Monday, November 30, 2009

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?

I will hold them close and dear
in my heart and in my head.

stu pidasso

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