Long Closed door Poems
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On a tour across the Scottish highland moor,
one summer noon I stopped by a grand Victorian house.
Curious, I entered silently through the half-closed door,
in the semi-dark room a pile of antiques I could only see .
In the creepy silence before I could say “anybody in”,
the creaking wooden door closed sharply behind me.
Alarmed to the core, I pressed the panic button within,
for with the door closed the way out I couldn’t find.
As I shivered with the eerie feeling of being trapped,
saw a faint figure approach through the hazy hallway,
as if floating in thin air he came in the sinister room,
I saw his scalded face before he turned it away.
As he came near I wailed petrified, “please open the door”,
he didn’t move nor did he utter a single word,
but how he softly opened the heavy door I didn’t know.
I rushed out in a breath outside in the sunlight flood.
In nearby village I queried about the man of that house,
nobody saw hint of life in the haunted house of the dead,
for in the outhouse the fire that took a long time to dowse,
the lone caretaker was burnt to death some two years back.
October 13, 2021
Contest : Ghost Lace
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
Just as my sleep is going deep,
The nightlong foe, my closed door calls.
Derailing my dream state of sleep,
Upsetting it, the closed door calls.
Like cicadas’ continuous clip,
I wonder why my closed door calls.
Making my heart’s wilds me to whip,
With a rapid snip closed door calls.
Who’d come in at such time to peep?
Tired be when night, why closed door calls?
Making my loneliness to leap,
Oh desperate, my closed door calls.
My mind churns and limbs toss and flip,
Is it my estranged soul that calls?
_________________________________________
Ghazal |06.11.2021|
they painted her backwards,
a body half-forgotten by gravity,
half-claimed by the red.
not blood,
but the color of memory
when it refuses to fade.
her hands—
not reaching,
but remembering
what it felt like
to be touched without bruising.
there is silk at her thighs,
or maybe it’s fog,
or maybe it’s the ghost of a wedding dress
that never got to say “i do.”
red eats everything here.
the sheets,
the scream caught in her hip,
the part of her that once believed
a closed door was protection.
they say she fell.
but look closely:
the fall looks like a dance
when no one tells you it’s a funeral.
her body is a question mark
curled around silence.
paint runs like a fever.
she was once white,
but white never stays.
not when you’ve been opened.
not when you’ve been framed.
what do you call a woman
who collapses so beautifully
that the canvas becomes her coffin
and her resurrection
at the same time?
you call her art.
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
While on a tour across the Scottish highland moor
one summer noon I stopped by a Victorian house.
Curious, I entered through the half-closed door,
a dark room filled with antiques I could browse.
In the eerie air before I could call out loud, “anybody in”
the creaking wooden door closed sharply behind me.
In the alarmed mind I pressed the panic button within,
for with all the doors closed the way out I couldn’t see.
I shivered with the creepy feeling of being trapped,
saw a shadowy figure appear in the murky hallway,
as if striding in air into the sinister room he stepped.
Saw his scalded fiery face before he turned it away.
Scared I wailed, “I’m sorry I entered”, as he came near,
“please help, open the door for me, out I should go”.
He looked at me, a single word I didn’t hear him utter.
He walked silently to the door in a floating stride slow.
How he opened so softly the heavy door I couldn’t see,
I rushed out in a breath to the open in flood of sunlight.
Before I could turn back quickly the door closed on me,
I couldn’t say “thank you”, the man was out of sight.
In nearby village I queried about the man and the house,
I’m told if anyone lived in the haunted house they’d know.
In the outhouse fire that took them a long time to dowse
the lone caretaker was burnt to death some two years ago.
August 22, 2018
Contest : The Haunted House
Spnsored by : Dear Heart
At the dawn of mist, I melt into extinguished words,
From the edges of silence, wings of fog grow for me,
I search for my echo in undying memories,
Like in a shattered mirror, a dream of blue ice,
Where time flows but never fulfills.
In my soul, a labyrinth of questions,
The silence screams, like a shoreless sea,
Under closed eyelids, smoke butterflies dance,
And in their shadow, love, like a fire that never dies,
Spins in wide circles, without finding a place.
Like a dagger of light, the dawn captures me,
Through the bed of dreams, rivers of absence flow,
In every moment, the paradox grows,
Twisting meanings like leaves in the wind,
They whisper that the end is a new beginning.
I stir the silences, like a wave of ash,
From folds of mystery, I craft an altar,
On which desires burn like old wax,
And in their smoke, dreaming takes shape and form,
As if all that is ephemeral becomes eternal.
In the night of silence, I feel roots grow,
From hidden shadows, a song is born,
Like a dance of fire and ice, intertwined,
The lights fade, but the shadows tell tales,
Of a lost path, rediscovered in the abyss.
On the edge of the dream, I find a closed door,
The turning of the key is a silent ritual,
Beyond it, the truth watches me,
Like an illusion that caresses and stings,
And in its upheaval, I find myself lost.
What is more terrifying than a closed door?
A breath, a floorboard creak, a dull thud of
danger impending. A shadow fleeting, a rustle
of leaves from window left open. A sigh in silence.
The threat and the jolt, the spook, stalk and kill;
the call is coming from inside the house.
