Sunday, 6 November 2016


They whisper here

They whisper there

Some words they

Leave unsaid

But whispered words

Are always best

When whispered

By the dead

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard



On the 26th of October, my 6 foot Christmas tree was joyously decorated with baubles and erected in the window of my living room...much to the amazement of passers-by whose gaping maws mouthed incredulity more, I suspect, than they would have had I suctioned my naked form in a Garfield stance to that very pane. 

Now then, there were several reasons for my doing this and each of those reasons comprises entirely of the words " because I f*****g can!"

As for my being told by some "it's too early" well, maybe it could be deemed so had I erected it in THEIR living room...but I didn't...did I? No!

So, I tell you about YOU don't tell me when it's the right time to put my tree up and I won't tell all of you pyrotechnical premature ejaculates to stick your fireworks in an orifice of my choosing when you're frightening the shite out of my dog weeks before bonfire night, which is bad enough in itself!



Thank you for tuning into Lynn's Rant...

Ps: No animals were harmed during the erecting of my Christmas tree!

Pps: Merry Christmas!!

©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 5 November 2016

Gargoylian Update...

So then, life and its ever evolving madness has overwhelmed my senses recently and thus my presence, physically, mentally, emotionally, realistically, virtually....and in all other aspects of sentience has been rather jaded and spasmodic, to say the least.

No need to bore you with the details of my fugue state, suffice to say that I am dealing with stuff in my own peculiar way and taking note of each diverse nuance of its mitherage for future writings of the crazy and the creepy!

Speaking of 'future writings'...the third book in my poetry series is to be launched later this year, October 2017...*air punches*...I'll let you know more about that, including launch venue etc...nearer the time.

As for now, well, currently I am poised to resume work on my debut novel (as yet untitled and very much a work in progress) the content of which will incorporate a fusion of mystery, macabre, malevolence, mirth and any other M words I find to be of appropriate usage.

Now, whilst I don't want to give too much away regarding storyline, at this point, what I will reveal is the setting for my eerie tale...

This is a place where my mother would take me for picnics when I was a little girl and, subsequently, where I would take my own children for similar moments of quietude and calm accompanied by a modest assortment of sandwiches and a hamper packed with thoughtful contemplation for the respected companions in our midst.

It is a place where I would once run to, literally, for solace, day or night, when the vicious world of the living weighed heavily upon me. 

It is a place where I continue to walk each day and most evenings, finding the company of the residents therein both comforting and, indeed, inspiring.

And it is a place where I myself will reside one day and, consequently, embark upon my journey to the Otherside guided, no doubt, by the very souls whose ethereal state has, I suspect, on many occasion lifted my spirits higher than their own!

No! This is not to be a tale of Tesco Extra and its walking dread!

This is a tale of grave and graveyard...particularly my graveyard, as I prefer to think of it, although the local council would be quick to challenge such thoughts.

Set in the present a fleeting glimpse at one of the main characters would draw your attention towards the degraded shape of Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher (1582-1648) whose zeal as a Witchfinder is as rampant in death as it was in life.

In their, as yet, raw state a couple of excerpts from the opening chapter of my book read thusly... 

"Nathaniel Aloysuis Fletcher peered over the crumbling, graveyard wall through sharp, narrowed eyes. The events unfolding before his scrutinous gaze were a source of much interest to him as he witnessed the solemn interment of yet another sinner.

Death had done nothing to alter Nathaniel’s sour nature nor dull his devious manner. Indeed, he remained to be the bitter, disgruntled man he had been in life, fiercely suspicious of everyone and everything, particularly that which lay beyond the walled confines of what he considered to be his exclusive property, the Chantry..............

..............Yes, Nathaniel’s demise in 1648 in his 66th year, had not quashed his passion for Witch-hunting,  if anything Nathaniel believed his present state was testament to God's will that he remain Witchfinder and continue with his noble quest to defeat the Devil and his minions, ultimately purging the wicked influences which sought to possess mankind".

And that's as much of the narrative I'm sharing at the moment, however, I will share with you a few photographs, taken a day or so ago whilst on my walk, of the very graveyard from where Nathanial's prying eyes are boring into the souls of the sinfully deceased.

As for now, what more is there to say but...."Abandon hope, all ye who enter here" cue menacing laughter....

  ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Thursday, 29 September 2016

No Tears...

Another tangent poem of mine that's a work in progress best suited, I feel, to song rather than word, but until such time I find the melody....I shall share with you the piece in its VERY raw state!


I won't cry now you are leaving

 I swore you'd never see me cry.

I'll wear this smile that's so deceiving

But the pretence helps me get by.

I won't walk into our bedroom

And see us lying there

I'll close my eyes on all the good times

And let you think that I don't care.

I won't listen to our old songs

I'll find new ones of my own

Even though the music we made

Plays in my mind when I'm alone

I won't linger over old photographs

Reliving how we used to be

You don't need to know those images

Are etched in my memory

I won't see you both together

And die some more inside

I'll be stronger now than ever

Just too weak to lift that lie

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sunday, 11 September 2016

Banquet Of The Damned...


Where I wait

Beneath your bed

Dust lies thick and heavy

A luxuriously

Perverse carpet

Of your desquamated flesh.

Each foul flake

Of your body's detritus

Sits well upon my tongue

A tasty reminder

Of your ever decaying state.


