I want to die in your bed
With bittersweet memories,
And a drunken head.
Never want to be alone,
Not for a single moment.
I am scared, scared of the ghost -
That lonely soul in the white garment.
Funny, nowadays I'm feeling lonely too
Maybe that ghost is a mirage of mine,
BOO!
Now, why are you going away,
Leaving me, creating this wound?
Don't you know I can't run after you,
I'm an ancient tree -
A lonely sentinel, deeply soil-bound!
Okay then, let's accept it as my fate
Watching alone this never-ending night,
Dying alone, no resurrection -
This realisation and the sudden fright.
Horrible Horrible Ghost Story
She Only Loved
Dancing Music
But Didn't Have
Meat.
-Gray Squirrel
05-17-2025
God is missing,
Come hither there’s whiskey, drugs, sex, twitter!
Those who bewail we’ll banish in a cage
God's vanished in thin air, it’s all the rage!
He's nowhere to be seen and hate has spread
Everywhere, questions left unanswered
North of here, in the Tropic of Cancer
Those who’d high hopes
Medicate with dope and pills
Try not to tie a rope ‘round my throat
What say ye kills pain whilst His return
Loss of life in hurricanes
I’m calling missing Gods and God Amber alert
God is missing,
Where’s thy bearded hermit
To see thus proof permit me that
or commit me, one of the two
Gone is the gothic holy ghost, poof!
Why thy existence needed most
What did in dinosaurs, where is
Alien intervention to end wars?
God is missing,
With good reason, we’re worlds apart
An adrenaline rush, O throbbing heart
This is my story of a ghost unseen
It’s what I came up with for this Halloween
We Must, respect eachother by listening
“In God We Trust!” although He is missing
As a young four- to five-year-old child,
My wish to meet ghosts grew eerie and wild.
We lived a mile from a riverbed’s shore,
Where tales of witches and spirits galore,
Roamed through the night in the darkness, compiled.
By day, vultures circled in the sky,
Snatching at food, as they swooped low and high.
I heard they sometimes took children away,
But the fear of ghosts at night held more sway,
The thought of their presence made me ask why.
On full moon nights, tales would come alive,
Ghosts on palm trees when the clock struck five.
I stayed awake, my eyes wide with dread,
Saw moonlit figures with drinks overhead,
A toddy beer fest where spirits would thrive.
Still curious, I watched the mirror late,
Hoping to glimpse a ghostly figure's fate.
For months I waited till sleep took its toll,
Then shrieked one night as fear grabbed my soul,
I fainted, convinced by what I did state.
When I awoke, I told them my fright,
I’d seen the ghost appear in the night.
By morning the mirror was taken away,
With neem and salt for ghosts in dismay—
Yet, deep in my heart, the fear still took flight.
He died in a sudden
in a world untamed
and a burden
to his own flailing calmness
yet nevertheless
Hegg was dead
dead for her and for her
the earth, kingdoms, seas
and all under
no more was her Roderow
and though
there somewhere
both, and at night both flew
the streets of the town
heard of the two
singing songs around headstones
to tempt bones
free, they flee
fun, they had fun
and play, Hegg still played
alone never done
though she felt him around
that creaking sound
floorboard chords
his beloved now sat, left alone
lost while Roderow troubled
ornaments at home
trying to get her attention
or something
she could feel
so through age and through love
sweet candle, sweet flame they were
though they’d played in their frolic
but he was the witch, not her
She had a reputation for being one you did not want to see in your dreams.
Death had been fast and furious, her soul was apparently frayed at the seams.
The ghost stories the young told made our hair curl and our knees quake.
If you want to hear them, find the hag. She will make your teeth shake.
night in haunted house
noisy presence in wardrobe
patch of damp in bed
Mad Meg of the Moors they call her
And she’s always dressed in white
And she’s looking for a bus stop
As she wanders through the night.
You can hear her hideous mutter
Oh my lord, oh dear, good heaven
Where have they moved the stop
For the number twenty seven.
They say she was left behind
From a charabanc in 1922
Stopping for the conveniences
Then swiftly passing through.
It was a works Christmas outing
With such a disastrous end
Poor Meg sadly parted
From both family and friends
She doesn’t wander often,
Has been seen by very few,
But it signifies misfortune
For the unlucky ones who do.
The late Bertie Higgins
Said he crossed her path,
And thirty seven years later
Died violently in his bath.
Mad Meg of the Moors they call her
And she’s always dressed in white
And she’s looking for a bus stop
As she wanders through the night.
I met a strange man walking through the cemetery
He said, “Hey, If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you a ghost story”
I replied, “Those are dull.” He said, “On the Contrary!”
