Zoltar moved in quietly,
carried up the stairs by no one
I remember seeing.
At night, his gears murmured
through the thin apartment wall~
a soft metallic prayer
to whatever listens in the dark.
Occasionally,
I heard his cards shuffle themselves~
paper whispering secrets
it should not know.
Sometimes his lights flickered
under my doorframe,
as if he’s pacing,
as if he’s thinking.
One night,
he slid a fortune under my door:
The visitor arriving tomorrow
died twelve years ago.
Another one follows:
Your shadow will leave you
before the week ends.
At dawn, the hallway smelt
of burnt incense and cold metal.
His lights flickered wildly,
as if he’s arguing with something
I cannot see.
Then a final card appeared~
edges singed, letters warped:
Do not open the door
when you hear your own voice.
Fridged, bleached tiles underfoot,
icicles wicking warmth.
A shiver quivers,
spine stiffens--
Bellows bound,
cracked mirror,
s a e
h k s
Yellowed walls listen,
boards beneath
breathe cre--ek...
Thunderous footsteps
fall, echoed hallways
r v r e a e-
e e b r t
doorframe quakes,
breaks underweight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Whispers curl around the old doorframe~
not wind, but the edge of a spell
half-spoken, then left to dissolve
like sugar in cold tea.
The strings are everywhere~
puppet-master invisible,
tugging at kneecaps and eyelids,
weaving through the ribs of old houses
where the walls hum with names
scratched out by thumbs.
Forgotten things don’t stay buried~
they surface in the hollows of pockets,
in the creak of a stair that remembers
the weight of someone
who no longer exists.
The spell maker’s hands are empty now,
but the air still tastes of ginger and rust.
The strings grow slack, then tighten~
a noose, a cradle, a net.
And the forgotten?
They lean in, breathless,
waiting to be seen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At first, it was the small things~
a button loose on his coat,
the way the kettle whistled
but no one came.
Then the clock stopped,
not abruptly, but slow,
as if time itself had grown tired
of counting.
The wallpaper remembered
patterns they’d long forgotten,
peeling itself back
to reveal older bruises~
yellowed glue, pencil marks
where someone once measured
a child against the doorframe.
One evening, the sofa exhaled,
sagging into the shape of absence.
The windows fogged with breath
that wasn’t theirs.
And when the last light bulb dimmed,
they didn’t replace it.
They sat in the thickening dark,
listening to the house
unbuild itself around them.
*You may read the companion memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/ill_be_seeing_you_13598
You are in us - we will never die,
We come alive as you breathe Life inside.
Our spirits rise and soar anew,
Forever awakened, alive with you.
Your Cross has sealed our destiny,
Now we hold every victory key.
Life's doorframe, marked in Blood so pure,
A sign that your promises endure.
We love your presence, thoughts, and ways,
Your Words ignite our hearts with praise.
We have the mind of Christ within our soul,
You move and shift, you make us whole.
You grant us wisdom, insight so rare,
Unveiling life with tender care.
Once hidden in parables, now made plain,
You break the bonds of doubt and pain.
You are our awesome God, so bright,
Who turns all things to pure delight.
No weapon formed shall do us harm,
Your angel armies guard with strong arm.
Your eyes are on us, ever near,
You bless us with gifts beyond compare!
The pickled feeling.
Of joy and scratches.
Marked and haunted.
Having enough pens in your bag.
Nothing is blue under the doorframe.
Watches the right lane.
Turning carousel.
And puppets all around.
Blundering feelings.
Reaching through the screen.
Draining all the way through.
Footprints at the bottom.
Blue frog feelings.
Apples tuned to daffodils.
Gleeful fans.
And checkered rugs all over.
I have enough random thoughts in my head.
To power the battery in a tv remote.
That small sound of powering on.
Is meaningful.
Hot as hell and bloated to burst,
I’m filled with this desire to tame.
You’re wild but I have such a thirst
as your shape fills my doorframe.
Overstimulated and underdressed?
Proceed to the pernicious playroom.
I knew before your whisper confessed
that such intensity was not a costume.
Sweet is more than it seems my dear,
a dash of mouthwatering strawberries.
Mix in the heat of a Carolina Reaper,
I tend to become loud, my voice carries.
Have I raised a bit of interest yet,
do you possess a gambler’s mind?
Are you willing to place a small bet,
put on a scarf and enter my room blind?