A groan

And your shape shifts above me

As troubled slumbers scurry

To warn you of my presence.

An impotent gesture

For already

The sinuous tendrils

Of my unholy appetite

Hasten to hold fast

And devour

Your squirming soul.

Exquisite .

A whimper

As the seeds of your discomfort

Bury themselves deeper

Into the fetid treacle

Of your prickly dreams

Allowing a restless foot

Escape from its weighted trappings

To dangle tauntingly

Above my eager maw

And through this offering

Foul ecstasies are reached

As I pull your feeble form asunder

Dragging it greedily to my septic lair

Towards the ever-festering purgatory

Of Hells banquet.

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Mrs Chitter Chatter...

She's Mrs Chitter Chatter

With the gaily painted banter

Who befriends you

So you'll tell her all your stuff

And when that's done and over

She'll move on because she's bored now

Once her gossip coffers bulging

You're rebuffed!

Then she'll move on to another

Whilst their secrets she uncovers

Before sharing theirs and yours

With victims new

And through her twisted dealings

Caring nothing for folks feelings

She'll exaggerate the truth

To suit her mood

Then devouring the attention

Of her scandalous inventions

With the knife she used

To stab you in the back

She'll dissect your reputation

To seek others adoration

As compensation for the character

She lacks!

But feel not bruised nor bitter

By Mrs Chitter Chatters chitter

'Cos it's pity

That she needs above all else

As she'll never know true friendship

Her ways undone all pals will exit

And she'll end her days

In the company of herself.

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 3 September 2016

The Awakening...

(My original title for this ode was 'F**k Them All'...general consensus suggests that I should have stuck with that....and I concur!) 

I have wasted

Too many years

And I have shed

Far too many tears

Tolerating those

Who don't deserve

The enduring compassion

Of my mental reserves

And so no more

Will I withstand

The self-centered slap

Of their hypocritical hand

I'll live my life

For me and mine

No more encumbered

By their wasting my time

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sunday, 28 August 2016


I etch my name

Into the wall

So there will

At least remain

An echo

Of the misery

That was me

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Saturday, 27 August 2016

The Shelf...

There is a shelf

Within the heart

Upon which

There sits love

Sometimes you have to

Let it go

But it may need

A little push

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Sunday, 14 August 2016

In The Mix...

Find me the recipe

For a perfect mum

And let me

Bake you a cake

And when I do

Be sure to chew


On all the mistakes

To savour what real mums

Are made of

'Cos they're not

Just sugar and spice

They're little nuggets

Of worry

Mixed up with some

Misplaced advice

But that's because all mums

Are human

And sometimes

They think they know best

So they do what they do

And place guidelines for you

Which you, in turn

Try to resist

And sometimes

Mums make wrong decisions

But not out of malice

Nor mood

But because life does not

Make it easy

To do the right thing

For ones brood

So when next

You spend time disgruntled

Wishing mum had

Given you a break

Take time to appreciate

The flavours

Of the love

She whisked into

Your cake.

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Our Song...

(I wrote this piece as a song but my art lies in writing words not music so, until such time as I come across a someone who can write the music to accompany this...I shall at least share the lyrics with you)


I held his hand 

As to me he sang

A song for my ears alone

Such tragedy

In the melody

As to make my spirit mourn

For all the things

That could have been

But will never now come to pass

For tomorrow he visits the gallows

And his song will be our last

He held me near

And wiped my tears

As I looked in his eyes

The sadness there

Was hard to bear

And a hurt burned deep inside

A longing for

What was before

Tyburn's rope hung fast

For tomorrow he visits the gallows

And his song will be our last

He'd killed a man

Who'd done me harm

So I would no more dread

The violent swish

Of a madman's fist

Nor his angry, drunken tread

To save me from

A terrible fate

My true loves life would pass

For tomorrow he visits the gallows

And his song will be our last

As moonlight rests

Its silver threads

Upon his raven-black hair

I take his hand

And place it

On my belly

Wherein there stirs

The child blessed by our union

But cursed by his poor father's past

For tomorrow he visits the gallows

And his song will be our last

The jailer stands

With keys in hand

Now my love

And I must part

A candle flickers restlessly

As does my fretful heart

Through Newgates walls

My cries now fall

To meet others in their dirge

For loved ones soon lost to the gallows

And whose song will no more be heard.

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Death's Warm Embrace...

Were it not

For the company

The cemetery provides

I would know little

Of love

Nor comfort

Poem only ©  Copyright Lynn Gerrard

Friday, 12 August 2016

Missed Moments...

She missed his kiss

She missed his touch

She missed his eyes so blue

She didn't think

Of any of this

When she missed

Her period too!

© Copyright Lynn Gerrard


Bedevilled is the night

And I must feed

'Fore morning's light

My cursed state impedes.

Moon's silver fingers

Point me to the path

Where best my urgent need

Will fulfil its bloody task.

Once there my hungry eyes

See her young shape

I falter at my choice

Her life to take

But then the fiend within

Insists I must

Appease the gluttonous rage

Of my infernal lust

And so I softly glide

Towards the vein

That will rescue me

From conscience

Blocking pain

Which lingers still

In my dark and cold, dead heart

A remnant from my mortal days

Long past.

Poem only  © Copyright Lynn Gerrard