A Poem To Share - Ghost House

Ghost House
There’s a house near the river:
Windows stare vacant,
ragged curtains swell
in a south wind.
Paint peels
from the lopsided gate.
The barn is empty
except for a rusty three-bottom plow.
Door is off its hinges,
gangly weeds throttle
bare flower beds,
rangy grasses grow
in a once trim yard.

I had lunch on this back porch
in spring and danced
in the front room
on warm nights.
I canned in the summer kitchen
while clean sheets were whipped crisp
in the sun.
Starched shirts were pressed
on a wooden board,
and breezes whistled
through screen door holes
as big as my fist.

Today, the front steps creak
as I make my way
to the car,
walking by the chicken coop—
silence.
I drive to the highway
leaving the house behind:
windows stare vacant
ragged curtains swell
in a south wind.


I wrote this poem after driving by some abandoned farm houses that I could see from I-64 near Frankfort, KY. Now those houses are gone. They were torn down to make room for a clothing store and a Starbucks.

Bummer!