Plastic Saviors for Paper Ghosts

A backgammon reservoir

rules the castle ever-more

for it was the bishop

that chose not to address the poor

Stranded tiles wait in-turn

for their time of elocution

yet time grows lost

approaching vindication

Vacant properties remain unsold

for ghosts I’ve heard live within

and as time does drift, the condemned stir

a passive voice attending to one’s present sin

Failed hypotheses draw the man,

upon a scaffolding’s verbose display,

ill-conceived choices and unlikely

provocations impel theory to a swift decay

For plastic saviors come to show

when paper ghosts entrench what’s known

Apocalypse Failed

honeycomb craters

unhindered by the

vacuous charm

footsteps—wagon-sized

circumference barren lots

molten display—

earth aflame

machismo died

in the face of wisdom

…and we cuddled close—

shivering silent, huddled still

above the dining wood,

plates filled, utensils primed

abdominals stifled

by sounds beyond

in what felt like lifetimes,

motion thawed locked bone

breakfast-long past cold,

devoured swift

deafness lingered minutes long

curiousity prompts opened eye

seeing a variety of ghosts

now walking the aftermath

nausea sickens the retraced path—

yet alive we stand; together still

Ghost Orchard

Three days from here

A ghost orchard lives

A border of wrought iron,

As would be seen, ironically,

In a cemetery, conceals

The specters within,

From the ghouls outside

Beyond the fence

With eternity on their side,

Time is a non-concept, it

Just is

Without a purpose to pander toward,

Meandering is the common activity

Of an entire species unseen

Where lifeless living does abound

The reddest of apples tend to

Surround

Penance

Every clipping, sharks the gullet of vacancy

Shadows culling dreams well worn

Vixens, Vipers, Viragos, Asps

A venomous caldarium

Scalding with each splash

Steam shrouds the succubus inside

Layered lids lay listless amongst yarns & lies

In lieu of the lackadaisically leveled Libran scales

Weights unmeasured risk resurrecting the waxen toll

Talismans and their phylacteries

Fringed magical, frayed too fine- 

For the tricks of precursors translucent lures,

Doting singes temple speak; the scriptures tome-like tones repeat

Crafting divinity from a collage of time; Divinations all

Until the sickle reaps a harvest’s moon

Until the stone wets, once sword relinquishes tenures term

Every extract, sharks the gullets of mind

While shadows sift the wraiths of love,

Resplendent twinkling’s flash before

Safely plucked as tensions quell the thirsts of yore

The fields of perdition

Flooded, by permafrost

Then awoken in oil-

To which, but one stroke

Can set the match

The Ghost

I met an extrovert just the other day,

Funny thing, it actually is,

With my being an introvert and all,

Yes, that and also that he is a ghost,

It was opaque,

With a viewpoint so clear and new,

It did not bellow from the inside out,

As so many of the imitators,

Those portraying his kind in film and on television,

The way they often do,

He was pleasant,

Completely unimposing,

To the trained eye,

One could say,

He acted similarly

To the way we do,

I inquired why he was haunting me precisely,

To which he responded rather cleverly,

Apologetic and nervous, he explained the reason why,

He saw a ghost he met the other night,

To avoid her he dipped through my walls, to get himself out of sight,

Perhaps I was easily duped, but his story sounded entirely reliable

To a person such as myself, one that actually believes in ghosts

Ghost Story

I’ve never met a ghost,

Actually that is not entirely true,

When I was very young I believed I saw my grandfather

He provided some advice as he briefly spoke to me,

But I’m not ready to call him a ghost, perhaps an apparition,

But the whole haunted house

And paranormal activity, is really not for me,

With their green lights and fancy vans,

 High Tech gear, cameras and fancy paraphernalia,

Devouring an hour maybe two, try as they might

 They fail in bringing any ghoul or ghastly beast to light,

Yes they do claim to hear moans and groans,

Creaking floors and slamming doors,

 To which they weave between semi-interesting back-story

Then every once in a while, when the spirits are in the mood

We may get a shattered window or light bulb breaking,

To which the teams run to fast, dizzying the camera angles,

Panting heavy into microphones,

But never once is it a ghost or emanation,

When all they had to do was take a sheet

And toss it over anyone and call it a specter