When The Hauntings Began

A poem about new beginnings.

“When The Hauntings Began”

his hair is

perfectly combed

And grey.

His Thick Black

eyeglasses Magnify

his olive green eyes.

His Narrow Face Is

Freshly Shaved.

 

He’s sitting upright

With a bare chest.

His chest is very

Muscular for a man

In his seventies.

 

His posture is rigid,

His chest is tight.

His mouth is

Wide open

As drool Hangs Down.

 

He is struggling

To breathe.

Each breath

Is more and more

Labored.

 

As we gather

Around to

Be with him

To support him

And show him

How much

We love him.

 

His three children are

Surrounding his bed,

As well as his mother.

Then of course

My boyfriend and

I are present too.

 

Everyone is

Telling him they

Love him

And being

As encouraging

As they can be,

But I’m quiet

As I can be.

 

My cousin

Requested

My presence

For her own

Moral Support.

 

But my Uncle

Hated me.

My cousin

Swears that

Isn’t true.

She says “He is like

A father to you;

He’s always loved you.”

 

I feel so bad

For being there.

What if my presence

Is making his

Final moments worse?

 

His breath has

Become shorter

And shorter.

His eyes are

As wide as

They can be!

 

You can hear

A gurgle Sound in

His lungs,

As they slowly

Fill with fluid.

He’s drowning

In his own fluid.

 

Suddenly he arches

His back slightly

And he stiffens his

Body more than before.

 

The last time I saw

Him he was kicking

Me out of his house

For taking a hammer

To his front door.

I was really just

Taking the Hammer

To my car.

 

 

Now I’m standing at the

Foot of the bed

Watching him die.

He’s looking

Directly at me.

I suddenly really

Want to run

As Fast as I

Can out

of the room.

 

He makes this

Moaning sound

As he stretches

Out his arm

And points his

Finger at me

And yells out

B***h!

 

Then he

Takes his last

Breath

And dies.

 

That’s when

The hauntings

Began.

Author's Note

The ending of life is as mysterious and new as the beginning.

Reviews

[Pax Analog]

Ha, what a dry sense of humor the moment of death can render.

Here the old fart is dying and he's still chasing your a*s out of the house for once hammering on his door. Droll. One wonders if he does then hammer at the gates for St. Peter, or some such.

I think the way you frame death is tonic. I don't see any reason to be morbid about something that happens to all of us (probably many times, reincarnationally) and happens all the time. I remember delivering a eulogy at the funeral of a fallen comrade (motorcycle crash). A strange context to deliver inspiration, but I did. I looked at his body and knew he wasn't there, that a dead body is not a dead soul. So I spoke of his spirit, was spontaneously a kind of lay priest (the official Catholic one in attendance called me a good man), and marveled at the spirit of affirmation arising on a ritual occasion of mourning.

Indeed, "the ending of life is as mysterious and new as the beginning." In a strange way, holding on to that sense of mystery is a deepening mode of information.

Being mystic is to develop a knack for deepening and widening this essential sensibility.

"If I had a hammer/I'd hammer on my uncle's damn door. . ." "OUT, B***H!"

Hilarious black comedy, actually. Such is life.

O then we get some hauntings! I almost forgot! Hmmm, presto yer counter-haunt mojo! Hammer time!

[Dream Weaver]

Unsuspecting and clever..
a very good piece of writing
Marie, I enjoyed it...

[Robin]

WOW , I may be haunted now ... a grand exit but to the wrong side of the stage

[Talkativeted]

Wow this is really dark. Great poem and perfect title. Nice one.

[Forever Mine]

OMG! I would never have been able to do that! this is... i have no clue how to describe that.... freakin amazing for sure though

[.]

F**king Hell!! That punched me between the eyes!! I really did not see that coming!! OH MY GOD! That was the worse thing I can imagine not only for the person who is being called b***h but the poor soul who could only think of hating on his death bed!!!!