Softly the sunlight
caresses
the soft contours
of her face,
waking her gently
to a new day.
With a yawn
she sits up,
on the edge of the bed,
reaches for her glasses,
faithfully waiting
on the nightstand,
as always.
As she puts
her glasses on,
the world swims
into sharp focus,
sharper than she would like.
In those few, precious moments,
between sleep
and being fully awake,
her bedroom,
her house,
the whole world,
seemed pristine,
unsullied.
But with the donning
of her glasses,
harsh reality sets in.
She can see the dust,
the cobwebs,
the chips and cracks
in the painted walls.
Not filth, in no way
a hovel,
but tangible signs
that she is letting things
slip past her.
Once, she kept
an immaculate house,
cooked fine meals,
rather than frozen dinners.
Once, she had a husband,
children to care for,
a reason to
make an effort.
Now,
her life is as empty
as her refrigerator,
her husband dead,
her children grown
with lives of their own,
and little time to call
or come see her.
She felt no bitterness
over this,
it was the way of life,
how things were meant to be.
Still,
it made for an
empty and lonely life.
Those precious, fleeting moments,
before reality sets in,
keep her going,
reminding her
of a life well lived,
of family, well loved,
and the promise
of a better place,
yet to be hers.

The night was calm,
eerily silent,
with not even
a trace of a breeze.
The moon was just
a pale sliver,
hovering
slightly above the trees.
A road passed
by a field,
mostly hidden
by dense grey fog,
and down the road
came walking,
walking,
walking,
down the road
came walking
a young boy
and his dog.

The boy wore
thin pajamas
that were nothing
against the chill,
his dog walked
right beside him
its tail
low and still.
Their pace
was slow and plodding,
they walked
as if in a trance,
and from the field
came growling,
growling,
growling,
from the field
came growling,
but they never
gave it a glance.

The field
had a reputation,
rarely spoken of
in light of day,
but children
were said to vanish
when coming here
to play.
But the town
kept its secrets
and few people
knew cause
of the field’s
dark haunting,
haunting,
haunting,
the cause of the field’s
dark haunting,
they simply knew
it was.

In the morning
the sun rose brightly
burning away
the fog.
A driver saw something
in that field,
it was
the young boy’s dog.
The dog was cold,
half frozen,
but its spirit strong
it wouldn’t yield,
half dead it was
still crawling,
crawling,
crawling,
near death
it was still crawling
slowly
across the field.

They searched
for the boy all morning,
in the adjoining woods
as well as the field.
His parents shook
with heart-wrenching sobs,
a terrible loss
that would never
be healed.
They searched into
the evening,
until the sunlight
began to dim,
but the little boy
was missing,
missing,
missing,
their only son
was missing,
and they doubted
they’d ever find him.

Time passes
and the young boy
is never,
ever found.
The town still keeps
its secrets
and never talks
about this cursed ground.
So despite everyone
knowing
that kids occasionally
vanish there
the whole town
did nothing,
nothing,
nothing,
the entire town
did nothing,
unable to admit
to their fear.

“I have a story to tell.”
said a woman,
as she sat down
amid the group
of strangers.
Nobody looked up,
all too engrossed
in their own
knots of conversation.
The woman,
faced lined,
hair lank
and going grey,
took a moment
to gather herself,
then cleared her throat
and tried again.
“I have a story to tell,
it’s a ghost story!”
That got through,
there were all here,
at this hotel
with a reputation
for being haunted
for a ghost hunt.
Almost en masse,
they turned,
a few seemed surprised,
as if they had not realized
someone was sitting there.
She continued,
now that she had their attention.
“It’s not my story,
it belongs to someone
I met once,
long ago.”
She shook her head,
thinking how odd is sounded
to say something as intangible,
as ephemeral
as a story
could belong to anyone.
“She stayed here,
a few years back,
for one night,
room 312.”
There were some murmurs,
room 312
was why there were here.
The room where
a woman took her life,
after finding out
her husband was cheating.
The room
that was the most active,
in a very haunted
hotel.
She had them now,
she knew it,
their interest
was piqued.
Although the hotel
tried to quiet the rumors,
they still got out,
and those that wanted
to experience
a haunted hotel
always managed to find out.
So, the week of Halloween,
the management
booked the hotel,
with these ghost hunters.
Year after year
she saw them come,
and year after year
she told her story.
“It was the year
after the suicide,
there had been
a few sightings,
but the room
was still being rented.”
All eyes were on her,
they hung
on her every word,
a few still holding
forgotten drinks,
it their hands.
“Her name was Rachael.
She was heading
to her hometown,
to visit family,
and stopped her
for the night.”
“She was tired,
kept to herself,
just checked in
and went to bed.”
A few people nodded,
they knew how it was,
traveling could be wearying.
“Shortly after 2 a.m.,
she woke.
A noise had disturbed her,
a drip, drip, drip.
Subtle but persistent.
Heading into the bathroom,
to see if a tap was dripping,
she saw the ghost.
It was in the bathtub,
pale, still,
floating in the ghostly remains
of the ****** water
she was found in.
She fell back,
nearly fainting
her heart nearly beating
out of her chest.
She could not believe her eyes,
it was not possible.
But there it was,
still lying there,
she could even smell
the moldy, rank smell
of a decomposing body.
And just where her horror
had reached its peak,
terror came to play.
The ghost sat up,
its translucent head
slowly turning
towards her,
the eyes,
closed permanently
so long ago,
opened,
looked at her,
froze her in place.
With a squishy sound,
the hand clenching
the edge of the tub,
released,
pointed at her,
and she heard
the long dead voice,
whisper her name.
She fainted.
When she came to,
without a word to anyone,
without taking time
to pack her bags,
she left the room,
the hotel,
possibly the state.”
She sat back,
waited,
the others sat
is stunned silence,
they had been captivated.
Finally, the spell broke,
one by one
they began to animate,
chat among themselves.
One person,
more critical than the other
posed a question.
“If the woman left
without a word,
how did you come
to hear her story?”
At that point,
behind the group,
a waiter dropped
a tray of glasses.
The group turned,
startled,
and when they turned back,
the storyteller had vanished,
as if she had never been there
at all.

