In the white house
lived eight ghosts.
To one it was one
too many.
He stat with a
frown.
These aren't my
people.
It's time to leave
town.
I must travel,
explore! I must find a new home.
He said as a foggy
morn was gaining.
They moved the
furniture yet again
and my haunting
skills are waning.
It has been a riot,
I must admit
when calls to war
put the house in a snit.
But when mine for
peace are met with
The buzzing of boxes
then pictures alit
I know, I know. It'
my time to git.
Nay, nay! The others
would say.
Who will wake us
when trouble is brewing?
You mustn't go. You
are important today.
We love you dearly.
And there are things that need doing!
The shouting! The
parties! Those people are loud!
I must go somewhere
far from the crowd.
It must be someplace
with tall grass and sunshine and
willow trees bowed.
Where my knees don't
get battered by tea tables and trunks
that were moved in
the day
by a bunch of young
punks.
No, no, no! You
can't go!
There are new socks
to thieve
and tomorrow we'll
be dining
with some guy named
Steve.
Think of the mess we
can make!
They urged with wet
eyes.
Urns to move. Salad
forks to misplace.
Children to tickle
and dogs to surprise.
If nothing else
then stay one more
night
to see the look on
Steve's face
when dawn waxes
bright.
Spooking Steve
sounds like fun, I cannot deny
but it has been done
too many times.
We prank them, we
startle
we make old ladies
cry.
Sincerely, with
sorrow
I must say goodbye.
Your mayhem is vital.
Your cause it is
just.
I'm sorry my friends
but I simply must.
We could toss books
from shelves!
You know they read
the wrong ones.
We could mess up the
pantry
and put jam in their
guns.
He smiled at this,
but still turned away.
My work is completed
my house all in
order
and with the look of
things future
I may cross the
border.
Canada, Oh, Canada!
Now that's a place
to haunt!
They have soft men
to rattle
and dour ladies to
taunt.
Chasing moose into
parlors,
drawing faces in
gravy.
Or maybe not.
He paused and
yawned a long yawn.
Maybe, perhaps, I am just getting lazy.
Fine! Beat it!
Scram!
His old friends
admonished.
Too proud for this
house, hey?
Then you aren't
wanted.
Who needs a friend
who mucks up the fun?
This country would
stink if we just let them run
this place without
question, without time, without tact.
You know that we help
them. You know it's a fact.
So he stayed one
more night
and made noise
around Steve.
They made the lights
flicker as he dozed off to sleep
and woke him at
three to a gust of cold breeze.
Steve woke up groggy
and was ashen to discover
that powder had
spilled
and in it was
written
all the words long
forbade
by his Gestapo-like
mother.
Our ghost he was
happy.
Our ghost he was
pent.
He was sure where to
go now
and his friends
could get bent.
So he walked through
the house
one last time and
with feeling,
slid down the
banister
and left a handprint
on the ceiling.
That should do it.
Farewell!
He made for the
door.
That's all my jokes.
My jokes are no
more.
Yet as he drifted
past yet another crowd reeling
he decided at once
it might just be fair
to pop in and
listen, now and again
as someone tells
stories from that old rocking chair.
May 17, 2016
