Tag Archives: haunted

Blessed and Alone

A new home, a home new to us,

with the boxes of our worldly things

and mementos of our lives,

both together, and before we met.

The powers isn’t turned on yet.

On this grey afternoon, almost evening,

the house is dark and cold, not welcoming,

makes it feel lonely and haunted.

She is walking around the yard, looking at

the bedraggled flower bed that’s had no one

to tend to it and nurture it, but still has wild

growth, unkempt life, left to it’s own devices.

And she looks to the back of the house,

and the dark and hallowed woods stretching

out, all the way to the highway, buffering the noise,

making us feel blessed and alone here.

We blow up an air mattress, stuff ourselves in

our bright red sleeping bags, lay our heads down

on fluffy, brand new and brightly white pillows,

and watch videos on our phones, until we sleep.

I wake up in the middle of the night. She is asleep,

undisturbed and untroubled, maybe dreaming beautifully.

There is something that lingers here, unnamable, a cold

or sorrowful spirit, of whatever happened here before.

I close my eyes, and spoon myself against her back,

and smell her soft hair, and her warm skin, and feel

my heart race, as if to call her own heart to the chase,

and try to share her beautiful dreams, in this haunted place.

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Shadow Falls On Grace

The young woman looks back, beautiful but unsure,
in an ad from an old magazine, back of a curio shop.
Regal and fresh, but I can see something in those eyes,
a crack in the diadem, a tarnish on the world of gold.
A woman I love, whose feet I didn’t think touched earth,
who was beauty and artistic royalty, is nursing wounds,
gone to rehab, gone to sleep awhile. We all have poison.
Her diadem cracked. I now see the tarnish in her world of gold.
Some other era, an evocative moment sells perfume, pride.
Manicured and demurred, and still the shadow falls on grace.
The long ago model and the woman I love, and my lost soul,
all have poison, coming in through wounds, going out through fangs.
I go to the counter, buy the magazine, and a whizz-bang novel.
A teenage girl, smiling and friendly, takes my money, chats.
I make small talk, and know it’s another mask on what’s real.
Is there shadows in her eyes? Can’t say so on company time.
We all have poison, and we all know fear and loss and rage.
Diadems crack and there’s tarnish on the world’s of gold above.
I’ll buy some daisies for my love on visitation day tomorrow.
Maybe that model outran the shadow falling over her.