A single tear
carved a clean track
down her *****,
careworn face,
as she fought
to hold back
a sob.
She knew
that she should be strong,
that the opinions of others,
mattered little
in the grand scheme of things.
It was a hard life,
and it wore her down,
sometimes
it seemed as if it would
simply grind her to dust
and she would blow away,
and cease to be.
Almost she hoped for it,
it would be a relief,
an end to the
nearly constant
fear and pain
that she lived in.
It had not always been this way,
it had once been easy,
she had two parents
that loved her,
and did their best for her.
Then her father had died
when she was only fourteen,
after a long battle
with cancer.
Her mother had tried
to shield her,
but she knew that the
hospital bills
were astronomical.
The insurance
and savings were
barely enough,
her mother
had to go to work.
Things were tight,
but they had not starved,
and they learned
to be happy again.
Before long,
it was time for college,
and with a partial scholarship
they could just afford it.
But halfway through
her first year
her mother died.
A sudden heart attack.
And just as suddenly,
it was over.
She could not afford tuition
without her mother’s help,
she could not afford the apartment
where her mother had lived.
She had nothing left.
No family, no money
no school,
and nowhere to live.
She had friends,
but was too proud
to ask for help.
She found a job,
it did not pay much
but by sleeping in her car,
she could afford to eat.
She tried to save a little
each week,
in hopes of getting a room
somewhere.
She did her best,
trying not to feel sorry
for herself.
But sometimes,
like today,
that single tear
would slip out.
She hated it,
a sign of weakness,
when she was
trying so hard
to be strong.
She lifted her head,
reached deep within
and found her strength.
She was better off
than some that she knew.
She did not have to sleep
in an alley
or a cardboard box.
She was not digging
through dumpsters
to find something to eat.
She did not need
to go with strange men
as some of the other girls
out on the street did.
She was better off
that a lot of others,
there was no reason
to cry.
With a hand
that still trembled,
but was growing steadier,
she wiped away
that single tear,
hoping it would be
the last.

Devastated,
the young man,
heartbroken
for the first time.
Unable to cope
or understand,
sought solace
in his mother’s
wisdom.
She sat him down,
served tea,
and looked him
in the eyes.
“This is just
a moment in time.
A fleeting instant
in the vastness of time.”
He looked at her,
upset,
confused,
she took pity on him
and said…
“This will all pass.”
He nodded,
not soothed,
and kissed her forehead.
A few days later,
he laughed
at some silly thing,
one of his friends said,
and realized
his mother
had been right.
A few years later,
while in college
the young man’s mother
passed.
It was natural,
peaceful,
in her sleep.
He grieved,
and at her funeral,
as he knelt
by her coffin,
tears running down
his face,
he whispered.
“This is just
a moment in time,
an eyeblink
in a vast eternity,
that you have joined.”
He bent forward,
kissed her forehead
and stood.
“My grief too, will pass.”
Eventually
his grief did pass,
although he missed
his mother
every day.
And he never
forgot her lesson.
And when he had
children of his own,
and his daughter
cried in his arms,
over some boy
that broke her heart,
he held her gently,
dried her tears,
and told her tenderly…
“This is just
a moment in time,
painful but fleeting,
This pain will pass
in time.
But until it does
I want you to know,
you can always
lean on me.”