Then yelled “BOO” in my face. For that, he would be sorry
What he didn’t know, was that his tale of the grave
Was one I knew all too well from my own current state
And after his not so clever prank, it was time to misbehave
Besides, nothing I did now would change my current fate
I walked right through him, levitated, made some spooky faces
Did all the things the books say, to give him quite a jolt
He didn’t run or shake in fear as he put me through my paces
Just stood there with a crooked smirk, looking like a dolt
The issue with this failed haunting, is not for lack of trying
Or that the ghost in this lack of gory story happens to be me
But the fact that not only I was guilty, of being bored of dying
I guess it takes a little more, to get a rise out of a zombie
#5. A Ghost Story
July 26, 2022
One in 5 2 poetry contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Sue and I had lost contact when we left school and the Dominican Convent,
Met up ten years later, admitted both of us foolish, each nodded consent,
Had coffee, agreed to meet often, lived in Cape Town, merely a suburb apart,
Both so involved with our families, loved our homes, the Cape so stylish and smart.
She invited me to her home for a braai with her family this coming Sunday,
The door was open, I went in, is that you Jenn, I’ve got to look good today,
Mother-in-law coming, do come up, but what took you so long coming upstairs,
I met an old man, we chatted a while, what a sweetie, said his name was Zairs
Who, she asked me in disbelief, Zairs, impossible, loved to play musical chairs,
He told me, is it your dad, Sue,you look alike, spoke of you and how he cares,
But you’ve gone pale as if you’ve seen a ghost, why are you so terribly upset,
Jenn, dad died years ago, seems he got lost, confused, but glad you two met.
Contest entry:One in Five 2 Poetry Contest
A Ghost story
Sponsor: Joseph May
Dated; 26th July 2022
Around the campfire, tired, no…worn-out
Anticipating a good night’s rest as a scout,
Our leader insisted that we listen intent
Before heading back to our awaiting tent.
We poked at the fire; we could vaguely hear
Sounds from a cemetery not so very near,
And the howl of a wolf, at least, we thought
As he spoke of a war battle near here fought.
As his story unfolded I could see in the glen
Battalions of soldiers, at least a hundred men
All dressed in white and strangely heavenly,
He said they appear each summer eternally.
According to the story, I swear it was true,
But as a brave scout, I knew not to boo-hoo.
[5 – A Ghost Story]
Written July 16, 2022
Submitted to “One in Five 2 Poetry Contest”
Sponsored by Joseph May
Spirits wander in and wander out
met usually with a painful shout
They give me chills but also wonder
are they real or tales from dark under?
This story is true, happened few years past.
We keep telling so memory lasts.
Four friends were at Joyce's house one day
when Niece Sue stopped by on her way.
Likes genealogy she says now;
found great-grandma with Ancestry's prow.
Her portrait is on my bookcase, Joyce notes.
We'll look before leaving, a friend votes.
She might have died in disgrace, Sue states:
abortion is what her obit relates.
Back in the year eighteen eighty-nine
quite common--birth control unrefined.
just then a loud crash in bookcase room--
sounds of glass breaking--impending doom!
All rushed in to find, faded and worn,
Grandma's portrait had been cut and torn.
No living creature was in that room
to push the portrait to final doom.
Her spirit may have disliked words said
she wants to leave that incident dead.
I believe spirits are here night and day,
rather not see them, if that's okay.
January 10, 2022
for Angela Tune's Ghost Story Contest
OUTSIDE THE CITY
Outside the city where the pomegranates grow,
I take a silent breath and walk a little slow,
The cottage I live in is not too far away,
All covered with ivy and an open doorway;
Outside the city where the icy waters flow,
There's a hidden garden where I often go,
Having ruby red apples and bottle green pears,
All ready to eat but there's no one who cares;
Outside the city where the unearthly folks show,
I take a tiny step and talk a little low,
The cottage I came for is right in front of me,
But there are others inside where I ought to be;
Outside the city where I had died long ago,
You can hear my laughter and laugh with me also,
I'm munching merrily on the apples and pears,
While inside my cottage others enjoy the scares.
28 April 2016
For Angela Tune's "A Ghost Story" contest
indigo moonbeam
Mere mortal deeply asleep
Shadow surge on wall
Indistinct movement
Particle of existence
Memories recalled.
Melancholia
Sleeping face ignites sadness
Desolate heartache.
Shimmering shadow
Lover's shade imparts soft kiss
Indigo moment.
A Ghost Story
"Goodnight my dear", Mother said
As I lied upon the old bunk bed
"Don't close the door"
I used to say, as she would turn to walk away
Once again she'd say "Good night"
And with one stroke, shut out the light
Night is what I’ve come to dread
So I'd slipped the covers, o'er my head
My brother, used to sleep with me
The upper bunk, is where he’d be
His mattress sagged, the bed would squeak
He’d toss and turn, then fall asleep
But now he’s gone, they say he died
They would not say the reason why
Still late at night, the bed will squeak
When the mattress sags, I dare not sleep
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.