In the old city of St. John's,
in the older neighborhoods,
there are haunted houses...
residences with revenants...
apartments with apparitions...
even schools with spectres;
and there is one edifice with an eidolon
that I know well:
a softhearted shadow
very benevolent,
not at all maleficent.
It is supposedly the ghost of a child
who passed many years before;
a tale from days of yore
not well-known in local folklore.
This ghost is known to close
latches, doors and windows,
as if the occupants are being told
"Please keep out the damp and cold!" -
a phenomenon inexplicable
by a force completely invisible.
Some years ago, I observed this first-hand
and I'm sure I did not fully understand,
but I quickly deduced that it would be most
polite to say "Thank you" to the ghost -
a sudden burst of intuition
to please and placate this amiable apparition!
A Shadowed, Darkened Course
by M. Griswold
10272020
I evoke a tale of a shadowed, darkened course.
Where death rides atop his ghostly gray horse.
He's astraddle his saddle with searching evil eye.
Scanning far then wide to spy who's next to die.
For no man nor woman that's ever been born.
Will escape this pale rider’s stare for the forlorn.
And upon each and all of us his gaze will rest.
Then withdraw our lives from hearts in breast.
Leeching, death latches upon our sorry bones.
Then drags us to where no good thing roams.
A place where shadows dwell and spirit’s groan.
A space of dank, darkened walls of a hellish tone.
Oh yes, I tell you a tale of all men's fearsome foe.
Of death and his dark place bare filled with woe.
I tell you this tale of death without any remorse.
Because it's all men's shadowed, darkened course.
In a tale entwined with Chib,
A love perceived as true, but plagued by deceit,
Her affection feigned, insincere it seems,
For all she desires is wealth, not dreams.
Her kin, entrapped by vices they crave,
Unable to provide for her, her needs deprave,
Thus, she latches onto love's fragile thread,
In hopes material gain will fill her void instead.
Yet my love for her remains untainted, pure,
Blinded by hope, unable to fully endure,
Her heart's true intention, a secret unknown,
For I'm lost in a whirlwind, emotions overthrown.
Oh, how I yearn for love's genuine embrace,
But her motives concealed, a deceptive chase,
I must find the strength to break free,
From this web spun with ill-fated glee.
Love, in its essence, should transcend all greed,
A bond built on trust, where hearts intercede,
Though tempted by her false charms' allure,
I shall seek a love that's authentic and sure.
With lessons learned, I'll mend my wounded heart,
Steering clear of illusions, playing my part,
For a love that's sincere shall someday find me,
And in its embrace, I'll find serenity.
Metals at rest as tend to rust,
Love that latches on looks like lust,
As diamonds get made from grey dust,
Ye, Destiny, get deemed unjust.
Yet, whatso lies idle would rust,
Love lost of freedom looks like lust,
Not just diamonds, world’s made from dust,
We tend to forget fiery test!
It might seem so, where’s unjust fate?
Seeds sprout, aloud to say it all,
Man reaps no more than sweat may let,
Fruits, not before they ripen, fall.
He starved of will and manful means,
In grey envy tends to see greens.
_________________________________________
Sonnets | 04.02.2007, revised May 2023|
WHERE I AM FREE
My freedom lies beyond
the cloud of unknowingness
beyond mists of time where
I disappear into olive groves
which furl and unfurl in slow dawns
Here there are no gates
latches or rusty keys
nobody entices with tickets
to a show and gala gifts
dark chocolate or apple orchards
Where I am free translucent dragonflies
and red quilts are escaping memories
rooms filled with roses and ferns
or silky scarves do not exist
promises evaporate as steam
Desires for dancing legs
warm marrow, wet kisses or
tears, scars are packaged
like data bits with grapevines
Angels appear only to take a peep
Where I am free I do not exist
There dwells what you seek
and what you seek is an
illusion of Light which lives then
dies in milliseconds of ecstasy
To touch it is to orchestrate
melodies as a harmony of
unknown instruments to
convey Creation’s glances
Not all can come
where I am free !
GhairoDanielsPoetry2014
take a look at nature
watch how everything
learns from another
a plant learns to quench it's thirst
from soil so it survives
a newborn goat latches to it's mother
a family of beavers surround themselves in water
building dams as their home and protection
Why do those lips
moisten my own - years on?
That labial goodbye, with its embrocate
of memory
returns as a tangible ghost.
A time-traveling incubi latches upon my mind again.
A hummingbirds sip,
a recoil of sensory jack-hammers.
Today, words are meaningless,
lips remain pursed to that goodbye moment.
