Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Ghosts

Ghosts

Pieces of the unseen slip into visibility,
dip limb or profile in and out this world

languidly, with the ease of foot into
swimming pool. The forms of these ghosts

taunt us: borrow voices, yell out our names,
and vanish. Drop characters and props

into our brains while we sleep. Fill their mouths
with our memories, and blow this breath

into into our faces while we flounder to place
the familiar fragrance. Cedar, sawdust,

pancakes, magnolia. Aromas crawl toward us,
yanking nostalgia from us like crochet hooks

looping through yarn. These hauntings are not
prolonged. Ghosts are with us, and are gone.

2 comments

  1. This poem speaks to me on many many levels.

    My gram saw ghosts (spirits) 3 days before she died. And we believed she did.

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  2. "yanking nostalgia from us like crochet hooks looping through yarn"

    I like these lines, and the idea of little triggers bringing back our memories, ghosts or otherwise, the fleeting thoughts we think of others. However, your poem has a more ominous tone: that the memories, or ghosts, are seeking us out, not to harm us, but to remind us, with or without our conscious will.

    I enjoy the opening lines, too: "Pieces of the unseen slip into visibility, dip limb or profile in and out this world languidly, with the ease of foot into swimming pool."

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