Ghost in my House

 

Her Lavender perfume

lingers in this lonely house,

where once was love, and

now claims death many

winters ago.

 

The walls weep from her

sadness, and drip as daylight

falls without no trace of

where, or why she fell.

 

This old house built of river

stone in 1899 along

 the banks

of very old trees and tall

 pines, walked by vanished

 clergymen who chanted,

burn the witch for

sins she did commit

as crimes.

 

I dwell with a strange and

 horrid feeling of dread,

 for her death is still felt

in this tarnished

abode forgotten

 stone house,

of long ago.

 

I sit with quill in hand and watch

as movement stirs within

 my den of books, and

 things, and letters

addressed

 by my pen.

 

The flicker of my candle

wick quivers, with the

gentle caress of

her lavender scent,

that insists on

lingering

now and then,

as her shadow

curses the wall in

my room, and

leaves her

impression there

still.

 

While black bats tumble

and dart all about the

air, seeking out insects

that fall into their snare

while scattering snow

whirls and twirls   at

will against my window

sill.

 

I watch and wonder why

she wants to share my

dimly lit chamber with

me? when in my many

rooms above my

head a window

opens and blows

a silent breeze

on the pillow

where she can

lay her head.

 

I am almost afraid

for the night my

shadow will cast

an early light

as I walk in the

warmth of my

lamplight.

 

It’s told by folk

he killed her as his

mistress,very sad

and slowly, were the

blows struck in the

dead of night around

her lonely bed,

where now she lays

dead in shame

that no one

came to

claim her

dear ones

on that

dismal

night.

 

© Copyright Vincent Moore 2012. All Rights Reserved.

 


Comments

Ghost in my House — 10 Comments

    • It really wasn’t frightening at all, I used metaphors to expand on the possibilities. However every once in awhile I would have her strong scent of Lavender perfume sweep by where I sat, I felt her presence and wanted to know why she was visiting. I made up the poem based on what possibly could have happened. I did some history on the home and the owner had built it for a mistress, so what lays behind that story?

  1. Love how this spirit lingers with the poet who can be her voice when she cannot speak. Love stories like this, and how you honor the ones who live just on the other side of that thin veil called death. Well done dear poet …hugggs

    • Yes as you know when they draw near to us, we must either run in fear as many do, or simply reach out and invite them to dine with us for a spell. Tell us their sorrows and woes and let the thin veil never separate them and us for too long. Thank you for your kind words dear poet.

    • Yes I believe that spirits float around many of us, unfulfilled love I can understand, the sadness of it all though! my friend. Thank you for expressing your thoughts with me my friend. Spirits abound, we must be patient and kind to them, for we too one day will be them.

  2. The paradox is there is such blissful serenity and peace and sparkles of joy within the melancholy. Possibly because I have a fixation for Shakespearean English, the phraseology which features so predominantly in your writings bringing beauty to tragedy, darkness, despondency and even sorrow, depression and death. Quite an art my friend!

    Although the linguistics in this one – more modern – the lure is still intoxicating.

    Your intonation never suffers with the “melody” of the words unconsciously reaching your readers through pitch variations which is naturally deciphered subliminally giving the phrase deeper meaning.

    And you have such composure, equanimity with a spirit that walks by your side!!

    In the search for rest and peace, how enchanting that her perfumed mellow scent lingers and surpasses the horrific circumstances around her death.

    Brilliant Vincent! Bravo!

    Cheryl 🙂

  3. My sweet friend, your words left on my work are always so eloquently composed, a writer yourself, you paint with a very articulately educated style, very poetic indeed. My words are given to me by my Muse when I pen, I doubt my common language is no match, but I am a good student and obey my teacher.Somehow he gifts me with these methods to draw a picture to my audience, drawing them in and feeling the disturbances in my work. Melancholy though most of my work is, I try to modernized as much as allowed. “Luring and intoxicating” what beautiful compliments my dear. I truly believe that good writers are enabled by their Muses to attract there readers to sit on the edge of their chairs, couches or beds and be drawn in and left wanting for more. I am happy when some of my readers tell me so. This ghost/spirit was a kind one, she simply wanted to be noticed by her sensusal enticing lure of the lavender. I truly don’t know how she came to her end, but sadly, and likely it was over romance.

Leave a Reply