The Poetry of Greg Jenkins, Ph.D.

Hidden within the nests of gnarled old oaks, under tattered, barren vines do grow -- lay the tiny hamlet of Arkham, hidden far from what thou must ever know. Beyond the Gambrel-roofed homes and quaint covered-bridges, over babbling brooks laden with snow, enter forth to Arkham, the tiny village of woe.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know

Once within its view, from east to west do flow, ravages dark Miskatonic, under ancient mountains surrounded, fair and mystic and bold. From French Streets, Brown and Jenkin, Antediluvian homes stand for all to behold -- beneath ivied terraces and flowered verandas, set like gems in a crown of silver and gold.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know

I spy the ancient churches with spire and steeple reaching high, of temple domes and balustrades guarding the fearful and faithful inside. The university quite arcane it be, stands Solemn and cryptic like that which should not be. And when the bells toll for thee and all be done, Miskatonic shall stand throughout it all -- Never to be undone.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know

Shrouded by oaks and ivied walls, with gleaming windows of golden acumen, Miskatonic waits patiently for he or she to grasp the torch of starry wisdom; patiently, beyond the gates of what we could ever know. As she sits stoically upon brick and mortar and beam, know that her soul waits -- She waits for you and me.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know

As I walk on ancient paths under fiery autumn trees, with leaves of green and brown and gold, on paths worn ages ago do I see those thundering clouds that beckon me home -- My dark and dreary Arkham, my ancestral abode. With spittle of rain that lightly taps my brow, do I hear the voices of my forefathers, gently beseeching me to render home, far From my enemies of old.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know

Under the stars that stretch and wind, from Polaris to Fomalhaut do these brilliant points shine; is an ancient ill never to be known by scholar, layman or divine. From ancient Aeons do they forever stretch, as to offer its curse to the unsuspected; the good, the wicked and the wretch.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know Tak

e me home to Arkham, beyond the ancient forests and foothills of old, with scent of camphor, smoke and pine do I hold so dear my ancestral home, that lay hidden in the Dark woods, beyond the thorny thickets, the foetid ponds and rivers -- This is my resting place; my sepulcher, my tomb, my home.

This be my night-shrouded Arkham that no other need ever know