Tag Archives: ghost

Weighed Beneath The Sky

The ghostly young woman had come with the summer rains,
by the old house, dark and lost, with inky stains.
She stood dim and grey, in that white shirt,
and part of her old school uniform, pleated skirt.
She walked outside, and their were wail and cries,
as if the state of things had come onto her a surprise.
Sleeping in the dirt, where she died so long and gone ago,
waking in a half-light world that she did not ever know.
She had met a lover their, in the once grand estate yard,
telling him she was pregnant, and he stabbed her with a shard
of a broken terracotta pot, and left her and child to bleed.
He told police later: “That bitch and her brat he did not need.”
Put to the grave, but not put to rest, no resolution of loss,
there by the brackish water and laze Spanish Moss,
she cries for her death, her lost child, her betrayed heart.
No way to heaven, weighed beneath the sky, cannot depart.
And I go in the fading twilight and sweltering heat this night,
to say a prayer, light a candle, try and release her with that light,
so that the angels and God above may take that away that pain,
and all that blood and death can be washed away in the summer rain..
And I hope she can walk on that golden field, bright as the sun,
and her child in her arms, given a home to dream and run.
And nothing will ever hurt her again, only the light in a nightless sky.
I pray and offer a rite of healing, passing, as I silently begin to cry.

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Ghostly Hands

Ashes drift from the flames into the air.

I try to catch them, but they go through

my ghostly hands.

My words, my soul, my solace of speaking,

even only to myself in journals, so I could

put a name on this death.

Those sacred words, my holy writ,

scripture of the secret places in me,

are being destroyed.

I told of his hateful words, wild anger,

the fists that fell were others wouldn’t

see the bruises.

I am gone, and I am gone again, because

he doesn’t want to look bad. His good name

is worth more than my soul.

Ashes drift, his face Halloween orange, flickering.

Once I would have loved that. Found that beautiful.

I once found him beautiful.

My words, my sacred sorrows, the ink that drew not

blood when he drew mine, are gone, gone forever.

Sparks go through my ghostly hands.


Tugger

Late in the lab,
tired and bleary.
My heart still hurts,
my soul still weary.
Trying to pipette
and be lost in this.
Not think of him
and his tender kiss.
Can’t swallow the sun
and I can’t push it out.
Can’t kiss the moon
or let go of my doubt.
Ponytail, keeps hair up,
out of my face worn dull.
Not even in sleep now
is there a soft lull.
Tugged, my ponytail pulled!
I snap around, looking for him!
He used to pull my ponytail,
did he come in this lab so dim?
Hand to the back of my head,
was it a ghost or a dream?.
Was it a desire for his return,
or an intoxicating moonbeam?

Seeds

A lost child from the water has the most kissed face,

make clean and holy by the black river’s depths that
love my cherish a ghostly clean smile, full of light.
A daughter of Persephone holding Cairron’s hand
as the water erases every trace that held her name
from the world that gave her seeds of the underworld.
Kisses unfelt are still tender, though sparks shame heaven.
A face kept pure as it watches from the bedroom wall.
Tenderness sweetned by the bitterness of death scented breath.

Pale As Bone

I see her in dreams, in the few moments before waking,

and in the between, dreams fading like dew and fog,

and the light of morning bringing to the waking world.

I see her, long black hair falling freely down her back,

her long dress pale as bone, pale as the starlight,

her ivory feet bare, as she stands at the edge of the sea.

I sometimes see her face, as she turns to look at me,

her eyes deep grey pools, like the churning North Pacific,

where the slain are driven by the need to cease all pain.

I see her, and this morning, before the sun was bright

and before I was in the solid glow of the waking world,

I realized I was standing on the beach, where she always calls me.

I see her, and I hear her, and in my dreams she invites me

into the churning and cold waters, the dark and empty abyss

where I can take her hand, and all will dissipate into sea foam.

