled the four.
And they tore into the belly of the visitor, Lenore.
Down in the graveyard by the rusty old gate
Hung an old mother vampire and her little vampies eight.
“Fresh blood!” squeaked the mother. “Tastes good!” squeaked the eight.
And they sank their greedy fangs into the gravedigger, Nate.
Published in the September 2012 issue of Underneath the Juniper Tree.
Copyright 2012-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
Sir Simon Marsden (1948-2012) was known as an ethereal British photographer who transported the viewer to a dark and phantasmic world with his eerie photographs. Introduced by his father at a young age to books and stories about the supernatural, Marsden developed a keen interest in the paranormal. He even grew up in two English manors that were allegedly haunted, Panton Hall and Thorpe Hall. Thorpe Hall, in particular, housed the “Green Lady,” the ghost of a woman who committed suicide in the 1600s.
Marsden became a fan of such writers as Arthur Machen, M.R. James, and Edgar Allen Poe. At the age of 21, he received his first camera and embarked on a lifelong love affair with photography. He traveled throughout Britain, France, and the United States, perfecting his signature style, and became known for his haunting images of haunted sites.
A number of books were published featuring his photographs, and his work was exhibited throughout Britain and elsewhere. He was a master in the use of infrared film and printing his own photographs, which gave him control over the quality of his work.
A staunch believer in the supernatural, Marsden described several paranormal encounters that he experienced at ancient haunted sites. At the Rollright Stones in Long Compton, Warwickshire, he was pushed by an invisible force, which knocked the camera out of his grasp. At Woodlawn House in County Gallway, he and director Jason Figgis heard the mournful wailing of a woman who could not be found anywhere on the premises.
Marsden became 4th Baronet in 1997. His collection can be viewed here:
http://www.marsdenarchive.com.
Dawn Pisturino
August 2017
Published in the Autumn 2017 issue of Psychic Magic e-zine.
Copyright 2017-2021 Dawn Pisturino. All Rights Reserved.
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