Read Poetry: Isadore Greely’s Place, by David E Navarro

Ominous beats thump the shutter
my blood throbs, I shudder within
hear the eerie creaks and groans
of stressed parched gray timber floors
and walls with each howling gust pushing
against the rough blanched stone estate,
a dark gabled palace of yesteryear
on the sparse plain midst the tall grasses
dominant within its wrought iron fence
and gnarled tree-lined perimeter,
up the hill separate that looms
above the field of wild grain overgrown.
The musty smell reeks of untold stories
better left in graves to sleep, but rest
escapes me as I lay huddled in the corner
there because my car gave up the ghost
on this chill night that might kill by morn
if I fear to lay in this cold tomb of a place
where a hoary voice breaks the dark shadows
just to simply ask if a fire would suit me.
I jump out of my shaking skin—my heart
drops into my stomach as Isadore Greely,
with glazed orange eyes from the instant fire,
introduces himself with an outstretched
gnarly hand of knuckles, then grins and says,
“No one has visited me in years,”
and intends to be quite a congenial host.



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