the voices are overwhelming
I can hear so many conversations in my head a few good mostly not
all pointing to one subject
her
they talk about her life choices
making mentions of her checkered past.
Just another junkie, might as well throw her in the trash.
I'll say this line I just heard is classic
she is like problems you stuff in basements and attics.
An addict in an attic well that's a new play on words.
one voice cuts through all these conversations with three simple words
She has God.
He has seen every wrong and every wrong made right.
He walked with her in darkness and still brought her back to light.
He has watched every moment when she thought she was alone.
The nights she cried herself to sleep, in the car she called her home.
He seen all these things and still sees her for who she is.
All voices now stopped.
Thank you to the Father
my Savior, my Rock.
Isaiah 55:8-9
"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the LORD. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts."
Rumple Stein tapped his cane
on the dusty floorboards,
gathering the children in the
mansion's dark parlor.
"Long ago, this very house
belonged to a hunchback
goblin named Quasimodo, "he
whispered, pointing up.
"He had ears like a bat, feet
like a duck, and a crooked
back shaped like a giant
potato."
The grandfather clock
chimed midnight, its heavy
ticks matching the rhythm of
the children's racing hearts.
Quasimodo didn't want to hurt
anyone, Rumple Stein grinned,
he just hated people making loud
noises.
Suddenly, a loud, scraping
THUD- THUD- THUD echoed right
above their heads from the
dark attic stairs.
When the kids don't clean their
rooms, he stalks through the
halls and hides their favorite
toys!
The children gasped, looking
nervously at the dark corners
of the room as the curtains
rustled.
"He is watching right now,
waiting to see who leaves
their shoes on the floor
tonight."
Rumple Stein chuckled softly,
closed his book, and said,
"Now go clean up before
Quasimodo finds you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
fingers trace iridescent dust motes~
sunlight spills through the cracked walls,
where piano still hums.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the attic’s dust, a filament glows~
one last gasp of tungsten defiance.
Shadows crowd like hungry crows,
but the bulb hums its lone science.
A century’s worth of swallowed dark
spits back, bright as a struck match’s spark.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You find them first in the attic dust,
spells written on the backs of receipts~
bleached ink, promises curled at the frayed edges.
They taste of cinnamon and static,
whispering in a tongue your brain
almost remembers.
Strings, too. Not the kind that bind,
but the ones that fray~
a sweater unraveled by time,
a puppet cut loose,
still jerking its limbs in the dark.
And the forgotten things?
They crowd the corners like shy ghosts,
holding their breath.
A locket with no face inside,
a key that fits nothing you own,
the slow dripping of a faucet
that stopped being fixed
long before you were born.
You could cast them all,
these leftover incantations,
but magic is heavier
when it has nowhere to go.
So you let them settle~
spells without syllables,
strings without anchors,
lost things learning
how to stay.
Tiny train...tiny memories...
how toys bring us back,
travel great distances
without actually moving --
how replicas resurrect
the plastic solders and tanks
in an attic trunk, my favorite
gun -- dry, bet the caps still
bang...?
Should these shaky old hands
pass them on? Or let them
desire their own -- to see what
future dusty attics will hold
after a fresh settling of years?
Spears, arrows, muskets, laser
blasters -- does anything really
change? Christ has not returned
despite our subsequent crucifixions....
Yet, love gives me hope....
when the lights dim the doll dances
enjoying her attic cell
terrifying the humans
there are reluctant footsteps
attic light is turned on
doll is frozen in place
giving away nothing
Sun reflect—
soporific effect
of sultry, languorous afternoon.
A photo album, open in an attic room,
of my family and dear friends gone all too soon.
Phantasmagorically fey—
gallimaufry in stray
disarray.
[Poetry is in the House Contest
Sponsor Nette Onclaud
11.11.25 : Placed 3rd : Standard Contest
syllable check : howmanysyllables.com]
_______________________
rocking horse up there, dare
walnut wood ancient stood
fish moths, mice scatter bare
feeling it rock again
wild memories flooding
yesteryear playing fair
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cedar fragrance floats softly in the air
like old ghosts awakening after sleep.
Inside, yellowed envelopes carry
the silent burden of hands
that never delivered their confessions.
A brittle map traces borders
that dissolved with the century's breath.
In the probing moonlight,
tarnished brass hinges moan.
Beneath folded sweaters,
apologies fossilize,
and grief settles like dust
on unworn wedding lace.
A sapphire brooch recalls
the heartbeat under a collarbone
where it pinned courage tight
until surrendering.
Trapped light holds
what daylight wouldn't understand.
Within attic walls
the lid groans echoing
how memory bends
under its own weight.
Secrets don't suffocate here~
they become the wood's grain.
dusty room full of junk;
creaking wooden floorboards.
small dollhouse, somehow shrunk,
lies nestled, treasured time.
aging, darkened ember;
old, beat -up wooden trunk.
Day was so specific :
I was lucky to own
as study room ! Attic
of new house built By dad.
First time got privacy.
Felt Great ! Sophistic !
In my weary old mind,
in a very old house.
What will I see or find?
Running around a mouse,
ghosts of the past and spouse.
Cobwebs blow in the wind.
In my room with a view,
That looks up to the stars
And moonlight sometimes too.
With many memories
Sadly, I leave this place.
For sunlit pastures new.
11 / 9 / 2025.
Poetry is in the House.
Sponsor Nette Onclaud.
I remember the room
at the top of gran's house.
Within dust I did bloom,
loved the rafters and junk.
Nom de plume I would write
to let go of my gloom . . .
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