The Haunting of the Lake House

The Haunting of the Lake House
Written this last Tuesday of the month of October
For @dVersePoets #OpenLinkNight
October 30, 2012

I walk among these my woods

My sweet Ozark Mountain hills
Towering over my landscape
Building a new sky dome

It ‘s cold and wet

This early autumn morn
Patches of fog lift over Lake Ann
Faces stare pass me

Morning’s calls of red-capped Pileated Woodpeckers

Carving out the veins for fresh Ravens’ desire

Good morning my dear, my dear
Are you alone today?

The lake waters stop mid-way
As waters depart over the dam
Traces of nightmares
Sure what my confinement exaggerates

Upon these standing walls
For over thirty years
Shadows play within and dance
Upon my walled possessions
Musical movements in light
Plays streaming across the night
No wallpaper found here
Only walls of yellowed-paint
My lakeside room framed
By massive oak beams
Cross the entire course of ceiling
From eye to beam to beam
Shadows wait in the high corners
Waiting for me to respond
To know
To perhaps finally sleep
Among the fairy dust
Upon these Ozark Mountain hills
And shadowed walls
Do you care today?
These hallowed views of floating faces
A six-year-old blond curly-haired girl
Standing bemused framed by a window
As other spirits join in her dance
Through an open doorway of a darkened room
Standing and then moving through
White lights and clusters find
Orbs floating by
A strange writing upon my walls
These ghostly images
And hauntings
Like mirages
They weave in and out
As my third-eye dwells
Trapped by ceiling lights
And shadowed walls
Mere reflections of captured spirits
Playful during this morning’s light
Ceiling faces tumble with ease
Over my heart
Reaching for my soul
Longing whispers
Light and shadows
I plunge into unknown dreams
Then I awaken
By the sheer depth of time
I sit here
Surrounded by insanity
My dwelling falls into
A deep denial
Are you only keeping life at bay?
Waiting, waiting, waiting . . .


A Hunter’s Moon Tribute

Used with permission given on October 31, 2012

Photo by David Haworth
This photography protected by copyright
 and others do not have permission to copy or give to others.

My Writing Notes – – 
Inspired by a photograph posted through Facebook, I wrote the following five poems!  Today my words are inspired by this month’s Hunter Moon
and a favorite Emily Dickinson theme, morning sun.  

A Tanka Poem
Hunter Moon

Autumn’s harvest moon
Now a Hunter’s moon
In September & then October
Two full views
Shine on
A Haiku Poem
October Dawn

Light amber blues
Autumn’s October dawn
By the light of a Hunter’s moon
A Mijikai Haiku Poem
Autumn Dawn

A Five Line Micropoetry
Shadow Greetings

Light comes before shadow
Along its jagged edges
Darkness flows in
Greetings to the mind
A meeting of one
A Monostitch Poem
Morning Sun

The morning sun just touched my day ~ 

Emily Dickinson’s Poetry

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

From the daguerreotype taken at Mount Holyoke, December 1846 or early 1847. The only authenticated portrait of Emily Dickinson later than childhood, the original is held by the Archives and Special Collections at Amherst College.[1]

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson (December 10, 1830 – May 15, 1886) was an American poet. Born in Amherst, 
Massachusetts, to a successful family with strong community ties, she lived a mostly introverted and reclusive
life. After she studied at the Amherst Academy for seven years in her youth, she spent a short time at 
Mount Holyoke Female Seminary before returning to her family’s house in Amherst. Thought of as an eccentric
by the locals, she became known for her penchant for white clothing and her reluctance to greet guests or, 
later in life, even leave her room. Most of her friendships were therefore carried out by correspondence.

just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.

She felt herself supremer,
A raised, ethereal thing;
Henceforth for her what holiday!
Meanwhile, her wheeling king

Trailed slow along the orchards
His haughty, spangled hems,
Leaving a new necessity,
The want of diadems!

The morning fluttered, staggered,
Felt feebly for her crown,
Her unanoited forehead
Henceforth her only one.
– -by Emily Dickinson

Guest Posts

The Lost Shoe by John Nixon – Guest Posts

The Lost Shoe


My great-grandmother,
fled illegally from Odessa
with her two boys
and my grandmother-in-arms.
Stole across Romania,
across Austria-Hungary,
across Germany.
Train after train.
One of the boys,
on the platform of some
central European station,
took off a shoe.
In the rush
to board the next train
it was lost.

Welcome to John Nixon 
I am very excited to host John Nixon as my guest this week.  He lives and writes in Sweden.
John is an Author, Poet, Blogger, photographer and illustrator, occasional player of Twitter
based word games, and ex-teacher.

About the Author
I think of myself as English, and still hold British citizenship, but I have now lived longer in Sweden than in the UK. Depending on which branch of my family tree I choose to climb I can claim: that I’m descended from a Scots-English Borders family (with the right to bear the Armstong tartan); that I’m the issue of London’s East End and the Russian shtetls; that my ancestors were Manchester factory owners in the English north-west.

