Best Ghosts Poems
I feel your pain like it was mine
Having an ability to see your soul
If you hurt and can't speak
Sit here with me for I am fluent
in silence
And if your ghosts from the past
leave you sleepless then know that
I will be there to watch over you
taking the first shift so
Sleep will go undisturbed
Our tragedy in life is not death
but what we let die inside of us
Remember that you do not
only live once
we die once but we live everyday
we only need one friend
who will be there for
us always regardless
keeping our ghosts at bay
when we feel we can't go on
To allow us to rest when
we are too weak
2nd place
Contest:Your best free verse from 2019'
Sponsor:John Hamilton
Date:10/4/2019
This sacred soil that once resounded with the musket's rattle,
Imbued with mingled blood of Blue and Gray spilt in brutal battle,
Now stands serene with only whisperings of the restless ghosts,
Of gallant men who sacrificed their all among the frenzied hosts.
Are those the sighs of vagabond souls heard with each subtle breeze,
As zephyrs rustle the dancing leaves of stalwart, guardian trees?
Is that the winter's wind that shrieks about Round Top Hill,
Or the screams of dying troopers, their fatal destiny to fulfill?
Are those the moans of men left to die, their laurels won,
Or the boles of ancient pines groaning 'neath the searing sun?
The wind wafts tall grasses that on The Wheatfield grow;
Could this be waves of spectral infantry, advancing row by row?
Lightning flashes and thunder echoes across the rolling sectors,
Reminiscent of once roaring cannon, now long-silent specters.
The battle was o'er with the repulse of daring General Pickett;
Thousands of souls lay dead on bloody field and tangled thicket.
Lincoln's powerful address yet echoes o'er that hallowed clay,
To honor heroes, no matter the color of cloth they wore that day.
Do their fretful spirits yet roam, wondering if they died in vain?
Rest in peace dear souls - because of you this nation rose again!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 4 the Fraser/Devonshire "Dazzle Us With History" Contest - Jan 2011
Fall the leaves of the forest tho death has yet passed...
Unto moonlit shadows within crypts' hidden rot
Apparitions they say, where the innocent massed
Oh but lo! To the truth they are blind; it is naught
They're but fragmented feelings of love left aghast;
From her heart they were torn; bits he stabbed then forgot
Laid still, bloodied no longer to beat; darkness cast
The shadows cannot hide nor contain the scars wrought
Left to wander until retribution is brought
12/18/2017
in funeral air
colourless grief bleeds
like a memorial of ravens
she sits alone on a stool
in an empty bar -
but the pianists plays
with each touch of the key,
her tears fall, lips quiver
dripping down her face -
mascara discolouring them black
like muddy puddles
on tip of scarlet lips
the more he strokes keys,
the more her sorrow spills -
she hopes he will stop,
but his melody continues
a melancholic musing of tones
in shades of sentimental sorrows
misplaced in music
her mind drifts in memories -
she was his mahogany violin
he her ivory flute
God the composer
if they had the chance
tongues would sing a million songs
receive an abundance of ovations
some notes on song sheets
can play to heavy
some too mellow
some remain blank-
like her heart
hollow,
soundless,
abandoned
without lyrics, there is no music,
ghosts of love bring no joy
so there is no
orchestra of dreams
his voice forever silent
like her tears ruining
her foundation
I danced with the ghosts of yesterday
to a long forgotten tune
Upon the bridge of time we swayed
where bygone melodies are strewn
Embracing the haunting rhapsody
of cherished days gone by
we waltzed to the distant melody
before we said goodbye
When the music played no more
And no tune was left to hear
Ghostly shadows moved across the floor
until they disappeared
Perhaps I'll dance forevermore
When their favorite song is played
as I move across the floor
with the ghosts of yesterday
of ghosts and relationships
when we meet again
I need to talk to you
to say things like goodbye.
use words that have eaten me
slowly
as they formed one syllable at a time
grown from tears of thought
eked out over eons
of loving you.
I watched you disappear one cell
then another
until you became so thinned
so fine
sun shone through
you were but a shadow
on the bedroom wall
yes promises were made
how long ago?
yesterday perhaps
when dinosaurs roamed the backyard
the moon was huge in a soft young heart
eyes scryer for the future
yet
could only see your face
I said I would never leave
but
just remembered
you were never really there.
When I remember troubles now long past
Old feelings of despair creep forth afresh
Like specters full of dread that toward me cast
A pall of pain and sorrow in my chest
They rob me of the joys I have today
Diminishing the angels that are near
And to my shame I sometimes let them stay
To torment and to plague my mind with fear
To let them go I will now walk the road
With others who with me look straight ahead
And crying out for heaven’s lighter load
Together we must face and leave them dead
For now I have release from ghosts I knew
They disappear just when I look them through
I wake each morning with the ghost of yesterday,
Its cold breath on my neck,
Its weight on my chest.
