Poet's Note: This poem was inspired by an obituary of a woman named Beulah. In her obituary, it said she lived in the same house she'd lived in all her life, so I wanted to explore this idea and the 'ghosts' of the lives lived in it before her. Thanks for reading!
The house, white,
Sits quiet on East Margaret.
Sun rises, Sun sleeps,
A swinging pendulum,
Tick-Tock.
Inside, the house is silent.
Outside, the crickets sing.
In her bed, the old woman sighs.
The curtains sway as the night breeze
Blows through them.
She is called Beulah by the children,
Bubba by their children,
And Granny by their children.
But she lays alone
In the quiet house on East Margaret.
The floor creaks with the footsteps
Of children long passed.
The windows rattle with the banging
Of branches long since cut down.
The widow's eyes follow the shadows
Of the ghosts dancing around her,
"Come home! Come join us!"
There's a clanging in the kitchen
Of Mother's bread being pulled out,
Fresh from the oven.
There's a newborn's cry,
In the bedroom downstairs,
And Mother's voice,
Shaking with the joy
Of delivering Beulah's sister, "Bessie."
The girls' laughter echoes
Down the hallways
Of the house on East Margaret.
Bessie stands beside where Beulah lays,
Her pale hand held out, an invitation.
Brown braids circle her head in a crown
And the blue eyes,
Never faded from Beulah's memory,
"Come home! Come join us!"
Bessie leaps and twirls
With the grace and ease
Of a child born to dance.
The last breath of an old woman
Lingers faintly on the air,
Shining and twinkling
Like a first snow.
Beulah dances with ghosts:
Of her sister,
And her brothers,
And of her children long passed
In the house on East Margaret.
YOU ARE READING
thoughts from a dark hole
Poetryrandom poetry that i think of. poetry is my way of coping with my mind and learning about the world around me through the beauty of words. thank you for reading! TRIGGER WARNING FOR THE FIRST TWO POEMS - sexual and physical abuse, violence, CSA, de...