He wakes up most mornings
before the sun,
never needing an alarm.
This morning he wakes
at four,
and he knows there will be
no more sleep.
He starts his day
as he always does,
shave, shower,
a quick breakfast,
eaten while standing
at the counter.
He tries to keep busy
during his day,
tidying his house,
reading, writing,
cooking lunch and dinner.
Some days he talks
to his dog, or sings,
to keep himself company.
Most days, he runs
out of things to do
after dinner is eaten
and picked up.
He will sit
in the evening,
watching television,
but the shows
are not much fun
with nobody to discuss them.
Inevitably,
he gives up,
goes to bed early,
only to wake up early.
The last thing he does,
every night, before bed,
is to mark the day off
on his calendar.
He has a simple system,
a large, black X
if he has not spoken
to anyone that day,
(his dog, a poor conversationalist, does not count).
On days he has a conversation,
he uses a large red circle.
Today was a black X,
and he marked it carefully,
this whole month
was nothing but
black X’s.
He had no friends or family,
so he wasn’t surprised.
Well, that was not
exactly true,
he had a few cousins,
he spoke to them once a year,
mostly,
usually around the holidays.
He had a few friends,
as well,
or at least people
he thought of as friends.
He was always glad to see them,
and to pass some time
talking to them,
but they never called him.
The seemed glad to see him,
if he ran into them,
on some errand.
They would smile,
wave,
sometimes even walk over,
and say hello.
They never ducked around a corner,
or froze him out
with stony, cold silence,
so they must be friends.
Just not the kind of friends
that thought to include him
in their plans,
or call him up
just to say hi.
Just the same,
he kept himself busy,
filled his days,
and marked them off
on the calendar,
filled with black X’s.
Always hoping for the day
that through no action
of his own,
he could mark that day
with a red circle.

I still remember how you made me feel
on the day that first we met,
how the air seemed to leave the room,
and time paused
as you smiled at me.
I still can feel the too rapid beat
of my heart, as you walked closer,
and the burning flash of revelation
when I knew you were the one,
my one and only one.
My heart still swells
and my eyes still weep
when I think of how you took my hand
and said “yes”, you would be mine,
and my heart nearly stops
when I remember the day
the doctor said,
“We did all we could.”
and I lost you,
forever.
But I still have my memories,
memories of you, of us,
of how I felt, having you in my life.
I wrap them around me,
like a blanket against the cold,
pull them over my head,
and hide, from the pain
and the loneliness.
Time goes by, as it always does,
and my wounds fade
but never heal,
and I’m not sure
that I want them to heal completely.
Without their searing flames
my memories of you
could cool and die,
leaving me defenseless
and alone,
in a world, without you.

Lost and cold I look around,
but I see nothing
of my surroundings.
All is dark,
black,
for a moment,
I fear I am blind,
but I can see myself,
if nothing else.
I listen,
in hope I will hear
anything
to give me an idea where I am.
There is nothing to hear
except for my own
rapid breathing.
No,
wait,
there is something faint,
a sibilant hissing,
almost
but not quite words.
A cold wind blows
bringing a shiver out of me.
I must be outside,
although I can still see nothing
but myself.
There is no smell on the wind,
just the cold
that chills more than my flesh.
I call out,
more fear in my voice
than I had hoped,
but my voice falls flat.
No echo,
no reverberation,
just a dull, flat noise.
No response,
either,
just that continued hissing,
almost words,
I can almost make them out.
I close my eyes,
not that it makes any difference,
but somehow it seems
to help my concentration.
I can’t remember
how I got here
or why I am here,
the last thing I remember
is going to bed the night before.
The wind blows again,
and the hissing grows louder,
almost
I can make out a word.
“coming”
and another
“soon”.
They have no meaning
to me,
no relevance
to my situation,
still,
they fill me with dread.
I feel as if the sky,
the sky I cannot see
presses down on me
leaden and ponderous.
My breathing
quickens
and become harsh,
panting from fear
rather than exertion.
I call out again,
fear adding strength
to my flat sounding voice.
But still,
no echo,
no response.
Just the sibilant hissing,
coming clearer.
Almost,
I think I understand,
I think I know
where I am,
why I am here,
and what the hissing means.
Just as the revelation
is about to burst through,
I wake.
I see my bedroom,
still shaking
I sit up in bed,
reveling
in the familiarity
of it all.
And as I lie back
to try and sleep again
I realize
the insight
into the meaning of the dream
had faded away,
leaving me feeling
uneasy
and with a deep sense
of loss.

I see something in your soul,
something that others
do not see.
Something they cannot see,
because they do not bother
to look at you at all.
Too cold, they say,
a heart of stainless steel,
a void, an empty shell
of a woman.
But I see something in your soul,
something I’ve never seen there
before,
after all these years
of knowing you,
knowing but not understanding,
this new thing,
makes me pause.
No more do you look through me,
as if I were not even there,
now, when I see you,
you glance at me,
one time, you even smiled.
I see something in your soul
that calls to me,
calls to me
when I didn’t even think
you knew my name.
You draw me to you
without a word,
but with merely a glance
that beckons to me,
and I,
ever the fool,
approach.
You reach out
to touch me.
Running fingers through my hair
and lightly caressing my cheek,
but your caress turns to claws
that furrow my flesh
and lay bare my soul.
You can see something in my soul,
as your laughter echoes in my ears,
you can see the love
I had for you.
No, you can see the love
I have for you,
for it remains
despite everything.
Because,
I see something in your soul.

A pale sliver of moon
peeks out
between heavy grey clouds.
Wan moonlight
reflects off grass
just starting to brown
with the touch of Autumn.
The night is silent,
calm,
waiting for something
that remains
undefined.
A brief shadow,
crossing in front of me,
there and gone
before I can tell
if it is from a bird,
a bat,
or something else.
I shiver,
as I stand in my front yard
witnessing this all.
Alone and forgotten,
no lights in the neighbor’s houses,
no cars on the street,
yet somehow,
I feel a part of something,
at one with the world
on the brink of something.
I just wish I knew what.
A cool breeze
drags at my skin,
a few brown leaves
skitter across my feet
and in the distance
a sound.
A howl or baying,
perhaps a dog or wolf,
then closer
the hoot of an owl.
And I know,
I know what the night is waiting for,
Halloween is coming.

