It’s always the same,
Hiding in that pitch dark room,
Like a terrified animal on the floor.
Heart pounding as if to leap from
my chest.
It always starts the same way,
Always . . . every time.
Up through the glass,
bright as a night sun,
The full moon stands suspended,
Big and gold, looking like the face of man.
Is it God I wonder?
Is that him looking down,
Watching me, cowering here?
In this black-as-a-cave room,
On my hands and knees,
Teeth chattering, ******* myself,
Fearful beyond all reason?
I crawl away from the window,
Deeper into the blackness of the kitchen.
Brushing past the woodstove,
still hot from that night’s fire,
Inching on my belly towards the corner table,
Its massive covered pedestal my remote destination,
My safe harbor,
My child’s imagined salvation.
Powerful angry footsteps,
Naked feet slapping pine wood floors,
Coming fast, their rhythmic thump echoing,
With evil resolve and harmful intent.
He’s coming, coming again for me!
I tuck myself up under the big table,
Wrap my arms tight around the oaken tower,
Jam my bare feet under one of the table’s claw feet.
And dig in!
Looking back at the window
and the bright face in the air,
I silently prey, yet scream it inside my head,
“God if that is you looking down through
That window, do something. . . Help me!”
He’s inside the room.
I can hear him breathing hard,
Even smell his vile stench.
Tobacco stink, whiskey and death.
He’s close now.
The metallic swish and trailing sparks
of a sulfur match hastily struck on stove top,
Produce a near blinding flare.
A single wooden taper ignites a flame,
Extinguishing the darkness,
Of my enveloping cloak of fleeting invisibility.
The devil sees me now,
Knows where I hide!
His massive, claw-like hand reaches down towards me.
I tighten my grip on the table and tense my body.
Closing my eyes, I open my mouth to scream!
It’s always this way, always . . . every time.
A few lines from one of my manuscripts as yet
unpublished. Not a poem in the classical sense,
but I like the verse and pace.
It describes what many of us fear or have feared.
The boogey man, real or imagined. Recurring
dreams or nightmares.
I actually had this dream some years ago, it
disturbed me enough to be the seed of a thought
that grew into an entire Novel of Period Fiction.
Inspiration comes from surprising places.