under the stairs: an Easter treat (1/April/18)

there’s a monster under the stairs
I know it’s there under the stairs because I heard it
I can smell it there under the stairs
hiding in what must be its lair
though there isn’t much space there under  the stairs
I know there’s a monster there, a monster there,
hiding there under the stairs;

there’s nothing under the stairs, you say
and declare with a confident air
and a stare that’s decidedly sure as sure
there’s no monster there under the stairs
but there is, there is, I shout in despair
waving my arms in the air
secretly hidden, inhabiting under the stairs;

but how would you know, you say,
how would you know if it’s secretly hiding
hiddenly under our stairs,
I know, I just know, and I hear it and smell it
and know from its footfall
it’s there hiding under the stairs like a bear
but it’s not a bear and hasn’t got fur;

without any fur, you seem certain of that,
how can you know it’s no fur
the monster you know to be making a home
comfy and snug here under our stairs?
because there’s never a trace of a hair
not a follicle here nor follicle there
no follicles lost anywhere;

but if you’ve not seen it with your own eyes
plain as the day, as the nose on your face
the monster that lives unknown under the stairs
then how can you know, for surely be sure
there’s a monster there hiding
a monster residing, squatting, reclining
and snoozing under the stairs?

I know there’s a monster, a monster that sneaks
when we aren’t looking
when all backs are turned
as silent as light that spills through the windows
from under the stairs and into the kitchen
it creeps with a stealthy aplomb
sating its hunger with biscuits and buns;

sad to say so but I know it’s not so
there’s no monster there hiding under the stairs
I know it’s not so because,
as you well know, we don’t have any stairs
under which we might find
a monster that hides
snoring unseen with its monstery eyes;

well you can think that if you like
while I know for sure and for certain
there’s a monster hid under the stairs
regardless of whether
the stairs are not there
since when would that stop a monster
from living there under the stairs.

© 2018 robert greig

askewmetrical (22/Jan/18)

nothing in this house is straight… never has been… no two walls match each other perfectly, lines don’t meet, get one thing level and everything else looks out, get another thing level then that thing looks out…. trying to level one thing against another against another is a fool’s errand and bound to fail… this house is one eccentric block of convergence falling into a geometrically-challenged vanishing point… to call it asymmetrical would be stretching it beyond mathematical probabilities that any self-respecting architect would faint at the sight of, even the self-disrespecting ones would be challenged to a vernacularian duel…

it’s not that the house is haunted or anything like that, it’s too boring for that and no serious ghost would bother, not even living by a graveyard is enough to attract the odd spectre to spare  a boo or two…… pictures never stay straight, always skew-whiff, and when I try to straighten them I find them still askew as lining them up with the skirting will put them out with the ceiling, setting them to a door frame will throw them with a window pane, thus irrespective of what perspective one attempts to impose the house will always win and refuse to bow to my symmetrical whims…… not that I’m a model of symmetry, far from it, just look in the mirror…… on second thoughts, don’t…. damn!… too late……

bloodshot eyes, again, oh joy…… mirrors are just merciless, no respect for vanity despite what they appear… it’s what you see is what you get and no messing even though they cheat by making you think they’re showing you as you are when in fact they cheat and show you the wrong way around… the left on the right and the right, because there’s no room left on the right because the left has taken its place, is left to sulk on the left… right is right and left is left, these are givens, until you look in a mirror… then you have to start all over again working out left from right…… mind you, as regarding my eyes (laughs: regard… eyes…) they are both pretty much right and left bloodshot as seems to be my norm these days…. I shouldn’t have looked then I might’ve gone through the day in blissful ignorance……

I wouldn’t live in a totally symmetrical house anyway, wouldn’t be right (… or left)…. I’d live in a lighthouse if I could, or a windmill… I once lived in a lighthouse actually, although it wasn’t the round part of it, it was the keeper’s cottage attached…. I would though… but then I’d have to be aware that round can be symmetrical too although I can’t imagine lighthouses are completely with a bit of askewing here and askewness there……

© 2018 robert greig

behind your eyes (17/Jan/18)

clatter, clatter, storm and clatter…..
the perfect night for a ghost story… the setting was set, the soundtrack composed of thumps and of creaks and of rattles and groans and of moments of deafening silence when the storm seemed to pause, take a breath and then start up all over again with equal verve and ire and tenacity……
a lot of angst to get out and it was unleashing it in squallish fashion…
clatter, clatter, storm and clatter……
‘twas indeed a perfect night for a ghost story even though none was told… though all the ingredients seemed to converge including even a graveyard that’s sleeping next door, as well as even a graveyard can sleep on nights such as these with the banging and bumping…… anything that wasn’t lashed down got lashed by the fingers of winds that slipped dexterously in and around them to use them in ways they weren’t meant to be used, everything outside these walls was decidedly restless, no doubt even the graves that shivered and shuddered sternly and stonely under their plinths and six-feet or more of earth with lichen protecting the headstones and ivy a blanket lay liberally strewn and hunkered as close to the ground as ivy could cling……
nothing walked and nothing flew and yet everything moved however unwillingly while a hundred or more of hauntings and shadowy flauntings are torn and flung with last autumns leaves like ragdolls ripped from another time that someone forgot but still lurks in an inscription inscribed on a headstone now somewhat askew just there, over there, under the holly that’s been there for years longer than anyone remembers, the holly that nobody planted yet grows unknown of provenance now tall and thickset in wintergreen leaves, protecting itself, protecting the grave from intruders or from any who dare to tread too close for comfort…
it coddles an under-darkness, beneath the night, within the shadows it gives birth to those of its own, more deeper more recessed, the kind you only will find  sleeping behind your eyes….

© 2018 robert greig