The sun is starting to dim now,
with less warmth
upon my skin.
The days grow shorter
and grayer,
as the wind begins
to show its teeth.
I shudder
as I realize
Fall, is coming.
It is inevitable,
I know.
You cannot fight against time
anymore than you can avoid death.
Still,
I feel the change
come over me.
The room around me
seems to close in,
sounds dull
and colors fade.
Everything
that once gave me joy
slowly begins
to lose appeal.
And I feel myself
withdrawing,
burrowing deep
within myself,
to hibernate,
to hide away
from the Fall
that has reached my soul.
I shudder again.
I've gone through this before,
many times,
sleep away the Autumn
in hope of waking,
anew and refreshed,
once more ready
to face the world
when spring
comes again.

There once was a young man
who found his lady love,
hand in hand they’d wander
wherever the wind would blow.
Never a truer love
could you hope to see,
every evening they went walking,
walking,
walking,
in the evening they went walking
under the pale moonlight.
Time went by, years past,
their love continued to grow,
in a world full of changes
they remained consistent.
Despite having busy lives
with many a thing to do,
they always made time for walking,
walking,
walking,
there’s always time for walking,
and always hand in hand.
One day the young man woke up
to discover he’d grown old,
he turned to his lady love to ask her
how this had come to be.
But she didn’t answer,
for in the night, she had passed away
and that evening he went walking,
walking,
walking,
that evening he still went walking,
‘though his tears blurred the way.
Day by day his grief dimmed
yet it never faded away,
he learned to live life
without his lady love.
Many things have changed
but one remains the same,
every evening he goes walking,
walking,
walking,
shoulders slumped, he goes walking,
to remember his lady love.

Do not despair, oh crying one
all is not yet lost.
Despite all the myriad and tangled woes
that heap themselves upon you,
clinging and clutching,
suckling at your soul,
respite can still be found.
Cast off the shackles of depression,
break down the walls doubts have built,
and let your cry come onto me.
I'll absorb your sin and pain,
take it in, make it my own.
Leaving you free to go forth
into this world of endless trials.
Unfettered and unencumbered.
Ready to make new doubts,
more disappointments and mistakes.
And let your cry come onto me,
again.

I went to a funeral this morning,
not of a family member,
nor a friend or loved one.
It was a service for a complete stranger.
I don’t know why.
I was just walking past the cemetery,
on some errand, I don’t remember what.
Just that it seemed important at the time.
I saw the casket resting above an open grave,
and one priest, conducting the service.
That was all.
No one was in attendance,
no one.
I should have walked on,
I usually would have,
but I stopped.
Before I knew what I was doing
I walked up and joined the service.
I don’t know why.
Perhaps it was the solemn priest
officiating as if on stage before thousands,
instead of speaking to only the dead.
So moved by his own words
that tears crept down his face.
Or was he mourning not the death,
but that someone should pass so alone?
Our eyes met as I walked up
and stood beside the grave.
A brief smile crossed his face
as he continued on,
as if I had been there the whole time.
After the priest spoke the final prayers,
while the casket was lowered into the ground,
he briefly squeezed my hand in parting.
No words were spoken, none were needed,
we both knew what we had shared.
I cried.
I don’t know why.
Through my tears I read his name
on the crude wooden sign,
shoved unceremoniously into the ground,
marking the place where a stone would proclaim
that this stranger had lived,
and died.
Later that afternoon with newspaper in hand
I found his name among the obituaries.
Such a short entry,
so dry, no picture,
a young man, only twenty four.
Just a listing of facts,
he was born in town,
lived in town,
died in town.
No mention of friends or family,
just one other word,
suicide.
This stranger had taken his own life.
I don’t know why.
I returned to the cemetery that evening,
stood alone again by his grave.
Too many thoughts in my head,
moving too fast to be recognized,
a welkin of emotions
undefined.
I put my flowers, the only ones there,
on his freshly filled in grave.
Not lilies or roses,
symbolizing mourning or love,
just a simple bouquet,
forget-me-nots.
And a promise,
I will remember you,
even if
I don’t know why.

