there is murder in the room
he sat in the rocking chair and thought about whistling
he wasn’t really rocking more like nodding
thinking of the day when he was a boy and
learned to whittle basswood with a pocket knife
he remembered the days when he used to sing
serenading like a fool until he finally won her over
he remembered when she finally said yes
remembered how the birds sang
but then day turned to night and winds
blew with neither a beginning nor end
oh how the winds did blow he remembered
oh how the winds took her away
he did not like being here now
where shadows waltzed in white dresses
whispering to themselves and laughing
his thoughts soon turned back to the pocket knife
how the wood reminded him of the remington
the one his father taught him to shoot
march two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
This poem makes my favorites list. It’s captivating. It paints a vivid picture and tells a story while leaving a lot to the imagination. It also plays with the reader’s emotions a bit. The beginning made me miss my grandpa. The end blew me away. Excellently penned. I’m looking forward to reading more of your work.
Thank you very much, Christy, I’m elated you really enjoyed this poem.
Wow. That’s a great story! There’s a lot of space for the imagination to roam… and yet a rather well honed wind to guide.
Thanks so much, Chris, I appreciate your visiting here again and commenting on this piece.
Chilling and Hitchcock-ian…kind of scared me!
Thank you for commenting on this one, that’s quite the comparison!
Brilliant storytelling within poetic verse!
Thank you so much, Kate.
eek….
Nice story. Very well penned.
Thank you
You’re welcome