the wicked binds tightly

a house wreathed with cobwebs

and love letters turned to mud

behind unwashed curtains

and one last ticking clock,

creaking thunder and a rising breeze,

chance sat on the shoulders of the couple

who hand in hand

washed in rain,

where rings of secret words whispered,

blinked as if stardust clung to eyelids

afternoon fragrance of apples

from nearby orchard

ripe waiting to be picked

and placed in basket,

within those walls he saw them

bite flesh letting juice

run over lips as they embrace,

but they would share with a nest

of memories and swept away brutality,

no stars would shine inside,

and it would be clever to reside

with those ghosts without  rest

poem, poet, gothic

Wordle 129

 

sunday whirl

 

Catching Ghosts In Summer

slow emphatic automobile

draws to a halt

close enough for door

opening catching tree

metal on nature

only sound that hot morning,

unaware or uncaring

he stood and wiped hands

damp from steering a long way

on pants,

out of city into suburban country,

some things had been forgotten

as if an egg timer

had it’s sand shaken loose,

mind conjured and played tricks,

as he looked at what could

only be a desolate shack,

collapsed porch

dark smoke mascara

about window edges

bleak eyes that wound,

no hurry in placing feet

a kind of lawn congealed

with weeds and long brambles,

stumble

touch bottle in jacket pocket

making sure it’s still there

whiskey would be only thirst quencher

as water cut off

nothing was disguised

it could be yesterday

fingered  wedding band

his second the first removed

gone it hurt in a painful tightness,

timbers cracked door flat inside

still smelled smoke,

across the wall graffiti

where family pictures once hung

stirred dust with feet

voices came back as soft ghosts

still caught in this place,

he took a sip of whiskey

sweat traveled across his brow,

jar rattled on the floor

dog barked beyond decaying

timber confines,

other pocket heavy as well

as he slipped jacket off,

whiskey bottle put on what was

the kitchen table

charred becoming lopsided,

drew revolver with every chamber full,

a heavy sun filled yard

put short shadows on the fence,

gardeners with hosepipe,

birds

children

sunbathers

housewives,

heard the bang

a short report

announcing another ghost

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