The poet sighed,
took out paper and pen
and waited for inspiration to come.
Nothing.
He stared at the blank page
for hour after hour,
like every day
for the last month,
nothing came to him.
“There is no poetry in my anymore.”
he mumbled weakly,
as if there were not strength in him,
but he hurled the pen across the room
hard enough to gouge the wall.
He got up, went about his day,
he had a lot of things to do,
later, he took up the paper and pen again.
“There is no more poetry in the world.”
he wrote, the words scrawled
untidily across the page,
“No more words
of love or passion,
no more pretty phrases.”
He went on at length,
describing his lack of feelings,
his inability to express his pain.
After a couple of pages he paused,
with a steeling breath
he went on.
“I’ve found a way out
of the pit I’m trapped in,
this empty, emotionless void.”
“I cannot make it out myself,
I will need a ladder.”
“A ladder is a wonderful device,
able to help mankind
rise above troubles,
to lift them up
when their own abilities
fail.”
He put his pen down,
walked out to his garage,
in there, he looked upon the ladder
he had placed under his way out,
a noose.
He stood there for a moment,
thinking about his lack of feeling,
his failures,
the people that betrayed him.
He looked down at the pages in his hand,
placed them carefully on the workbench,
the would be found there,
read and examined.
Thereafter people would understand
why he took this route,
why he could no longer cope
with his inability to write.
He climbed the ladder,
put his head in the noose,
his portal out of the pit.
He stopped for a moment,
looked down at the pages,
then it hit him.
These pages he had written
were his finest writing in months,
perhaps in his life.
Thinking about what he wrote
he realized,
there was the emotion he hadn’t felt,
the words that wouldn’t come.
Startled by the revelation
he stepped back,
off the ladder,
his mind ablaze with ideas.
But the noose, that was his way out of pain,
was still around his neck.
As he hung there,
helpless,
slowly fading away,
he cursed himself.
Why hadn’t he paused
at the base of the ladder,
reread the pages he carried.
Now, it was too late,
everything he still had within him
would die with him.
People would read his words
and never know,
that he had found his voice again,
had come to understand
that numbness and pain
don’t last.
They would read his words
and think less of him.
As these thoughts faded
and darkness claimed him
a single tear crept down his cheek.
A final testament
that he had,
in the end,
regained his humanity.
But sadly,
it would dry and disappear,
long before he was found.

He looked around his lonely room,
everything seemed the same as always.
The walls were still in need of new paint,
the former light blue, now faded,
to the color of sadness.
“I’m dreaming.” he said aloud,
startling himself,
the words were spoken
before he fully realized the thought.
Once spoken, however,
there was no denying their truth.
He had no idea how he had come
to this revelation,
he still felt the same,
there were no telltale signs
hidden about the room.
Yet, he still knew that he was dreaming,
as sure as he knew he was trapped here.
This thought startled him as well,
and again, the truth of it
was not to be denied.
He walked to the door, still wondering
how he could be so sure this was a dream
when everything seemed so perfectly normal.
He reached for the doorknob,
as his hand closed on it
a mental voice spoke up,
with perfect certainty.
“This is not the way out.”
He tried the door anyway
but the **** wouldn’t turn,
the door remained fast.
There was no lock on this door,
this was fact, immutable,
yet the door couldn’t be opened.
He pounded on it in frustration,
to no avail.
The sound was dull, muted,
and there was no response
from elsewhere in the house.
Not that he had expected one,
he lived alone,
and that fact remained as true
as everything else in this dream.
He turned away from the door,
walked over to one of the windows,
again, the voice in his mind spoke.
“This is not the way out.”
Sure of what would happen,
he tried the window,
it would not open.
He looked out, there was his back yard,
as real and as in need of attention as ever.
He picked up a chair, swung it at the window,
his frustration and growing fear
adding force to the blow.
The chair rebounded, fell to the floor,
with the same muted noise
as his pounding on the door.
The window remained, pristine.
He paused for a moment,
his breath rasping in his throat,
he strove to find his center, his calm.
There had to be a way out,
he only needed to think clearly
to find it.
He reached for his cell phone,
again, that ****** inner voice spoke.
“This is not the way out.”
He tried the phone anyway, no service,
he had never had reception problems in here before.
In rage and fear, he hurled the phone at the wall,
watched it shatter and fall to the floor
in a pile of jagged pieces,
all with the same muted sound.
Immediately he regretted it,
he wore no watch
and there were no clocks in his room,
his phone was the only way
he had to check the time.
He glanced at the shelf
where he always kept his phone,
there it was, sitting where it belonged.
Quickly he turned back to where he had thrown it,
there was no mark on the wall,
no pile of debris on the floor.        
He understood.
This was a dream,
his mind created it, his mind could change it.
He willed the windows to fly open,
nothing happened.
He gathered himself,
focused all his will on the door unlocking,
it remained stuck, unmoving.
Trying to shut out his growing fear and anger
he attempted to will an exit to appear.
He looked around, no new doors,
no opening in the walls, or mystical portal.
Then he saw it, on his nightstand,
sitting on his nightstand
that only moments before
held nothing but a book and a lamp,
was a gun.
He reached for it, hesitated,
that mental voice came again.
“This, is the way out.”
So it had come to this,
he should have known.
It had been on his mind for weeks,
his subconscious had made the decision
that his waking mind could not.
All his fear, rage, and frustration left him,
he picked up the gun,
marveling at how right it felt in his hand.
Briefly, he wondered if it’s sound
would have the same muted quality
that everything else had.
Then, he pointed it at his temple
and left the room.

