Dust motes dance in the
moonlight where the rotting
porch boards moan beneath
my feet.
Thick, silver cobwebs drape
like burial shrouds over the
rotting, abandoned foyer.
A sudden, frantic squeaking
echoes from the floorboards,
followed by the scuttle of a
hundred hungry spiders.
The decrepit house breathes,
its wall pulsing with the phantom
sounds of distant, agonizing yells.
I try to retreat, but the front door
slams shut, locking me inside the
suffocating darkness.
Invisible fingers brush against
my neck, and the temperature
drops to a freezing, unnatural chill.
The screaming starts then- a chorus
of tormented souls trapped forever
within the cursed timber.
I run up the spiraling staircase,
only to find the hallway crawling
with grotesque, shifting shadows.
The walls close in as a deafening
shriek shatters the silence, and the
house claims another victim.
Now I am just another spectral
noise in the dark, forever screaming
in the spider- infested void.
Old Mrs. Gable stared from
her porch with cold, hollow
eyes.
Children avoided her rotting
mansion, fearing her sharp,
bitter tongue.
When she died inside, the
neighborhood breathed a
sigh of relief.
Yet the heavy velvet curtains
still twitched whenever
anyone walked by.
The rusted front gates would
screech open, inviting the
curious inside.
Those who dared enter
found her scowling portrait
watching their steps.
Her rocking chair swayed on
the hardwood with no wind
around.
A raspy, phantom voice
hissed from the dark,
demanding they leave.
Then the doors slammed
shut, locking the trespassers
in her trap.
She is still entity, and now
they belong to her house
forever.
At a Vanderbilt mansion,*
Two bathrooms surprised,
With features too modern
For me to’ve surmised.
In the owner’s own shower,
One handle controlled
A foot-facing faucet;
If too hot or cold,
You adjusted the temp
‘Til you felt the right heat
Before water would hit you,
Just touching your feet.
Only then, when correct,
Did you turn on the taps.
Maybe otherwise, those
Really rich would collapse.
In his wife’s room, a scale
In the floor tiles was sending
Her weight at eye level,
Preventing her bending.
These accoutrements really
Allowed me to see
That the rich are quite different
From you and from me.
*William K. Vanderbilt’s mansion,
built between 1910 and 1936.
Marley Manor Mansion has a reputation that is not good
Most of us avoid it, though we are tough; we live in the hood
It is down a long driveway, with overgrowth not often seen.
We avoid it like a pandemic, especially on Halloween.
One old lady got lost last year and had a horror story to tell.
The ghostly entities there looked like they crawled out of hell
Her relatives figured she had dementia and put her into a home
But today I drove by and saw seven prowling ghouls on the roam.
people have always wanted answers to the big questions
ten dollar parking across the street
unfriendly, loud-mouthed and rude tour guides
queues and lines and queues
one bloke accidently took his vehicle up the driveway
and was yelled at
i'm actually on the driveway
the theory of everything
my friend went to visit the grave of Yasujiro Ozu
and was also yelled at.
let's publish a book of instances detailing pilgrimages,
in which people have taken the wrong path and
been yelled at
ruminations and caught in a trap
why is everything murder?
Down the alley I see the well—
beside it, a quiet distress.
A rainbow behind you shows seven colours,
yet within it you emit only grey.
What lies inside you?
Do those shattered windows tell a story no one knows,
or are your walls themselves stained
with a tale no one dares to hear?
Those withered flowers seem to hold a promise—
unless they were buried
for someone who could never keep one.
The fog that surrounds you
seems to isolate the world,
but never you.
You look almost royal;
no wonder you have no kin.
You understand blood too well—
its scent, its taste—
a knowledge that horrifies the soul.
Perhaps one day
I will come to clean you…
only to meet my demise.
For purchasing a new house, I rejoice,
Yet always hear a faint, unearthly voice.
"Is it a ghost—or spirits?" I ponder,
And tremble with fear as my thoughts wander.
Doors creak shut, then unlock, then close again;
A wild wind hurls a window from its pane.
A whisper sighs, "This once belonged to me,"
Then thunders forth, "Hand over now the key!"
A sudden chill sweeps my feet off the grounds;
My trembling soul spins in unearthly rounds.
I'm bound within the monster's cold, dark reins—
My spirit flees, a soulless shell remains.
If you see her mother in the ocean, you need not see her in the mansion.
