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Sandra S Corona

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Featured Book
Heads up for Harry
by Hugh McCracken

1939 through 1950 Recollections wartime childhood and early adult adventures...  
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Books by Sandra S Corona
Whose Hand?
by Sandra S Corona
Monday, October 03, 2005
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Sandra S Corona
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           >> View all 1,143

More than an ordinary haunted house.

Whose Hand?


Whose hand was I holding last night when I laid down?
I felt my hand squeezed tightly though no one was around.
A chill raced down my spine! I’d only had a little wine.
Who made the footsteps behind me? Who pulled sheets off of my bed?
There is no one else around this house; all the others-ancient-are dead.
 Guess you wonder if I am sane. What right do you have to complain?
Are there pictures in your house with eyes that move with you?
If not, then come to my place and they’ll follow you all through.
No one dares to stay the night—horrified that they’d die of fright.
Whose hand was that creeping all over this haunted house?
The hand was withered, drawn, I mistook it for a mouse--
‘Twas rotten, severed long ago. To whom it belonged, I didn’t know.
The old harp in the parlor plays a note every half-hour.
Although there’s a garden, I have yet to see a flower
for there the lady spied her guy and cursed the pair--it’s obvious why.
Whose hand was that choking the breath of life from me,
leaving horrible fingerprints as a warning of what would be?
The old, marvelous mansion (which has many a room)
tries to stamp out happiness . . . leaving only room for gloom.
But why run from things unseen when I can be the mansions’ queen?
Whose hand sought to trip me as I walked down the stairs?
In this bleak old building, is there anyone who cares?
How can I be sane, brave, when, deep below something is digging a grave?
Why do I still hear the ringing of shots killing a faithless man?
Oh why do I hear the crying of a child o’er and o’er again?
Their daughter saw the horrible sight, shaking hysterically through midnight.
Whose hand held the fatal gun and what did that child see
so gruesome--saw her father, the maid, bloody beneath a willow tree?
Her mother, oozing blood from head to toe, was near; the child walked slow.
Momma, suicidal, had both her hands clutched into fists . . .
nearby was a gun and the knife she had brandished to slash her wrists.
The little mistress didn’t leave but later took a match, lit her sleeve.
There were screams all o’er the mansion a piercing scream comes to mind.
I easily remember her, the child I’d raised as mine
Who was, unfortunately, crippled in mind and to this mansion been confined.
Whose hand was I holding when I kneeled at her grave?
What a creepy sensation felt like the mansions’ slave!
This house had become such a part of me I couldn’t run was unable to flee.
As I climb the winding staircase going ever so high,
Knowing well I am nearing the time for me to die.
Approaching the noose hung by the hand, I’m dazzled, confused. Do YOU understand?

copyright 2004 Sandra S. Corona


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Reviewed by Muhammad Al Mahdi 11/15/2008
Yes. But only a person in whose life there is pain can. Those whose existence remained whole and unscarred will advise you to live on and never even come close to understanding the weight of this word.
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