Poems
THE TALE OF GRUESOME GHOST
The house stood high on Haunted Hill
next to the Hangin’ Tree.
None of us kids would venture close,
the Gruesome Ghost to see.
And so we tarried by the fence
and dared each other, “Go.”
But only I could sum the nerve--
thus, this tale of woe.
I squeezed through the rusted gate which
screeched like one possessed.
And crept with care up weedy walk.
My heart thumped, most distressed.
I fin’lly stepped up on the porch.
A doleful moan began.
Poor Bob and Jim both lost their nerve
and, screaming, home they ran.
The door creaked wide at my light touch,
and I strode right inside.
“Is anyone here?” I called out.
I hid my fear for pride.
At the top of rickety stairs
a movement caught my eye.
Not taking time to think or care,
I bravely squeaked out, “HI!
I’m looking for the Gruesome Ghost.
Please point him out to me.”
Moans and wails called from above.
I climbed the stairs to see
a milky wisp of fragile fog
become a boy like me.
Once more Gruesome Ghost, he groaned.
Then pointed to the Tree.
Out in the yard, the Hangin’ Tree
had, lying at its roots,
a tumbled-over marble stone
near hidden by young shoots.
Through pantomime, the ghostly lad
told me his awful tale.
How knocking over yon headstone
was judged beyond the pale
when done for fun and on a dare.
Remorse, he’d never felt.
So, Gruesome’s lot--a ghostly guard--
was Justice justly dealt.
He must watch over the headstone
‘til someone set it right,
and ‘til that day, scare away
those with no insight
was Gruesome’s task eternally.
I, then, understood.
I called my pals to the yard
to help me, if they would.
We cleared the grave and set the stone
upright beneath the Tree.
We said a prayer and waved good-bye.
For Gruesome we’d set free.
The house stands high on Haunted Hill
Behind the rusted gate.
But no more ghosts need guard the stone.
No one wants Gruesome’s fate.
copyright © 2016
Giggles
play they'll grow up big someday.
Someday giggles float away--
away to grace our children's play.
Had I thought this thing before,
before my giggles found the door--
door to wisdom ever more--
more I'd have giggled than before.
copyright 2018
Manhattan Sunrise
I Believe
I believe in baker’s dozens,
in giving without keeping score.
I believe in truth wrapped in kindness,
in soft words, soft hands, and a loving heart.
I believe in doing what needs doing
without complaint or resentment,
in providing for those who are incapable
of providing for themselves.
I believe everyone can do better,
respect is earned,
but love is an entitlement.
And I believe there really are
things worth dying for.
copyright © 2012
citrus orb
gouaches Gotham ’s horizon
magenta
gold
lavender
man-made canyon walls
blush blooming rose
paned eyes
flash fire
silence
birdsong
distant hiss
The City yawns
pigeon dances
on my air conditioner
celebrant
of a new day
copyright © 2013
Strolling on the Shore
‘Tween breaking waves of ocean
and dunes there is the shore—
a place of both and neither
where elements are at war.
Encroaching waves make sallies
ordered by rising tide;
beach defects to ocean
underwater to reside.
But waves are ruled by moon-tide
which calls them back to heel.
Fickle sand’s abandoned
for wind and sun to heal.
Though an ever-changing landscape,
strand often looks the same
until I spy out details
and play a waiting game.
What washes up at high tide
is wealth for folks to find
as rushing surf retreats and
gifts are left behind.
Hidden nooks and crannies
catch treasures by the score.
Is it any wonder
I love strolling on the shore?
copyright © 2018
copyright © 2018
copyright © 2018 by N.K. Wagner
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