The dawn feels like a mockery,
Another day to relive what I couldn’t forget.
I love you—
Not the way poets write about love,
But in the way a drowning man loves air.
I’ve worshipped the ground you walk on,
Held your every word like scripture,
But somewhere along the way,
Your love became a prison,
And I can’t find the key.
You say I’ve wronged you,
That I always do.
But your wounds are never alone—
You craft them from things I don’t remember,
Moments twisted by time and guilt,
Moments I can’t defend myself against.
You detonate the past like a bomb,
And I’m left picking through the rubble,
Wondering how I became the villain in this story.
You say, "No one listens to me."
But I hear you.
I hear you even in the silence,
Even when your words are knives,
Even when they cut deep and leave me wondering
If I’m bleeding, or if I’m already bled dry.
You call my darkness a choice,
As if I could simply cast it off—
Like an old coat, like a bad dream.
But this shadow is stitched to my skin,
It clings to my bones,
It is me.
And yet, I am always there for you,
Always the shore to your storm,
Always the hand that lifts you when you fall.
But in the stillness of my own pain,
I stand alone.
I have been your mirror, your reflection,
But now I am fading,
A ghost in your life,
A shadow of the man I once was.
My world spins around your needs,
My days are measured by your happiness,
And I’m lost somewhere in the cracks,
Between your joy and my silence.
I love you—
I do,
But I need to be heard.
I need to be seen,
Not as a villain,
Not as your salvation,
But as a man—
Flawed, broken, and aching to be whole.
But you never listen.
Not really.
You only hear the echoes that suit you,
The words that bend to your will.
And I am left here,
In the quiet aftermath,
Haunted by all the things I’ll never say.
I was visited by ghosts again, last night,
But they were not the ghoulish kind.
These ghosts were friendly phantoms,
From the sunshine meadows of my mind.
First, came the Ghost of Childhood
From his home, so far away.
He took me back to green fields,
Where I used to run and play.
Some dark memories live there,
They are always near, you see.
But Ghost of Childhood was so bright,
That they were forced to flee.
Then, there came the Ghost of Youth,
From somewhere up above.
He took me back to summer nights
Of soft ice cream, and puppy love.
But here, were painful memories
Of a tender, autumn day,
But when they saw the Ghost of Youth,
They quietly slipped away.
At last, I met the Ghost of Years,
And he seemed old and wise;
I saw the love of long lost friends
Glowing warmly in his eyes.
Sweet memories of departed souls
Prepared my heart to weep,
But Ghost of Years smiled down on me,
And lulled me back to sleep.
My guardian ghosts surround me,
And shield me with their might,
When bitter memories come around
To haunt me in the night.
Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep. Even the hot chocolate did not do
much to help sedate the excitement.
We were hoping for sleds that year. The snow was perfect for
sledding especially like we did it. We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up
and were pulled through the hills. We got our sleds. My dad and my uncle made
them for us.
No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the
radio. Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use. We spent many hours
playing cards or games.
I took time out and went to high school and college and got my
teaching certificate.
My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government
turned the schools over to the local government.
The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and
Indian families were living in them. The school was dirty and unkept.
Now the school is gone. The ancestors who once walked these
dusty plains are gone. The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
They are Ghosts. Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.
Ghosts who still chop wood on those sub zero nights. And the drums we heard
in the middle of the nights are still beating. They beat as strongly as the heart
beats in a healthy body. The laughter of the children still echoes under the
bridge.
The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin. The Battle of
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought between the white man and the
Indian on the northern plains. It's cries still echo across the land.
My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left
in the dust. But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven
still lives. And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.
"See of Ghosts"
ghosts never leave
they watch you
while you sleep
casting dreams
of their return
they wait for you
to see
ghosts never leave
whispering their
absent stories
into your delta heart
constant in deep shadows
along the undulating waves
the rocky path to them, you walk
ghosts never leave
whispering their
gracious dreams
in you they live
through all your worst
war-walled nightmares
ghosts never leave
they set their intent
in all your torrid storms
to reach you, a compass set
before you, in all your southward stories
closer north than the distant pall
ghosts never leave
you hear them
in the undertow,
their wishful tone
of eternal wanting,
peace, and love
you hear
underneath the
incessant chatter
the white noise
of who is right
and who knows best
you listen to your heart, alone,
you hear,
a ghost
and its
constant call
ghosts never leave
they watch you
while you sleep
casting dreams
of their return
they wait for you
to wake,
to see
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Easter Sunday, Sydney, Australia
Home
gvlm
“Faith requires following the power of a whisper”
pall
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pall
communion.
