The Cold Ghost

The setting sunbeams

stir me from my slumber.

My fire has long gone out.

A coldness has set in,

and brought Solitude, it's friend.

The only sound a dripping spout.

I walk through empty rooms

and miss all the photo clutter.

The mob of ghosts from generations past,

begging for a chance at stories rehashed.

Last meal still on the kitchen table,

a half eaten bagel with apple butter.

With a gazing look in the project room,

I find movie stubs and a turkey feather.

A lone teddy bear named Pooky

rides a hand made rocking horse.

I reread poems from a little girl and

a bible from an old man and his wife.

Dreams were born in this room

and dreams died here too.

But when your ghost comes calling

and finds me by the hearth;

don't rush away, stay to play,

for I fear not your death dirge.

I ache for your embrace sometimes,

to hold you who held me tight once,

to whisper how sorry I am

and beg you to come home.

But those dreams have come,

run their course and expired.

Leaving only regret at things

that should have and could have been.

Sweet memories fall over my mind

like a blanket of snow on a winter day.

It covers me in cold, chilled to the core

yet warm and fuzzy in all its beauty.

For when my memory

dredges up images of yore

where else should I store

those dreams I loved once before?

In the attic,

or under the stair

or even out in the shed?

No.

I will hold them close and dear

in my heart and in my head.

stu pidasso

30November2009