Our Old House on Quarry Road … (or Just Another House)
That old odd house with its settling shadows,
its scrapes and snaps and window rattles,
our odd house that resisted our words and weight.
A house begging for a lifeline, whose misplaced
memories hanging in the attic with winter’s long
black sorrow and wind humming funeral songs.
We made jokes of the noises, told ourselves
little fibs of reason, said it was the ghost of
Dick Turpin and his horse Black Bess, but nobody
explained away that crow-black wiry hair dog sat
by the hearth, and in truth at night I’d fill my lungs,
and count to three. To sleep, at least to dream.
Words: 161. These poems/prose are draft versions, written in participation of Miz Quickly’s prompts (a few words) and Writers’ Digest (Poetic Asides) “Scary” November poem-a-day challenge. The aim: to produce a chapbook for submission. ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter. Image is mine created with AI on Midjourney.