See the old lady
sitting alone at her table,
an empty sketchpad before her.
She gently folds her hands
and closes her eyes briefly.
Perhaps she's waiting for inspiration,
or merely praying that her arthritic hands
will do what she wants this time.
She picks up a stubby pencil
in her gnarled hands
and begins to draw.
It almost seems as if she's sketching randomly,
a line here, a curve there,
nothing connected.
Although her hand shakes
and her brow furrows
the pencil never stops
its slow travel around the page.
Slowly an image takes place,
a face.
At first glance, it's not a pleasant face,
cold eyes and an tight mouth,
drawn with short, sharp lines.
The woman signs the picture at the bottom,
and writes two words at the top,
"My Daughter".
With a sigh she sets down the pencil,
rubs her hands to ease the stiffness.
She looks down at what she's drawn and smiles.
Now the face doesn't seem so harsh,
there are traces of warmth in the eyes.
Faint traces of a smile
at the corners of the mouth,
and in the artist's face,
more than a trace of love.
As she stands, the phone rings,
she answers to hear her daughter's voice.
"Mom, I was just thinking of you."
Sometimes traces can run deep.

The sun had been shining
as I pulled up the driveway,
but as I parked and got out of my car
a cloud crossed over the sun.
The sudden shadow
threw a chill over me
as I approached the front door
and fumbled in my pocket for keys
to the house.
I crossed the threshold,
closed the door behind me,
a crash of thunder
overpowered the sound
of the latch hitting home.
I looked around the front hall,
getting familiar,
I had never been here before.
The house was massive,
a mansion built back
when the word mansion meant something.
But the house had been empty for years,
its beauty faded over time,
the tattered remnants of its former glory
lying scattered at my feet.
I almost wept.
Somehow, the faded curtains,
the broken and dust covered furniture,
saddened me more
than all the sappy movies I had ever seen,
tore at my heart more
than all the stores of lost love I had ever read.
Outside, the rain began,
as if in tandem with my mood.
I could hear it tapping on the roof,
see it rolling down the windows,
but there were no leaks,
the ceiling remained dry.
Old and worn, but not yet broken,
there was still a bit of life
to this place.
I grabbed my bags, found my way upstairs,
found a bedroom, thickly covered with dust.
This would do for tonight,
I was too tired to clean,
the morning would be soon enough.
It was still fairly early
but it had been a long day
of driving to get here,
and the storm outside darkened the sky,
making it hard to see.
There was no electricity here,
and the realty company hadn’t bothered
with upkeep for a long time.
Nobody was interested in buying this place,
which why they were thrilled
to let me have it for the weekend,
the first perspective buyer
in a decade or more.
In the dust and premature gloom
I unrolled my sleeping bag,
getting ready to pass the night,
here in this dark, dank, room,
in this old, run-down house
the size of a small motel.
I suddenly realized,
I had no idea why I was here,
why I had felt drawn to this place
from the moment I heard about it.
All I knew, is that I had been compelled to come,
and once here,
felt more at home than I had in years.
Lighting flashed occasionally
outside the window,
often enough to allow me to see what I was doing
without resorting to the lantern I had brought.
As the storm continued outside
the storm within my soul
settled for the first time,
and I slept.
Sometime later, I have no idea what time,
time didn’t seem to have meaning here,
I woke, there had been a noise.
Outside the bedroom door,
a footstep,
but that was impossible,
I was the only one here.
My mind raced,
could the reality company have sent somebody?
Possibly to check on me?
I doubted it,
nobody would come here.
Maybe, this was it,
what I had heard about,
the reason this place was empty.
The footsteps stopped,
the doorknob rattled,
I lied back down, closed my eyes,
tried to slow my ragged breathing,
my rapid heartbeat.
The door opened,
I wanted to look, didn’t dare,
I waited, for what though,
I had no idea.
Then, my blanket was pulled up
tight against my chin,
and I felt a cool hand smooth my hair.
That was it, somehow I knew,
whatever had been there was gone.
This is what I had heard about,
the ghost that still walked this place.
This is why nobody would buy this place,
nobody would even step inside.
The stories of how the ghost
would terrorize anyone
who spent the night,
the ghost that drove people away.
I had been drawn here,
without knowing why,
and it seemed I was accepted here as well.
There was no more sleep for me that night,
not from fear of my ghostly visitor,
but because my mind was filled with plans.
Plans for buying this place,
the price, after years of desertion was reasonable,
and plans for restoration.
For the first time in years
I looked forward to the future,
I hadn’t know it when I heard about this place,
nor when I first walked in it,
but I had found here,
what I needed most of all.
I have found here,
a home.

