Haunted House

Haunted House short poem

Photo by B.Riordan.

A home full of poltergeists doesn’t sleep.
Lights turn on, off, bulbs blow, glass
Like shrapnel shreds soles until swept up.
But the linoleum stays stained and the stains
Shift and fade to resemble faces, fade again.
Leaving only the memory of those faces
No hint of the damage that made them.
Doors are open. They never move while
Watched. Age-dulled corners seek foreheads
There’s ache in every brow. Shout, slam
Race into the bathroom – there’s no one
Just a cold echo of shock and betrayal.
Clean dishes rotate through the cupboards
Jam the sink, cover every surface, then
Presto they appear clean again. The door
Leading outside is always ajar signalling
There’s a chance to escape if one could
Elude the traps of tangled clothing on the floor,
Walls of once-read paperbacks, ranks
Of red-jacketed soft drink cans marshalling
To assume command of every room with their
Mould and clatter. Coats and shoes breast the tide
Change with the seasons, several styles and sizes
So there must be more than one person wearing
Them or maybe they drowned in the clutter
Of disused cardboard, unopened mail
Or maybe they’re just spirits as assumed
Moving things randomly but unable to change.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of GlenDodge

GlenDodge

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

White House

White House short poem

It was a rape of a city. Go ahead. I still speak the old phrases with back pain. And let fly the silence in beautiful emptiness of a swollen heart. On pain of anonymity I wanted to clear my name

Jake’s House

Jakes House short poem

There was a man whose name was Jake Who had a house upon the lake Every morning he would wake And for breakfast have a piece of cake He had a private fishing hole; He always used a long cane

The Glass House

The Glass House short poem

Not yet, the courage will wait for the curtain to fall, will then disappear in awakening; the crucial thing was the love of absence the scythe of eclipsed moon. Suspense hangs from the tall image in slow turn of thighs

The Un-haunted House

The Un haunted House short poem

The cook was in the kitchen The gardener trimming vines I went down to the cellar To fetch a case of wine I came back to the parlor And much to my surprise There stood Master Pennbrook Right before my