When visiting a mansion
That’s become a restoration,
It’s cool to see a property
That’s way above your station.
The verdant lawns with giant trees,
The gardens all in bloom,
The stained glass in the windows
Of each river-facing room…
The made-to-order furniture,
The statues and the art,
The butler’s pantry where the fancy
Dinners get their start…
The books in leather bindings
Lined up neatly on the shelves,
The lamps and fixtures next to chairs
Where folks relaxed themselves.
It’s fun to fantasize about
The life styles of the rich.
I wonder, though, how they would fare
In my house, for a switch.
My husband and I love to visit
Old mansions once home to the rich.
It’s cool to see wealthy folks’ manors,
With which most people wish they could switch.
I admire the woodwork and paintings,
The furniture and the decor,
Though it’s often too showy and fancy,
Since ornate’s far from me at my core.
So I guess it won’t seem too surprising
That the rooms where at home I could feel
Are the quarters that house all the servants,
Which to me have the greatest appeal.
Thoughts are Swirling,
Wind is whirring,
Birds chirping,
Swarming.
The clouds are forming,.
I'm brainstorming,
There's a storm warning.
Lightning and Thunder,
Come to uncover,
Another wonder.
New concepts to ponder.
As I wander,
Through Possibilities,
Lying dormant within me.
Light flashing excitedly,
Waiting for me to see,
The Energies before me.
Thunder rumbles the Ground,
Crashing sounds,
Toss my thoughts around.
Existence and Reality,
How did I come to be,
Is something molding me?
Holding A Key,
I unlock the door.
Beginning to Explore,
More and more,
Straight to the core.
Soaring with precision.
get a clear vision,
Of the Mission.
Making the decision,
living in Duality.
Cells trapped by gravity,
Floating through a Galaxy.
Walls you cant See,
Expanding with me.
Standing free,
Staring into Eternity.
Home to infinity,
I search the rooms within me.
Life is Expansion,
We are The Mansion,
Holding the Keys,
To Form Realities.
Entering again,
Building a new frame.
It's never the same,
There to Claim,
When you enter your domain.
The old dilapidated manaion
deep in the wood
sometimes would call me
in my lone hours.
When weather smiled
I wandered near;
it's silent portico
drew me close and I, resting
upon its crumbling stair,
would dream of its days
once bright and fair.
How grand
it might stood in ages past -
it's fleeting charm
non could last .
And in those times
I might not stand
within the reach
of its proud land .
A time will come when skilled hands, once a master's tool,
Will lay still, their craftsmanship, a forgotten rule.
Eyes that shone like stars, bright with knowledge and might,
Will dim, like embers, losing their radiant light.
Degrees, once proudly worn, like badges of honor bright,
Will gather dust, their value, lost in endless night.
The scent of odza room, that fragrant, sacred space,
Will fade, as memories, like autumn leaves, erase.
The mind, a canvas, once alive with vibrant hue,
Will freeze, as judgment's brush, paints a different view.
Creation's spark, that fueled my soul's desire,
Will flicker out, leaving only ashes, cold as fire.
Mansions built, with sweat and toil, will crumble, lost,
Buried beneath, the silence, of a forgotten coast.
My last whisper, a final breath, a moment's sigh,
Will echo through eternity, as the curtain falls, and I say goodbye.
Night, day, or morning, my last moment draws near,
A mystery, known only to the keeper of the year.
When will your last whisper be? Will it be dawn's first light?
Or dusk's last shadow? Only time, the thief, holds the sight.
Come inside, my child.
I see it's been rough outside lately.
But I have a place of refuge,
And it's here, but only if you choose.
Will you come inside?
Will you surrender and confide?
Away from the cacophonous sounds,
Do come inside, where peace and clarity abound.
Inside, away from winter's cold,
Come in, my child; I have warmth for your soul.
Come inside out of the rain,
I have clean towels to dry the tears of your pain.
The door to peace, love, and strength is open.
Lay down all cares and burdens and find rest inside my mansion.
The door doesn't shut
The windows don't open,
But, give it some time
Some wishin' and hopin'
Creaking floorboards
And the coldest drafts,
Occupy these rooms
With echoes of laughs
Only a house rundown
Is what the eye sees,
Yet, the deadest place
Is alive with memories
The lady in the cellar
The man in the attic,
Shrieking and calling
And stomping erratic
Below a leaky roof
My feet still roam,
No, it ain't much ...
But, still it's home.
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