Forgotten Ways …
Forgotten ways only ghosts remember
Came to haunt me in an old abandoned farm,
When I was exploring one September,
I stopped my car and thought won’t do no harm,
Just to go in and stir up an ember,
Or two from the past, day was getting warm,
Grabbed cold soda, diet, keeps me slender,
Shivered when I spilled soda on my arm,
I had to pour cold water on it. Dang!
To wash off the soda which was sticky
Water was colder, I shivered again,
Something, a memory, in my mind rang,
Pa said, don’t get into anything tricky,
You keep your mind always clear, sharp and sane.
The kitchen is what I always look for
First, for that tells me how people lived there,
I went around back and found the porch door,
Stepped into a laundry room, it was bare,
‘Cept for an old rusty tub on the floor,
Full, dirty red water from who knows where,
Smelled pretty bad, made me sick to the core,
Hurried through a creaky door, tripped on a stair,
Closed the door quick behind me, pushing hard,
Entered the kitchen, it was big, and bright,
From lots of windows all around the room,
No cupboards, lots of shelves, a tub of lard
On a shelf by the stove, dishes all white
Lots of sharp knives, in the corner a broom.
No electricity here I could tell,
Two large kerosene lamps on the table,
Another one on the floor where it fell,
Chimney shattered, someone not too stable
Had dropped it or knocked it off, what the hell
Did those faded words say on the label?
I bent over to have a look and fell
Because I tripped on a long black cable,
“Here, I’ll help you up, Miss, be careful
You don’t cut yourself on that broken glass.”
I thought I was alone, crazy, must be,
To hear a voice and I was so fearful,
I raised up quickly fell again on my arse,
Looked around, no one was there but just me.
I stood up and spun around, who is here
Again I spun around, again called out,
A voice called back, “Don’t need to yell, my dear,
It’s me and my forgotten ways, don’t shout.”
I saw a door swinging back and forth, near
The stove, he must have gone that way about
Five minutes ago, I approached, felt fear,
Pushed the door open and I looked throughout,
A room full of dark overstuffed furniture,
It was a big musty room, drapes and sheers,
“Come on in, welcome my little tripper.”
I could see the sofa back’s curvature
“We have been here about 130 years
This is Annie Chapman, I’m Jack the Ripper.”
© 2017 Phyllis Doyle Burns
Just having a little fun with sonnets.
I began writing content online in 2007, starting with BellaOnline - A Voice For Women, where I was the Native American Editor, Folklore & Mythology Editor, and the Appalachian Editor. I also wrote articles forThe Examiner, Daily Two Cents, and Yahoo. I am a freelance writer for Fiverr. I am currently an author on HubPages, a member/author of the Maven Coalition, and Senior Editor and an author for The Creative Exiles.
Most of what I write takes a lot of research and I love it. Even if it is a fictional story, I will research for accuracy in whatever it takes to make my characters, their era, their location, etc. become realistic to the reader.
I hope you enjoy my works. Thank you for visiting.
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