I see her, and I not awake, not dreaming, in shadows, mist,

as she turns to look me, a face unquiet in it’s calm,

soothing in it’s tempestuous passion.

She offers her hand to me……………..

Young Woman, Ghost

I see you, a ghost, still hurting, still left behind,

in your long, flowing dress, and long curled hair

from another age.

All the others have gone on, but pain keeps you here.

In front of that mansion, now a restaurant, tourist attraction,

you walk in the depths of the night, softly crying, your

translucent arms wrapped tight around yourself.

All the others have gone on, but pain keeps you here.

So I close my eyes, and as I hear you weep, as moonlight

creeps over the trees and lights you in the only light you know,

I offer prayers, I offer tender words, hoping you’ll hear them.

All the other have gone on, but pain keeps you here.

I don’t know what to do, maybe I can cast a spell to cut your chains,

or find the thorn in your soul, and make right what broke you in life.

I offer prayers, I offer tender words, hoping you’ll hear them.

All the others have gone on, may you join them there.

Julianne

The ghost of a woman walks down Laurel Avenue.
She is singing as she walks, unafraid, unseeing of you.
A body was found in a yard, all those years ago.
Bodies go back to dust, an unquiet spirit doesn’t go.
 She is singing, a ballad of unseen love and adoration.
She is looking for him. He left on her grave a devout decoration.
That was night it was supposed to all begin, but death came.
A man, angry, with a pistol shot her down. He’s to blame.
 The rain won’t touch her, she is unguided by the moonlight.
She is singing, and it’s a sorrowful call, whispering so slight.
The one she loved, is still haunted, still loves her all these years.
But she can’t find him, and her song, and his heart, are full of tears.

The Noise Unceasing

Myung-Hee,  knows the ghost is here, knows it’s loss.
A charm of silver around her neck, keeps her strong.
The tracks have known so many suicides and regrets.
Myung-Hee, retreats into her hoodie, hugs herself tight.
 Spirits of the dead linger, and this one, young girl broken,
whispers in her ear, how soft and quiet are sunless seas,
how warm the waters that soothe away the scars and blood.
Myung-Hee knows there is no peace on the other side, no quiet.
 Cold in her hoodie, wiped out and numb in her mind, she puts in
earbuds, to find the song her mother loved, that she still recalls
listening to, safe in her mother’s arms, soothed by her heartbeat.
The beat of the music, the hiss of the tracks, is a poor recollection.
 As Myung-Hee walks up the stairs from the subway station,
up into the lurid second daylight of the city, the noise unceasing,
the ghost gets left behind, wisps away into the depths of the station.
But there’s alway a ghost, always a temptation to leave.

Only From Angels

She is a ghost, grey gossamer and a breath of a chill.
In this summer hot attic, full of mold and dust,
I come to see her.
Her eyes see me, and her words and distant bells.
I tell her of the world outside, and how nothing changes.
She tells me of fields of wild flowers
and napping by a clear, silver brook, and of the darkness
that was ever outside the corner of her eye, and the song
that came only from angels.
The chill is soothing, and in the hot quiet, we dream together,
our thoughts and memories mingled like fresh air and jasmine,
as the sun marches on.
She loves me. We cannot touch. She loves me. I cherish it.
The world outside is sorrow and disonnection, trying to catch eyes.
She loves me, and that is enough.

Only From Angels

She is a ghost, grey gossamer and a breath of a chill.
In this summer hot attic, full of mold and dust,
I come to see her.
Her eyes see me, and her words and distant bells.
I tell her of the world outside, and how nothing changes.
She tells me of fields of wild flowers
and napping by a clear, silver brook, and of the darkness
that was ever outside the corner of her eye, and the song
that came only from angels.
The chill is soothing, and in the hot quiet, we dream together,
our thoughts and memories mingled like fresh air and jasmine,
as the sun marches on.
She loves me. We cannot touch. She loves me. I cherish it.
The world outside is sorrow and disonnection, trying to catch eyes.
She loves me, and that is enough.