Cats that know,
what it is in pumpkins,
for my Jasper took,
the wick that was in mine,
tore it to shreds, blow,
until, with a puff, a whiff,
just to show me,
that music trembling through me,
of eerie insecure goblin mannerisms,
who swept beneath the shutters,
of the old house,
because they cleaned too much,
and goblins are not supposed to clean.
There was no one around,
that Halloween night,
and the ghosts, the ghouls, and the deadened specters,
had no one to frighten away from-
their long, curling flaking nails.
I thought I saw,
a ghost sweep past,
with a broom, to sweep literally!
Odd that it could hold a broom,
as I watched the old skeletons,
stare with eyes that drooped,
over long flapping tongues,
at the pumpkins . . .
That is what they are called.
I gleaned the name,
from my cat Jasper,
regally blew out the wick,
tore the flames to pieces as the wind blew it,
over the trees and through the woods . . .
finally, back into the old haunted,
dilapidated, cruel building,
that had burned down,
years ago now,
by the flame from a-
That is what blew down this house.
Now, it is the site of pumpkin-fasting, and black cats with ominous senses . . .
who understand the spirit of the old house.
keeps going back to that wick,
as though he knows,
the house's history,
and the ghosts of the old place,
wait . . .
and wait . . .
until they can feast on those pumpkins.
Tonight has become my own Halloween,
in which Jasper has created for the ghouls a treat,
not one with treat bags,
but a feast,
for after midnight,
the ghouls eat the pumpkins,
and the jack-o-lanterns,
that we pretend to have named,
become automatic pies for all of us.
This house is special.
For it gives back a little,
of what they once lost,
as the goblins and the ghosts look forward,
to our own,
self-made Halloween . . .
in this house of haunted creative fancy-
Dedicated to Dr. Ann Russel