Every time I went to the bar, I saw him sitting there.
It didn’t matter what day it was,
didn’t matter if it was early or late.
The same man was sitting in the same spot, alone.
Some days he was nursing a beer,
other days he’d be sipping coffee,
but every day he’d be sitting there, alone.
I never heard him speak a word,
the bartender would bring him a new drink
when his was empty, he’d pay and leave a tip,
all without speaking.
There were times I’d feel compelled to speak to him,
make small talk, try to draw him out of his shell.
But, somehow, I could never bring myself to.
Maybe it was because he never looked at people,
not even when the bar was crowded,
or when someone bumped into him.
Maybe it was the look on his face,
neither smiling nor frowning, utterly blank.
Even thought I could never speak to him
I looked for him every time I was there.
Eventually I noticed, he didn’t just sit,
he was writing in a notebook.
Not constantly, he’d sit, stare off into space for a while,
then pick up his pencil, write furiously for a moment,
then stare off into space again.
Once noticed, the notebook was as constant as he,
a thick, five subject notebook, looking battered and worn.
When I first noticed it, he was barely a fourth
of the way into it.
Watching him became kind of an obsession,
I felt drawn, compelled.
Sometimes I would walk past him,
try to see what he was writing,
I never could.
Some nights he’d only fill a page or two,
other nights, whatever muse inspired him
led him to fill a dozen or more.
As time went by I watched him progress,
slowly, but steadily through his notebook.
Halfway, three quarters,
until one night, he reached the end.
My curiosity was still burning,
maybe he had just finished
the next great American novel,
or maybe a screenplay
that I’d soon be paying to see.
Even more than that, I wondered,
now that his project was done,
would he become sociable?
He waved away the bartender, who was approaching,
a fresh drink in his hand.
He sat and stared for a moment,
then wrote a brief something
on the inside of the back cover.
With that, he closed the notebook,
placed his mechanical pencil on the top of it,
placed it gently, almost reverently, and stood.
I watched him walk out the door,
wondering if I’d see him the next time I came out,
perhaps with a new notebook.
When I looked back at this seat,
I saw that he had forgotten his notebook.
I grabbed it, rushed out the door,
hoping to catch him, to give it to him.
When I got out the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to head back inside, leave it at the bar.
I was sure he’d be back for it soon.
I paused with my hand on the door, battling with myself.
I wanted to look inside, see what he had written,
yet I knew it was private,
he had never shown it to anyone.
I ended up taking it home, unopened.
I figured I’d return the next night, give it to him.
I’d assure him that I didn’t read it, and then maybe,
maybe he’d tell me what it was.
But when I returned the next night, he wasn’t there.
I left my name and number with the bartender,
said to have him call me if he came looking for it.
A week went by, with no call.
I returned to the bar but he wasn’t there,
the bartender told me that he hadn’t been in
since that last time I had seen him there.
I couldn’t believe it,
I was sure that the notebook was very important to him,
and said as much to the bartender.
As I said this, there was a tap on my shoulder,
I turned to see a guy that I had seen at the bar before,
seen him, but had never spoken with him.
“You must be talking about Peter, always sat right there.”
He pointed to the writer’s usual spot, and I nodded.
“Sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.
Hung himself about a week ago.”
He walked away and I left the bar,
unsure of how to feel.
I got home, picked up the notebook,
it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
I wondered if it was the loss of the notebook
that had driven him to suicide.
I disregarded that thought,
he hadn’t even come back that night,
to look for it.
I put the notebook down on my nightstand, still unopened.
I had trouble trying to sleep,
feeling more grief than was warranted,
after all, I had never spoken with him.
Mixed with the grief, was guilt,
maybe if I had spoken, had reached out...
Finally, I fell into a restless sleep,
riddled with half-formed nightmares.
I woke early the next morning, not rested,
the notebook sill on my nightstand
where I had left it.
I picked it up, considered throwing it away,
after all, it wasn’t mine.
But instead, I sat on my bed and opened it.
His penmanship was neat, precise,
almost too tiny to read.
The first page was simple, a list,
titled “The List of My Regrets”.
Nothing shocking in the list, no major sins or crimes.
Friends he didn’t believe,
people he never got to know better,
women he never asked out.
The next page he had doodled on,
a series of geometric shapes, some simple,
some complex, others placed just so,
to form a stark face.
I flipped through the pages, reading some,
skimming others, a third of the way in
I found a poem.
There was more raw emotion on this page
then I had felt in my entire life.
The poem was about love,
and all the expected images were there,
but somehow he had constructed it in such a way
that reading it saddened me nearly to the point of tears.
There were other poems, as I worked my way through the notebook,
even some short stories.
Some pages only had a few words written,
but even these sparse entries had a feeling of finality, of completeness.
Even though everything I had read gave the feeling
of rightness, some sort of unexplained symmetry,
the tone kept growing darker, more somber,
as I neared the end.
The last poem, on the last page, written on his last night alive,
made me weep with it’s simple purity.
“A life filled with loneliness warms nobodies soul.”
The last line of his last poem.
I felt more guilt now than ever, if I had tried,
maybe I could have made a difference.
Maybe I could have eased his loneliness,
warmed his soul,
saved his life.
Then I read what he had jotted down,
on the inside of the back cover,
the last thing he had ever written.
Just three lines.
“I know you’ll take this notebook
and I want you to know,
it’s not your fault.”