Who the hell is Gordon Bennett
Some think there’s insanity
In the fact we call his name
As though it were profanity
Not so famous nowadays
As once he used to be
But still I call his name out
When a doorframe whacks my knee
I put my hammer to one side
To take a tiny break
And then cry Gordon Bennett
Where’s it gone for goodness sake
Did poor George Armstrong Custer
At the massing injun nations
Cry out Gordon Bennett
We’ve made underestimations
Or is our Mr Bennett
Just a UK kinda guy
Who’s name is shouted loud
As one more bus goes speeding by
Well, frankly I don’t care
That English language travels on
Gordon Bennett is world famous
Back where I come from
This unknown hero all my life
My unpretentious tenet
Is by my side in times of strife
His name is Gordon Bennett
My name is, and I find I'm nearly there
Breathing amidst life, not even the mirror stares
My name is, as I continue to wonder where
Breathing amidst life, I know their darkness dares
My name is, and I wish they wouldn't remain
Breathing amidst life, not seeing my nightly strain
My name is, being chased to frees doorframe
Breathing amidst life, it's openings not the same
My name is, when living was the game
Breathing amidst life, and now my life's drained
My name is, when my living's now engrained
Breathing amidst life, I feel I'm going insane
My name is, now close to their succumbing pain
Breathing amidst life, for they're never to attain
Furrowed down deep within
Burrowed while walking in a crowd
Silencing my thoughts & opinions
For fear of drowning
Existing in a world where I don't belong
Except for the saving power of love
Sculpting angels from the earth
Breathing life into everything I do
A maker of my own universe
Living in traverse
Visiting worlds from some forgotten dream
I am mortal, made up of memories & countless desires
Ashamed of being myself
Afraid of revealing too much of my fragility
Embarrassed to express myself
For fear of being judged by out of work actors & subjugators
Lingering in the doorframe
Looking for someone to blame
For the life I named
Never owning my intentions.
The cat knows he will get food in eight minutes.
He is on the porch, quiet, waiting for the front door to open.
His dead mice are pushed up under the doorframe, stiff and headless, tails proud.
He begins to stare my soul awake.
Guilt snatches me out of bed, and has me running to that door to get Shark his wet food and dry food.
He has to be fed by six a.m.
I have no idea how he manages to do this every day, but he does.
It is 5:55 and my heart starts beating double time.
I have no time for a bathroom break.
I grab up the cat food and run toward that door.
Shark is one powerfully hypnotic cat.
You are rock and bone,
sturdy eyes and heavy leaden shoes
line up by the doorframe like splinters.
The wood is peeling, and the
stairs cave beneath our feet in surrender.
My papa’s new wife would place glass paperweights
on every surface of the house, like tiny orbs.
I wonder know if she was trying to hold down
the whiskey bottles that were swallowed up
by each rise and fall of his chest on the sofa,
Instead of old tax forms.
I flick the lights and sit on the stairs in the dark
and think how lately
your hands are like the North Sea,
colder than the night we got into the elevator
staring up at our reflections on the ceiling
and you said, “I think I love you.”
You touch me with the patience of a jackknife,
apologizing up the thirty-seven stairs to my apartment.
“I am so sorry; you are my home.”
I tell you that homes are made of wood and metal,
and I am a human being
I am leaving you.
You kiss my toes and cry,
I shut the door.
dying to myself I saw
a shadow of a man
stranger to himself
plodding over salted pan
true heart lost forgotten
shriveled down a mossy well
a soul's darker midnight
a fearful wood both dank and fell
standing up for naught but living
another drear and sunless day
eyes dropped down from bright horizons
life turned hardened shapeless clay
when did a path turn rocky
broken cobbles, broken selves
when wounds bled out a smile
dusted on forgotten shelves
turning faces through the cobwebs
burning off the moorish haze
reaching for an inner ember
stoke desire's holy blaze
only fear and static bind us
cradled in their caustic arms
leeching will, sapping sinew
teeth behind a siren's charms
reaching for the doorframe
leading to a greener glen
tarnished knob, tumbler lock
stumbled foot and then,
the door opens...
The sirens loudly sounded
I perked up in strange alert as my heart pounded.
My fingers grew cold
I wondered how long my breathing could hold,
A flood warning and a tornado on the ground
The eeriness was filled without a single sound
I crouched and shielded myself in that old basement
I could feel the air seeping into my empty displacement.
Suddenly and just as quickly as it had come... It had disappeared
I emerged from underground and took a look around, but everything looked weird.
My house still stood, but it favored one side
I had never feared anything enough to run and hide.
I looked to the sky and thanked god I was alive still
Unfortunately that wasn't the case for the neighbors on the hill.
Husband and wife had been killed
From their house to the yard was nothing but shrapnel from doorframe to feild
I stood and I cried
Why had two good people just died?
I didn't think it seemed fair
but did that mean god didn't care??
No
Because storms come and storms go...
“And the doorframe!
And the door itself!”
“And the hinges!
and the termites!”
“And your hand, after
you push it in!
And you, after you enter!”
She must be operating on
some other plane of existence.
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