The Upstairs Ghosts Poem by Richard D Remler

.....


We never talked about it
With the neighbors on thestreets.
It's not something that you share
With any plumbob that you meet.

We kept our secret secretly,
And never shared a word, or three.
Some things are simply meant to be.
At least that's what Dad said to me.

We were in Terra Haute in fifty-two,
And I was young as young can be.
When the house that looked so old, and new,
Seemed to smile wide at me.

It was a quiet time on a quiet road,
That white-white house of many rooms.
It was as crickety as any toad,
And as dusty as Egyptian tombs.

Mama helped us clean it some,
Though it was not so with Dad.
We'd sweep the floors and dust the walls,
And scrub those windows just a tad.

"Make sure the chimney's swept out well,
Without a squirrel deep inside.
You know how hard it is to tell
In those dark places that they hide."

"And don't forget the crickets.
Make quite certain they're all gone.
It's kind of hard to sleep
When they're all working on a song."

So, we swept and scrubbed and polished well,
Until the big white house was done,
And shimmered like a silver bell
Left in the midnight sun.

And Mama stood there, filled with pride,
And as peaceful as a spirit guide ~
When a raven, bent with rage and coil,
And black as old spent railway oil

Flew in through the corner window there,
Fierce, foreboding, and full of dread.
And it raced about the room three times
As Mama ducked down her head.

And then, like lightning, it was gone,
Out through the chimney, into the night.
And though Mama searched for broken glass,
There was not a single shard in sight.

Dad shook his head.He scratched his ear.
"That can't be good, " I heard him sigh.
"Last time a raven visited,
We learned your Grandma June had died."

We had some soup for supper.
It wasn't much, but we all ate.
And then we headed off to bed
Because it was so late.

And we listened to the secret sounds
The night time brought our way.
And all those secret-secret things
Our new house had to say.

Up top it seemed our neighbors
Liked to dance and laugh a spell.
But the music that they danced to
Echoed such a tearful knell.

It was old piano music,
Like the hollow tapping of fine rain,
Sweet and almost too, too low,
Like a whisper on the window pane.

And footsteps claimed the steep, old stairs
That loomed so dark and subtly lit.
As if a shadow from so far above
Had claimed a little piece of it.

George nodded off and on,
Right near the fireplace.
A look of disenchantment
Painted on his lonesome face.

He was not pleased at all that we were here
In this small and crummy town.
As if our small and fragile family
Only brought him down.

And Marion, she kept so quiet,
In her modest and meek affairs,
Making sure she did not dare disturb
The ghosts who lived upstairs.

I slept a moment, maybe two,
When I heard a something extra new.
Mama's rocking chair began to rock
Along the baseboard with a knock.

And I watched its shadow gently play
In the darkness, dim and gray.
I saw the window curtains sway,
And did not want to look away,

When morning came, I rose quite well,
Though I was tired up a spell.
I woke up Shirley, she woke up Dad.
And up he got, grumbly and mad.

Outside a new fog whispered through
And teased the heavy morning dew.
George scratched his head and grumbled some,
Glad that morning time had come.

Mama didn't talk too much,
As though she did not seem to care.
And Dad never mentioned more than once,
"Boy, they sure do like that rocking chair."


Copyright © MMXII Richard D. Remler