I had a dream last night,
unlike any that I have had before.
In it I was visited by
the first woman I ever loved,
probably the only woman
I’ll ever love in that way.
Even though she’s been gone
for nearly twenty years
she looked just the same.
She spoke to me, her voice
a soft whisper,
a whisper I had missed
more than I knew.
She said,
“Maybe I didn’t love truly
while I was alive,
but now I am part of total love.”
She went on to tell me
that she was worried about me,
how she hated to see me
blame myself for her death.
I couldn’t speak,
I just stared at her,
my heart breaking all over again.
She spoke again,
“Once I told you that there
was something you needed to do.”
“Once I nudged someone
into taking an interest in you,
into giving you a chance at friendship.”
She paused, her beauty unchanged by time,
I knew I didn’t want to wake up,
I wanted to sleep forever
and never lose her again.
“This is the last time
I can help you,
this message is all we have left.
When I go, we’ll be over,
and it will be time for you to move on.”
She reached out for me,
touched my cheek,
just a faint touch,
infinitely sweet.
“You have so much potential,
your brain, your humor,
the way you can see into
a person’s mind and soul.
You need to embrace your talents again,
use them to help yourself,
use them to help others.”
And with that, she was gone.
I awoke,
at first, I felt like crying,
then I felt like laughing.
After that I got out
a notebook and a pencil
and wrote this poem.
I reread it, twice,
looking for some flaw,
some better way of saying it.
Finally, I gave up,
there was nothing I could improve.
Perhaps this poem
was an unexpected
fourth gift.

He let himself in,
into his house,
his shelter
from the confusion
of everyday life.
With the door locked
and the curtains drawn,
he shrugged off the day
like he would a sodden robe,
feeling the uncomfortable weight
leave his shoulder
and drift away forgotten.
Her ghost had been there again,
he could see her silhouette
traced in the air.
Always hovering,
close by,
unrelenting as a summer storm.
Not a real apparition,
he had not take leave of his senses,
he knew fantasy from reality.
She wasn't really there,
she wasn't haunting him
from beyond the grave.
The hellish reality was
she was haunting him
from within his memory.
Time had gone by
but these feeling
had never faded
or eroded,
No passage of time
or act of penance
could assuage these memories.
Two years had passed,
seeming both like a second
and a century,
since that fateful day.
The stupid argument,
the unfounded accusations,
his anger flaring up
faster than his logic could
extinguish it.
He had only used his words,
thank God his hands
had stayed rigid by his side,
but his words were enough.
She had left,
fled
to be precise.
His words,
inspired by his rage,
had chased her from their home...
in tears.
By the time he calmed
and regained control,
by the time
he realized
that he had been
wrong and unfair,
she was gone.
Gone from their home,
their marriage,
and this life.
She should never have been driving,
in tears and upset,
she never saw the truck
that ran a red light
and took her away,
before he could make amends.
Before he could say
that he was stupid,
and wrong,
and sorry,
she was gone.
But not really gone,
not gone forever,
because not a day went by,
to be honest,
few hours went by,
when he didn't feel her there,
blaming him.

He wakes every morning
with his arm outstretched,
his hand grasping,
clutching at air,
reaching for the ceiling.
A moment's confusion
and a sense of
dysphoria.
Then,
as the cobwebs of sleep
melt away,
his arm collapses to his side.
No reason he can fathom,
no memory of a dream,
no unfulfilled desire
that he is aware of.
Once he is out of bed
he can almost forget
the odd way his day has started,
but always,
in the back of his mind
he knows, come morning,
he will once again
be reaching
for an unknown something.
There was nothing missing
from his life,
true, he lived alone,
but he wasn't lonely.
He had friends,
a job he enjoyed,
all that he needed
and even a little extra
to occasionally
help someone less fortunate.
So what was he reaching for
in the twilight
between sleep and waking?
What deep desire
did he keep hidden
even from himself?
Or was he just striving
for something to strive for?
A way to keep moving forward
so he didn't stagnate
in complacency?

She comes home to an empty house
and lets herself in.
Some days, she's so lonely,
that she leaves a light on
when she leaves
so it looks like someone is waiting
for her to return.
But today, all is dark,
silent and empty,
like her heart.
Today the loneliness
wraps around her
like a cold, wet cloak,
clinging to her
making it hard to breathe
or move.
All of her usual tricks
to make herself feel better,
all her methods
to hide from the loneliness
seemed pointless.
As pointless
as her life.
It was time to play
the game.
After dinner,
a simple meal eaten in silence
she began.
She took a notepad and pencil,
on the first sheet
she wrote a blessing,
a reason to go on,
she tore the page off the pad,
crumpled it
and tossed the wadded page
into a large tote bag.
On each succeeding page
she wrote another blessing,
one per page
and each page wadded
and into the bag.
When her blessings ran dry
she continued on with her burdens,
her reasons for being depressed.
When she was done writing
she shook the bag,
mixed blessings and burdens
until she couldn't tell one from another.
Some nights the game ended here,
the simple act of writing,
listing all her blessings and burdens
made her feel better,
more alive.
Other nights, like this one
it continued.
One by one, she removed a page from the bag,
straightened it and read it.
This one said only
“the smell of flowers”
it was a blessing,
she placed it to her right.
The next one said
“I eat alone at work”.
A burden, to the left.
On and on
she goes through the pages,
blessings and burdens,
large ones and small.
Until she comes
to the last page,
with trembling hands
she flattens it,
turns it over
and reads.
“I lost five pounds”
A blessing,
not a big one, but that didn't matter.
The last page had been a blessing
and she had won the game.
She gathered the pages with her burdens,
threw them into the fireplace
and watched them burn.
Tonight she had won,
one day, she knew,
that last page would be a burden,
and she would watch her blessing and hope
go up in flames,
but not tonight.
As she drifted off to sleep
she wondered,
if anyone else she knew
played the suicide game.