Bumps in the night, the flicker of a light

    And the objects that role and roam

Are all signs to the hosts that they have a ghost

    Inhabiting their house and home;

And though some may say all night and day,

    “It’s just a draft that brings the cold,”

There are those that believe and are not deceived;

They know what the shadows hold.

 

When I was child, these happenings were wild, but they gave me stories of gold.

Built years ago on ashes like snow, my house, you see, was old.

Father was away and would return one day, leaving just mother and brother and me;

Within those walls is where secrets crawl, but outside you’d see maple trees.

 

It starts with a story told by Mother to me of a small rubber shoe;

It belonged to Bondo, who was six feet below, whom Mother never knew.

It appeared every night in our living dog’s bite, no matter where it was hid.

That toy still knocks in our new dog’s toy box; of it, we’ll never be rid.

 

While father was gone, mother slept alone, alone as the evening light died.

Well, that’s what she thought until footsteps brought a form to lie at her side;

She could hear it breathe, but fear did not heave its way into her chest;

Rather she lie and watched the night sky through window as she fell into rest.

 

Mother heard me cry and ran to my side, to find what was wrong with me;

I told her a bandit had stolen my blanket; where it was, I could not see.

So Mother searched and found it perched neatly on the lower bunk;

It was out of my reach, and so caused my screech; a presence we could not debunk.

 

After that night, I grew used to the sight of things moving themselves;

A table was jerked or a statue worked its way off a stable shelf;

Stuff even went missing and I heard strange hissing, but never did fear cross my face.

When cousins heard tales they would nervous their nails, and leave in haste.

 

She became a friend whom not to offend by calling her imaginary;

During the day, we would play and play, and at night she sang as a canary.

I named her Lovey, known by only a covey, and she kept me from being lonely;

While others feared what they found weird, my mother believed me only.

 

If you think I lie, I beg you to try visiting that house for proof.

In the darkness of night with the moon shining bright onto the old shingle roof;

Go on inside and you’ll change your mind as outside the maple branches swing

Just close your eyes and wait for sunrise; you’ll hear our Lovey ghost sing.

 

Bumps in the night, the flicker of a light

    And the objects that role and roam

Are all signs to the hosts that they have a ghost

    Inhabiting their house and home;

And though some may say all night and day,

    “It’s just a draft that brings the cold,”

There are those that believe and are not deceived;

They know what the shadows hold.

 

This poem was born of a homework assignment for one of my education classes. I had to come up with two products inspired by the poem “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” The first, was a botanical representation of the ending of the poem (See the image at the bottom of this post), and the second was this poem. I was trying to mimic the eeriness of the original poem through the content and use of internal rhymes. How do you think I did?

Also, my posts are officially being moved to Saturdays instead of Fridays. I have had too much going on Fridays to keep up with my posts, so lazy Saturdays have been recruited for productivity!

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