Ghost Story

by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 7, 2025

My mother’s portrait used to hang at the top of the stairs at my grandparents’ house. I loved that house; I picked it out when I was just a toddler. But for some reason, I always sensed a hostile presence between the first and second floors. Not malevolent or evil, just angry. Something that didn’t want me crossing from downstairs to upstairs. But only at night, and only between the floors. Nevertheless, I felt sure that my mother’s portrait, overlooking the stairs, would protect me. Not my parents, not my grandparents – though I know they would have. There was just something reassuring about the portrait being there. I called it “Little Mommy.”

My mother died in 2002, and her portrait – “Little Mommy” – now hangs at the top of my own stairs. Feels right.

Ghost Story

Goosebumps and a shudder
coursing down our spines, their
backstories haunt us,
chill us. We imagine agonal moaning,
clanking chains, clattering bones
devoid of flesh. Why are the ghosts
who live in our heads all suffering
torments of the damned? Why
shouldn't they guide the tired
mother's hands as she shapes dough
kneads it, sets it aside to rise?
And why shouldn't ghosts rise, too,
summoned by faint echoes of sense 
memory, the scent of baking bread? 
Why shouldn't they linger 
to amuse the only child
in the guise of an imaginary friend?
Have they merely slipped through time,
one warped dimension to the next?
Perhaps the end we fear is just a bug —
a glitch, reboot, while version
1.0 continues, processed on a parallel
thread of infinite second chances.
Maybe now and then - or maybe not
(and then again) -
the wires cross, enjamb. 
That future fate, that death 
or worse we fear could simply be
another haunting verse.

Fun House

by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 6, 2025

I asked my mother, once, why some of us found circus clowns disturbing or scary. Objectively, I know that they are there to make the audience laugh and to bring joy. But count me among those who see Pennywise in every clown. Well, except maybe the beloved Buttons (played by James Stewart) in The Greatest Show on Earth. Ironically, the only clown that ever felt kind and safe to me was a fugitive accused of killing his wife. An act of kindness, in his case, but still – a fugitive. My mother thought long and hard, admitting that clowns made her uncomfortable, as well. Her theory was that we were just too empathetic to enjoy an act designed to make us laugh at “freaks,” even if the clowns were just wearing makeup and costumes.

For a while, when I was about 8, I had a recurring dream about an evil clown at a desert motel. Later, when Stephen King introduced us to Pennywise, I could hardly breathe. It was as if he had somehow tapped into a childhood nightmare and brought it to life. When my parents first told me about Circus-Circus in Las Vegas, I refused to go – it sounded just like the place from my dream. It wasn’t – we visited the hotel, many years ago, and it was not the place. In my 30s, I found the place – on the internet. I had never heard of it, have never visited, and I have no intention – ever – of doing so. If you ever go to the Tonopah Clown Motel in Nevada, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Honestly? The motel just looks colorful and kitschy. But the cemetery is another matter entirely and looks exactly the way I dreamed it 55 years ago.

Fun House

Which is normal: to recoil in horror at the sight
of circus clowns, or laugh? They work so hard;
our laughter is hard-won and smells of cotton
candy, peanuts, popcorn - elephant farts - 
masking the faint scent of terror, sweat,
denim damp with urine. Is it the bulbous red
whiskey nose, the clown-white, death-pale zinc,
or the red-rimmed mouth, hinting blood
beneath the big top, full of grinning cannibals,
that makes the tiger kitties with their razor
claws and teeth look tame
that makes the flaming hoop a portal
where an us-sized box is neither coffin,
crematorium, nor abbatoir...
                        but the illusion of escape

Encomium to the Living

by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 5, 2025

What would the dead write of us, if they could still pen a poem? What would they tell us, if they could offer advice after death? Why do we view death, or ghosts, as “scary”? Wouldn’t our ancestors wish us well, assuming they did so during life? And even if they didn’t, surely now they would be free to pursue other interests rather than sticking around to make our lives miserable.

Encomium to the Living

After RG Evans

​

From six feet under, we salute you, you
who tread the ground above, toes wet with dew
behind a mausoleum, there to steal
a kiss. Such “crimes” we happily conceal.
​
Perhaps you sense us stirring underfoot –
don’t be afraid. It is our joy to put
aside despairing sighs of death to hear
your sighs of pleasure, life, and love so near.
​
Now rest against our gray and lichened stones
wrapped tight in one another’s muscled bones.
Regale us with adventures that you’ve planned
to sing us back to sleep, here in the sand.
​
Remember us, now tucked within a shroud—
we long to hear you live your lives out loud.

Detritus at Dawn

by Holly Jahangiri | Apr 4, 2025

Today’s PAD prompt was to write about “an unexpected mess.” I experience unexpected neatness, now and then, but have no idea what is this “unexpected mess” whereof you speak…

Detritus at Dawn

I learned of black holes from an early age:
My mother swore her neatness was a sleight of hand,
a trick involving rakes and Hefty bags
that in unseemly haste were shoved atop
a mound of mismatched shoes, our dirty clothes,
behind the winter furs, the musty suits,
an ancient travel case—and yet I knew
the woman was a witch. I never found
black plastic bags, leaf-rakes, or detritus.
Neat rows of high-heeled shoes, a make-up bag,
a pearl-handled, empty-barreled gun,
a hundred matchbook souvenirs, and suits—
matched smartly with an endless set of ties
(worn once) I'd given Dad for Father's Day.
That's when I knew the brutal truth, of junk
she'd rounded up and made to disappear.
Can't say now, was it awe I felt, or fear,
When contemplating closets through the years?