What is more terrifying than a closed door?
An opening to nowhere to ambiguity to hollow,
to fear, fall or flounder, to stagger then stumble. A pit.
Beyond that closed door, beyond key, lock and bolt
are sentences incomplete, threads still unspooling,
whispers vague and steam swirling. An intangible 'then'.
An open door, however, is in fact more terrifying:
the unknown bend of a corridor, a life mapped
out on tracing paper. Invisible ink dropped,
dotted behind. Splashes unseen left as breadcrumbs.
Form:
Sometimes I Seem to Forget
How Valuable I Can Be.
I Let Things Drag Me down
Along with Opinions of Me.
As Long as I Have No Desire,
To Fulfill Dreams of My Own,
Then There's Nothing I Can't Do
As Long as My Needs Leave Me Alone.
I'm Glad My Own Wants Are Gone,
Now I Can Do What I Feel Is Right
I Fought with Me for Awhile
But I've Finally Won the Fight
I Buried My Selfish Streak
Way down Deep in My Soul.
And I Pray with All My Heart
That I Can Keep this Iron Control.
This Is Not the First Time
That Myself Escaped and Came Out,
Wanting and Needing Happiness,
And Taking Me on the Wrong Route.
But You Can Bet Your Last Dollar
It Won't Happen Anymore.
No One on this Earth
Will Ever Come Through My Closed Door.
Connie Moore
1 15 93
I truly can't believe what I am really seeing.
In the shadow darkness is there a shadowed being.
Open my eyes as wide as can be, to illuminate the night.
Questioning my wavered sanity, which brings up this fight.
Is what I hear from something near, a real like human voice?
I listen in when it begins, I no longer have a choice.
I can clearly hear within my own open ears.
Pushing on my thoughts, consuming intruding fears.
If I ever catch it in the act, this fu*ker shadow that won't move an inch.
When I watch, wait and listen, my jaws they begin to tightly clench.
But deep within my mind, I know the difference of, that in which I question.
Cause in reality and in daylight I realize it's of my own invention.
I need to regain control,
Take the pills that let me know.
That its all in my head.
But it always forms itself when I'm lying in bed.
I know I heard it aloud and clear, exactly what it spoke.
The fact that I am schizo, even without the puddled choke.
It's all so mucked up, these voices sound exactly like someone I heard before.
Almost like a few of my close friends, speaking beyond a closed door.
Talking about things in demeaning words, a conversation that has intention.
But I question the reality of the whole thing, cause I know it's my dementia reflection.
I shouldn't contemplate the silence within my mind.
Cause each time I drift off in a daze, that's when I will find.
That these voices of the internal realm.
Are really just me behind the helm.
Dwell on a spell, I fell in a well, the bell wrung in hell, so I sail with ale, and smell this tale, Then tell this to quell, and as always prevail, prevail, prevail.
grandma never knew her name until she was an adult
and it was Helena (some kind of birth certificate mix up)
she embraced her new found name
it was lovely sliding off the lips like a waterfall
later, she found her Ojibwe roots
and I hear the drums of my ancestors in my heart beating
grandma was our family storyteller
she fascinated me and sparked my imagination
I would watch her lips as she spoke
how her voice changed
how her facial expressions changed
I never grew tired of listening to her stories
stories told over and over until her death of people and places
nothing was written down
they died with her. . . I think that was meant to be
grandma had given me a book
a journal for my small girl thoughts
and told me- write it, write it
write it, for the world to know
so I did, I wrote in my room stories about my cat and flowers
in time, I wrote of my sadness that made grandma cry
I had a gift just like Helena
I was a storyteller but in words
a poet was born
in a old attic room
I was lost in a sea of emotions
everyday over tea I would read my words for Helena,
I was able to pour my heart and soul on paper
my skill grew with me like a cool rippling stream
the drums of time ceased
for my Helena and I wrote and read her eulogy
my heart swelled with a sea of tears
then, I heard weeping echoing in the church
within the stained glass window glow
and I knew then that I had a power
Helena's gift... I had inherited
because of her I am a writer
the bond between us a delicate flower
and she had said to this sad little girl
find the sweetness in the dregs of sorrow
for life is a lighted window and a closed door
_________________________
August 3, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Her Name Was Helena
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1122-142-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
One in each bedroom. Where am I to sleep?
Little listening devices, dot lime green light
Steadily gazing down at me all night
Surveillance recording my data to keep
Smoke alarms linking conspiracy
Three roomed spies, tracking my actions
Informed by portion, a mirror refraction
Crackle of speaker tells me they're listening
Walking beneath their sinister signal
Rubs a demure smoke stack
Static sear of lightning attack
My frontal lobe, firey inflicted
Drills into my wobbled competence
Harboured horror of what's to come
I latch splinter of infiltration flung
Hazed head hampers responsiveness
Piled with layers of quilts
Kitchen floor is in fact, quite comfortable
Alarms are unconfrontable
- I perceived the microphone tilt!
Haphazard clothes cause me to stumble
In a cluttered closed door hallway
Could alarms be removable, - I have a way!
Slid off plastic caps makes blaze redundant
1st August 2020
Contest : Be Inspired
Sponsor: Regina Mc Intosh