The poem I’m submitting draws on a story from the Jewish side of the family. It’s one I’ve been told more than once by different members of the family so – true or not – it has a powerful resonance. I think because it captures a universal experience – what parent has not at some point discovered their child has kicked off a shoe, shed a sock, dropped a beloved toy? And doesn’t it always seem to happen at times of great stress? Add to that my great-grandmother’s Jewishness and their flight on the trains of central Europe forty years or so before the holocaust. There’s a great poignancy in the tale. Whether I’ve managed to put that into the poem is another matter, of course.

The poem comes from a work-in-progress called “Fifty-fifty” that I started writing when I turned fifty. The idea was a collection of fifty poems each of no more than fifty words (not counting titles) and each encapsulating a memory from one of my fifty years. (Uncompleted after five years, it’s now called “Fifty-fifty-ish”. What can I say? I’m a time opimist!)

Unlike Savador Dali (who claimed to remember his own birth) I don’t have personal memories from the very first years of my life, so the first section of the book is called “Before Memory” and includes a few poems woven around family stories. This is one.

My websites:
Main: http://www.thesupercargo.com/
Photobog: http://www.gbg365.thesupercargo.com
Novel in progress: http://www.elinsstory.com
Twitter: @TheSupercargo


Mixed Reviews

Time and Mercy
Heart and Heart Break
Time and Stuck
Futile misery
Time and Choice
Freedom and Love
Complicated life
Mixed reviews
Unheeded answers
Reeling from deep inside
Still searching for solutions
Caught in between
The dawn and the night
Framed by stretches
Of unspoken cares
Short term relished
Long term just sold short
Any truth to paying later
For a future withheld
Launching forth
Yelling from inside
Paused moments
Surpass any insight
All from sight

An Autumn Sunset Walk

Walking through a balmy
Autumn night
Underneath a luminous
Pallid moon stone’ rising

Scents of lavender air
And scattered pale rose clouds
Frame my tangerine skies
Each held in golden moments

Soft low sounds of
Waning summer crickets
And clicking grasshoppers
All sounds are on call

I return to my walk
In wonder of my own significance
An autumn sunset walk
I hope in hope

Celtic bells sound for me
My spirit calls
You are here
I am


My Acorn Cup

Stopping to look, really look
I discovered a treasure
Something so small
It only fits in between two fingers
Laying upon the ground
A small twig with three browned and curling leaves
A seed attached
To this wee’ bit of organics
Stem, leaves, & seed
Broken off & left unsung
But somehow not yet dust
Beside it lay half of an acorn shell
Like a traveling cup – my acorn cup
A shell from the mighty oak tree
Dispersing its wares
Even for me
Written for NWCU Wednesday's Wake-Up Call

Elemental Path

Earth, Wind, Fire & Water
Written for NWCU Wednesday’s
Wake-Up Call
This earth
This earth
Make my home
Gather our harvest
This mighty earth
This wind
This wind
Strengthen my spirit
Expect many changes
This mighty wind
This fire
This fire
Lay down my ashes
Celebrate our rebirth
This mighty fire
This water
This water
Quench my thirst
Cherish our living
This mighty water
Written for dVersePoets Open Link Night

Through the Open Door

 Written for this Second Tuesday of October

#OpenLinkNight @dVersePoets

Through “The Open Door” 
Meridieene’ French Dessert Salon & Cafe
112 South First Street
Rogers, AR
your new one word storyline
reveals a secret
hidden among the roses 
red bleeding from night thorns
your wishes shattered 
where rivers flow against the shores
I dream of you
 regardless of what you say
it’s only a rainy day 
a quiet time in October . . .
aloft in my dreams
where deadly day-fires’ grow
your pulse lingers in the wind 
    will I follow . . .
through the open door
over looked moments unspent
among our restless souls
my true love knows no limits
unless you are free
to be

The Open Door
Darrell Scott’s Music, Scotland

Santa Fe’s Adobe House

With Photograph by Patsy Kinser, Sand Springs, OK
From recent road trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico

a modern sky
right in front of me
each footstep marked
by only stars above

sunlit grasslands
held in red rock canyons
open vulnerable wounds
in abandoned adobe houses

a single
blue aluminum chair
sits alone
in a walled chamber room
where voices once rose in song
of cherished childhood dreams

native wind flutes melodies
where wood smoke heated
& fought off the chill
of long winter nights

layered red clays
brick & stone
past forms molded &
hand hewned logs
set upon earthen floors

by adobe walls
stone cold
& open
wooden frame transoms
where double doors once stood

time’s forgotten fences
no neighbors to keep
no repairs to be made

grand parents
generations moved on

long lost stories
whispered by ghosts
who roam the fields
in old Santa Fe

Written for dVersePoets Open Link Night

There’s A Cold Front Moving Thru

You say . . .
. . .there’s a cold front moving through

clouds rush overhead
flashes of silvery light
passing from one tree to the next

one empty blue patch
catches the sun
& throws it down onto earth
for all to see

I say . . .
. . . there’s a cold front moving through

now reflections disappear
as if never there before
I can still see the leftovers
& my only remaining sky

. . . there’s a cold front moving through