Bruce Whealton: Existential Writing

This poem is a revised version with the feedback and advice that I got from Jean Jones, my co-editor on Word Salad Poetry Magazine.

There was a haunted house
not far from where I grew up -
about a mile of woods
separated me from that place.
It was set into the woods,
set off from a rather quiet road
and this hideaway location
only added to the intrigue.

My friends or my sister and I
would walk through the woods
at dusk, and watch
eerie lights come on
at dusk
in the house -
a house where nobody lived -
we were quite certain of that.

You could see the entire inside
by looking in through the windows.
It appeared empty,

except for that something
that we thought we were seeing,
or the voices we thought we were hearing,
at dusk or after dark.

Bruce Whealton 2009