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/communion_1007994
The Lord's Prayer - in Aramaic + English Translation - https://youtu.be/KdXFIYug9HE
(The Lord's Prayer - in Aramaic + English Translation to be
played simultaneously with primary video (set on loop) -
285Hz + 432Hz + 639Hz - Physical Healing + Aura Cleanse + Open Heart Chakra - Through the Mist (II) -
https://youtu.be/KdXFIYug9HE)
Windmills
standing still
no wind
empty windowsill
minds
at sleep
a death
of another time
heartless
flowers that never grow
no wine
tears fall silent
fragments appear
shooting stars at night
dispersed onto the dark
windmills of my mind
Bent fingers trace embroidered leaves
on satin and long lacy sleeves.
Blush roses, twenty-six she counts--
A French word she can't now pronounce.
She blows dust from old envelopes
tied with blue ribbons and her hopes.
The letters penned by her true mate.
Over his name, she... hesitates.
A trunk in attic soon became
her refuge from days all the same.
Photos dwelling midst her daydreams,
and keepsakes of sweet seventeen.
She thought he'd walk up Dusty Lane;
he might appear, along with rain
and wash away her endless tears;
bring summer nights and happy years.
A wedding date that came and passed;
memories cut like broken glass.
A heartache like the roaring wind,
returning nightly without end.
She lived alone among the ghosts
of dances, laughter, champagne toasts.
Altho eccentric, she was bright;
looked forward to impending night.
Aunt Agnes passed at ninety-three;
still wore her ring for all to see.
Memories left for wind to tend;
they have beginnings but no end.
The Curse of the Dead Sea
Dark ghosts traveling through the chilled air mist
where rare rough rivers, eddied and revolved, in
twists around into a violent, furious funnel offshore,
as this turbulent salt sea of iniquity opens up its storied,
salted bowels with its turgid moving fluids drowning
into a space of predestined bedded death—for all who
unknowingly venture into the embrace of the Dead Sea.
For knoweth that Poseidon, the ancient god of the sea,
may not be there in time to spare thy life that be in the
fatal grip of this salted deadly destiny, and its jeopardy,
as it’s written in the “riddle of sands” that remain blowing
as this earthly desert speaks to thee, spiced by the coldest
of raindrops carried on winds held deep within, as dark
clouds escape with their droplets running down into the
mountain “waters of life” that feed and form an evil river
that pulsates through the deep veins of existence, as drums
inside heartbeats play to a harmonious harp filled with a
mystic music dancing to visions of a salted angel who lives
deep within the Dead Sea.
Falling throughout the depths of time in the history of this
ancient sea of sure death, are grains of sand and pure white
salt which hold misted gems that speak to each and every
human footprint, leaving an imprinted, indelible image true,
behind the frame left crowned in the deep well of a forlorn,
shimmering pond that presciently knoweth that this ancient
Dead Sea, with its “salt of the sand” shall explain to you,
in kind, of the dangers that lurketh within the waters of its
salted, deadly grip, if thou chooseth unwisely to venture in
knowingly or unknowingly.
For Poseidon shall not be there in this “modern age” to
saveth thee and thy immortal soul!
Amen.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem
Copyright © All Rights Reserved – December 16, 2018
(Narrative)
Entering the Dark Side of a Moonbeam
Entering the dark side of a moonbeam is always very risky
since the cold and howling bitterness of the night escapes,
as a moaning, devilish agony of selfishness devours the good.
As the human heart fills with air, a legion of grieving spirits
in the human psyche is at once intoxicated with the sacred
kissed-gift of this hallowed eve as promised by the Devil.
Cain searches now within Life’s Garden that special hiding
place where unsuspecting Zombies of a grief-stricken nature
dwell whilst being seduced by a darkness as fires burn black.
What remains evident is an emotionless being who is tortured
with murderous feelings that are affected when the dark smoke
blows away all pride and one finds there is no remorse at all.
An agonizing pain is cleared now with the Moon’s eclipse as
the ghosts and goblins of the Devil seek “Hate’s Trigger” that
lies under a deep-dark crater where twilight ghosts cry out now.
These demonic ghosts are known as the “Crying Beggars of Despair,”
who haunt the soul of mankind and are born out of the dark ashes of
unhappy wild beasts who speak with tongues of envy and sadness.
These ghosts now set up their invisible barbed-wire boundaries
that they want to burst later as they begin fighting for their true
existence in the Devil’s own “Dark Netherworld of Lost Souls.”
These ghosts begin now to dance gracefully in the dark shadows as
their deceptive tongues make false complaints and poisonous lies
that throw the state of mind of the demonic ghosts into utter turmoil.
With this evil event, their blood rushes rapidly below the skin’s
surface, as a fear now clings to their throat as an eternal burning
battle gains no foothold to the next following step they must take.
Yes, even for the Devil’s own demonic ghosts from the depths of
Hell itself, their life, their very own existence is incredibly fragile
and vulnerable just like a match is to a flame. Mors omnia solvit.
Gary Bateman, Anne-Lise Andresen, and Liam McDaid
Copyright © All Rights Reserved, December 7, 2021
(Tercet)