Tag Archives: ghosts

Rust Sliding Into White

Lying awake, almost midnight, rust sliding to white.

There is the sound of voices, out there in the night.

A woman, a little girl, hushed and secret, full of tears.

Echoing mutters outside my room, feeds pity, not fears.

Maybe Angela next door is watching an old ghost story.

Maybe the sleepless thoughts have found their quarry.

The woman, the little girl, so sorrowful and now so lost.

The night going to witches and their hour is now crossed.

The wind demands that the windows tremble in fear.

After a moment, those voices fall away, and disappear.

Angela loves ghost stories at night, when she cannot dream.

The TV low, but it carries in the cold air, on a pale moonbeam.

The woman, the little girl, so full of sadness, speaking so low.

What did I hear? Only the trembling panes can ever show.

Atlantis Guitar

The freight train rumbles by,

as I drive to work, still dark.

I thought about the bad dream,

finding a headless angel in the park.

I sit in my car, time to wait here,

drinking too hot gas station coffee,

listen to that mournful Atlantis guitar,

and try to head bad breath with a toffee.

That headless angel is being put

on the freight train, express to Groom Lake.

Someone might take a picture in Santa Fe,

but no one will be grieving at the wake.

A ghost can’t make a night stand still,

and the one with me, she just plays that song,

that Atlantis guitar, from when she was young,

when she could say in peace there was nothing wrong.

Angels Who Weep Still

Caroline walks in the cemetery, end of summer,

end of the day, wandering among regal tombs

and the black stained angels who weep still.

The falling night is still warm, air radiating

with the leftovers of the sunlight, and the

sunset haloes those mournful angels.

They say ghosts are here, and maybe

they are, maybe demons too, and those

that call upon them in the dark.

And, in the wind, wind with a chill

under the warmth, of the failing light

and bitter nights yet to come……


She hears her name, feels something

cool coiling around the ache in her heart,

the ache that brought her here to be alone.


She stops, unsure. Looks back behind her,

wondering if a demon is claiming, or

a weeping angel is calling her back home.

She walks again, thinks again of the name

she curses, and then looks up at the starlight

starting to peak through the leaves of gnarled trees.

Maybe an angel is calling her home, it’s tears for her this time……….


LA, sun is bright, but it’s cold.

I walk, caught in a dream, her.

A face kept forever, before my

world came to be, she was lost.

Somewhere a ghost remembers,

and the airman came home again.

Ritzy hotel selling a promise, a smile.

That wound makes a demon come.

A young woman, sitting on school steps,

that I stand before, smoking fumes of ghosts.

No one’s face reveals the days end.

Half torn and mocked in a blasphemous pose.

A fancy hotel, the night come, things go on

and they stand still, and hum like power lines,

the juice to memory and vengeance and loss,

to the bright stars that we make of the dead.

The streets are just a moment, changing,

but we’re still the demons and the angels,

the sharpened knife, to too desperate kisses,

and the hope that damns us time and again.

The Devil’s Highway

The Devil’s Highway, through the desert, to the graves so quiet.

I wait for night, for the moon’s bone glow, the stars run wild.

I wait for the snow now that summer has gone by, a bad dream.

Off the side of the road, smoking a cigarette, laying on the car’s hood,

as I look up at the sky, where little grey men fell down, left for dead.

Another world, just a rich man, with gold in his pockets and knife to our throats.

Angels come through only sometimes, like the cracking up radio stations,

as I drive onwards to whatever bad dreams are yet to come, like Obsolescence.

They may be there, they may not, but don’t you ever lay even money on it.

And the first snowflakes fall into my naked glow headlights, like gossamer tears.

Stars above, stars below, and maybe we can pretend it’s Eden, the world clean and sweet.

Two thousand miles to go nowhere, but here I am, and the answers are no closer.

An Ocean Once, Long Ago, Now Almost Dry

A ghost in this worn hoodie, blue and deep,

               An ocean once, long ago, now almost dry,

               Like finally my eyes, that she is gone and lost.


               A scent, faint, of her sweet perfume, the funk

               Of her sweat, the smell I knew holding her close,

               That was sweet too, as was her washed, in bed.


               Still a pack of smokes in the pocket, not what did

               End up killing her, just bad luck, bad day, bad shit,

               And the cigarettes are stale, just rags of wasted death.


               I wear it in this cold season, walking home on dead

               Streets and boring stores and empty skies, keeping

               Her close, feeling her spirit in fabric soaked with her life.


               But it becomes me, sweating in winter, and my scents

               Chase hers away, and the cigarettes will eventually be

               Thrown out, and it will only be me, me chasing her out.


               Even ghosts are worn down by tides and seasons and life.            

Laughing Children

Laughing children over the wall,
always playing in the dying sun.
 Laughing children never seen,
somewhere beyond the wall.
 Laughing, laughing, laughing,
as twilight descends into night.
 Laughing, laughing, laughing,
yet no one lives there at all.
 Empty streets and empty homes,
nothing here remains of the world.
 Laughing children still play
in the lot beyond the wall.
 Beyond the wall, beyond the wall,
what is there but broken toys?
 Beyond the wall, beyond the wall,
the devil left his burning mark.
 Laughing children over the wall,
always playing in the dying sun.
 Laughing children never seen,
somewhere beyond the wall.