My Sleeping House


Gertrude Abercrombie

Brush away the cobwebs from  the dark corners in my attic?

Sweep away the dust that twinkles like far away stars in an inky black midnight sky from my cracked windows and scarred woodwork?

Open the doors, all of the doors even the ones that creak  and squeak on their rusted hinges all on their own?

Why on Earth would I take a broom to my house and risk waking it up? Can you tell me? Why would I do that?


Even a dead house deserves to rest in peace

no matter how awful it was in life.


Halloween Dreams


Photo by Lisa Fotios on

Down the road from where I live

is a field where they grow  golden orange pumpkins.

After the seeds are planted and the field is watered, nothing happens. There is just a big  brown patch of dirt sitting there doing nothing.  It’s obvious though that  it’s a well cared for patch of dirt.

And then like magic-but looking more like an alien invasion, the vines spread across the field.  Their quiet runners reach up towards the fence next to the railroad tracks but they never quite make it that far because of the trench that is full of gray, muddy water.

I guess that’s for the best, ‘ditch pumpkins’ doesn’t  ssound very festive.

As one month moves into the next the pumpkins get bigger and before you know it, there are pumpkins of all shape and sizes and shades of orange as far as the eye can see, just waiting to be harvested.

This  year though, the fields that should be full of golden pumpkins was plowed under and if  you didn’t know better you would think that they were growing  Canadian Geese  instead of pumpkins, because the empty field is full of grey geese sunning themselves, walking around and watching the trains and cars roar by.

There are no pumpkins, growing in the field down the street from where I live,

There’s just an empty swath of land, where Halloween Dreams used to grow.