We Call It Home

My parents had a house next to a graveyard,

I grew up always hearing strange sounds

ever having my share of spooky feelings,

back in 1982 my mother died

then in 2005 my step dad passed away,

so we inherited the place, tore it down

to built a new home of our own.

During construction sometimes

you could see a transparent face in one of the bedroom windows,

there has always been a very cold spot in the kitchen,

an old man’s voice with an native Indian accent brings laughter

from a bedroom that is not occupied.

 

At times you can smell my step dad’s cigar smoke in the air

even though none of us smoke,

lights sometimes come on by themselves,

footsteps are heard on the wood floors in the middle of the night,

dishes left on the counter are moved when never touched,

and you always feel your being watched.

 

Some nights there is a ghostly figure of man standing

on the cemetery side of our fence,

occasionally after a funeral we hear voices from the graveyard,

they are sobs, giggles even one plea of “help me.”

 

Once and a while something like keys or glasses will disappear

only to show up somewhere you never would have placed them,

television has been known to come on by itself at night,

it all is happens with those blurs out of the corner of the eye.

 

We’ve learn to cope with what can’t be explained,

what shivers and shakes us with invisible fingers

has a power to shake our serenity,

yet we still embrace it as our abode,

despite the moving furniture and eerie touches to our peace.