I did not know it was the end back then, but
it is perfectly clear now -
I am over it.
Somber are the passages
Sunsets mountains plains
Over ended visions
Clouded atmosphere
Unlock heaven's gate and lightning latches
Rolling lands of browns and greens
Environmental decisions
Adverse scenery
11/28/21
Written by James Edward Lee Sr © 2021
he sits in his wheelchair
waiting
her visit
to ease his world of rubble
to snap shut a sense of aimless
in a nursing home of minimized living
its weariness that closes in like shutters
she bends to greet him
her touch a force that shapes his joy
shedding his decline like shaking off soot
two decades together till a swirling tempest rained sorrow
an accident, gut retching moment
swept aside the bliss of living
one couple, hands held
to unfasten latches of closure
to comfort them, re-imagining what's familiar
a vibrant rootedness
unbroken, he knows the glow from her kiss
crumbling gloom
when he hears her approach
the clack of her heels
like chimes in wind
Poem composed November 14, 2021
I sit under the trees
Later
My neighbor said
“I enjoyed watching you pray.”
“What do you mean?”
“You sat there so still
Head tilted up for a very long time.”
“I suppose so
But actually I was entranced
By the crowns of the Oaks sweeping the sky
And that Cooper’s Hawk nest along for the ride
Swaying basket beneath a parachute
“A Fledgling teetering on the edge
“Doesn’t fly at first
Thinks
Then falls head first
“Batting tree trunks
Talons raking the bark
Crushing the branches in a humiliating commotion
Leaves ripped away
“Tumbling upside down
Wings hoisted half way to the planet
Then like magic
The bird fastens
To something close to the harness of an orbit
“Latches upright to a branch
Shakes its head
Furrows its brow
Eyes narrow to stirrings on the green mezzanine
Below
“Just like that
A Hawk reincarnated by hunger.”
“But I saw your hands clasped.” She says.
“Instincts, I guess.”
My trusty chunky Globite with its rusty clunky latches,
Its shattered battered corners and its lid worn thin with scratches,
Pink Floyd stickers on the inside where the teachers couldn't see 'em,
Now my dusty rusty Globite’s sitting here in a museum.
She sees him strutting the boardwalk
eating from a greasy bag,
he’s not her type; Jersey shore muscle,
distasteful for a girl of her upbringing.
Yet her body latches onto his,
magnetized by a shocking carnality.
Her pith is tinder
a smolder beyond her intellect.
Imagination leads her
through tunnels only the willfully blindfolded
would enter.
The night is full of erotica
she once saw
carved upon an Indian temple.
She is passionate about
the muscular scent of grease,
for his figure strutting to her table.
The morning finds her
washing her sleepless face -
watching the mirror slowly blush.
Dear Lord, I am but a broken vessel.
In pieces, I cry out your holy name.
My sin latches on with grappling hooks,
and drags me backward with each step I take.
Oh please, dear Lord, forgive me. Hear my plea.
Hold me close whilst the storm rages within.
I have squandered all your bountiful grace.
I pray whole heartedly for your mercy.
Oh please, dear Lord, baptise thee and save me.
Your prodigal daughter has returned home.
Father, this war has plagued me for so long.
Oh saviour, free me now from Satan's grasp.
May my heart ever yearn for you, dear King.
Restore this broken vessel, make me whole.
Amen
04.03.2021
Mountains survey checkerboard acreage
Valleys squint at lonely peaks
A storm is brewing, black nimbus gathering
Could the earth speak, it would shriek
A forlorn, gray cottage, streaked with the first slants of rain
Joints creaking, grandpa battens down the hatches
He secures the shutters, lights a welcome-warm fire
Then he bolts down every door's latches
Ready at last to sink into his chair, Grandma's voice startles
'Look up!' He sees he's forgotten the roof
Up the ladder he races, just in time
before his flickering candle goes poof
Safe from the storm, eyes tightly shut, Grandpa leans back
His dreams serene ~ in the morning, flapjacks
I had a close encounter with the covid whore. She came a knocking at my back door. I yelled, "go away witch. I want nothing to do with you, covid b--ch!" She claimed to be a friend and relentlessly locked again and again..I put on my glasses before checking the latches which were all secure. Yet she banged even harder at my door. She beckoned me to let her in now claiming to be my next of kin. "It's bitter cold out here in this weather. Let me in and our hearts will warm together". I quickly performed my catechism and prayed that she have an aneurysm. This kept her at bay but she always wants more, and that's why they call her the covid whore.
Related Poems