By Juleigh Howard-Hobson
Malum Folium Germinabunt
A Devil Horns of Sonnets*
A Devil Horns of Sonnets*
To keep a dark garden it’s not enough
to plant the seeds. Although you must plant seeds.
And the seeds must be from the poisonous
botanicals—Henbane, Wolfsbane, the rough
leaved Digitalis, Oleander, Bead
(also known as Crab’s Eye), Heart of Jesus
(Elephant’s Ear)...you must also make
sure they not only poison, not only
sicken, but that they curse and that they hex
and that they jinx to hell and back. Why take
such pains to grow them if they are merely
toxic like rat bait or antifreeze? They must vex
and they must cause damnation and bedevil:
as the poison works, souls must go to hell.
As the poison works, souls must go to hell
in spells designed to consign enemies
to the darkest pits with the darkest pains
as farewell gifts. They damn while victims swell
with toxic reactions, they curse while knees
buckle from berries that cause more than stains
when they’re burst against tongues that will grow large
and stiff and choke life out of anyone
who swallows them. To have plants grow despair,
as well as toxic natures, you must charge
your garden with hate, guilt, blood, rage -- undone
and done—you must take evil from the air
and make your seedlings grow on vile black stuff.
To keep a dark garden, it’s not enough.
*Poets write ‘crowns of sonnets’ in which the last line of one is the first of the next, making a
‘crown’ with fourteen of them. I say crowns are far too heavenly in concept. So I write horns.
Devil horns of sonnets. The last line of one is the first of the next...and vice versa. I like my versa
with vice.
‘crown’ with fourteen of them. I say crowns are far too heavenly in concept. So I write horns.
Devil horns of sonnets. The last line of one is the first of the next...and vice versa. I like my versa
with vice.
To a New Werewolf: Don’t Think About It
If you think too much, you’ll be crippled by
it.
So don’t let yourself. Some people die.
I’ve bit
many that went on to have great
adventures.
They didn’t die. Call it Fate.
Call it a curse.
Call it whatever you
like. There are thoughts that
you should avoid to
seem normal, thoughts to combat,
thoughts that can wait
until the moon is full. Then
just forsake
every thought that makes you human
and kill,
tear, claw. Sure, some people won’t live. I
will
introduce you to those who didn’t die.
it.
So don’t let yourself. Some people die.
I’ve bit
many that went on to have great
adventures.
They didn’t die. Call it Fate.
Call it a curse.
Call it whatever you
like. There are thoughts that
you should avoid to
seem normal, thoughts to combat,
thoughts that can wait
until the moon is full. Then
just forsake
every thought that makes you human
and kill,
tear, claw. Sure, some people won’t live. I
will
introduce you to those who didn’t die.
Juleigh Howard-Hobson’s poetry has appeared in Amazing Stories, The Dead Lands, The Audient Void, Under Her Skin (Black Spot) Vastarien: Women’s Horror (Grimscribe), and many other places. Nominations include the Pushcart, Elgin, Best of the Net and Rhysling. Her latest book is Curses, Black Spells and Hexes (Alien Buddha). She is an active member of the SFPA and the HWA, and the 2025 Elgin Award Chair for the SFPA. An English ex-pat who grew up in Australia, she lives on the Oregon coast of the USA in a suitably haunted 140 year old house. Bluesky: @juleigh.bsky.social X: @poetforest
