Long Poltergeists Poems
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within the oscillation of melting clocks,
our poltergeists of times long expired…still reverberate~
tainted ticking echoing
in an everlasting tug of war,
pushing and pulling,
throwing barbs at bleeding hearts
oh, how the echoes distort reality,
haunting perfect illusions~
remnants of misunderstood souls
caught in constant conflict…
what was once a beacon of love~
transmuted inhospitable confusion
words, warped by borderline delusions,
each syllable twisted and contorted,
blind rationality,
unraveling the ties that bind,
wrapping them around suffocating throats,
choking on harsh accusations~
until we became irrelevant
irretrievable phantoms~
perpetually confined
within stupefied misapprehension…..
Among the systematic layout
Atop mirrored polished floors
That reflects the study of light,
Sharply angled shelves shadow symmetry
Like waves of open walls.
Spangled with books from scholars
Writers and dreamers
Labeled and categorized
Stacked upon the aisles of dialogue
Lying like little coffins numbered end to end.
A graveyard of words
Waiting to be opened by those who want to know,
These literary legacies of dormant poltergeists
Where the annuls of what must be remembered
Commemorate the living of yesterday
As eyes gaze upon each corpse
Engaging the ‘ghosts of words’
Reaching each heart, each soul
Captured in this moment of disclosure
Where miles of expression bring truths to life
June 16, 2023
A Brian Stand Premiere No 1223 Poetry Contest
Catha’s hair glistened in the Celtic way
Druids would have worshipped her
A sprinkle of cinnamon on her arms
Her face pixie-like and heart shaped
People fell in love with her
Scottish, Irish and Druids claimed her
We were five when Ma spun the Catha stories.
For our benefit, to honor our McCormick ginger hair.
To help us feel normal with our copper hair
And our plethora of freckles.
Born near Stonehenge,
Gifted with a soothsayer’s heart
She was more fey than the faeries
More gypsy than the Romans.
Clairaudient and clairsentient,
She sensed brownies, elves, and poltergeists
We were seven when our classmates began to bully us
Making fun of our McCormick ginger hair.
To try and make us feel ashamed of our copper hair
And our plethora of freckles, but it did not work
For we were like Catha, the pride of the clan.
Mother’s preparation suiting us up to ignore their evil taunts.
My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.
Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.
My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.
My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail.
My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.
Spring buds
Bursting
Like popcorn stuck on sticks
Raising my perspective to
Gallivant
In knee-high tickle grass
Nested
In the strew of stony rocks
Festooned
With sphagnum and lichen
Frothed with droplets
Of glistening crystal lather
Moored in glade and rill
Plundered in claggy stodge
Boggy green and juicy with rain
The jaunt sloshes with plunger feet
Air raids above
Signal
Whirring wispy winged ghosts
Bombers
Buzzzzzzzzzing
Skitting overhead
Barely black shadow fellows
Intent in reaching their target
Synced and signaled
Like flittering naked poltergeists
Aiming for a sticky sweet meal
Arms, legs ankles and necks
Covered or not
Stabbed with little mercy
In the trove of
Spring Buds
So Alive!
May 16, 2020
There are those who think the spirits of loved ones departed
Have moved on to their heavenly reward,
And there are those who think they'd like to, but "cain't"
Because they still need to finish something they have started,
And until some resolve they contrive to move toward,
They stay trapped here on Earth as a "haint".
Poltergeists don't exist, no real proof there at all,
This is just an "old wives tale", at best,
So I'd entreat you to show some restraint.
That strange noise you may hear some stormy night in the hall
Is just weather related, so give it a rest.
You may think it's a "haint",
But it "ain't".
Author's note: "Haint" is an old mispronounced folklore word for "haunt", or ghost.
Written: October 19, 2023, For Tania Kitchen Spooky Halloween Contest
___________________________________
Hope is buried, gulping Satan of the Night.
Its odd, dreadful beats drove in schizo sight.
Sweet dread awaits the fair-headed, awful stride.
As fear drew closer, it heard the sad words abide.
They were expressionless, their bodies obeying.
Love, it's ignored—bleeding hearts break, swaying.
They recall dread and can tell a horrific story well.
A red-hot sword could lure Satan from his shell.
Haunting, poltergeists, and zombies are the core
At Halloween, they shine as murderers may abhor.
Undermining existence in horror's catacombs
Blood and mayhem are the spooky twin gnomes.
Become a demon, and I'll stay at Dracula castle.
Awaken afraid from a lucid state, scared of hassle.
Amidst a Halloween party, I was stuck in despair.
Fear remains upon me after a spooky nightmare.
The Real Monsters
We are afraid of fire breathing dragons and scaly lizards.
Things that go bump in the night. Shadow creatures
who live under our beds and in our closets. Yeti
and Big Foot. Pale ghosts and poltergeists.
Chupacabra’s and vampires. Blood red
demons with pitchforks and horns.
Imaginary monsters that
can do us no real harm.
Why do we fear
them.
What we should be afraid of are people who chose evil.
MS13 and coyotes that traffic in human misery.
Corporate media giants that censor speech. Corrupt
politicians who sell us out to foreign countries.
School boards that label parents terrorists.
Dictators that oppress. Political correctness.
Murders, abusers, gossips, embezzelers.
Wars, hatred and genocide.
We should fear these. For
they are the
real
monsters.
I walked in through the creaking door
Blood stains on the hardwood floor
I followed bloody footprints up the stairs
I knew that I had best beware
The house stood empty for twenty years
No one dared enter due to the fears
Of murderous incidents that occurred therein
It was dubbed in town the house of sin
I knew not who had done the deed
But my soul inside had this burning need
To search the house for evidence
The cold that passed through me made me wince
From atop the stairs, I looked down below
Poltergeists in life-form put on a show
The horror that took place was no longer a mystery
I saw my wife stabbing and killing me
Written: October 10, 2023
Night Bewitches Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
A dream is a microscope through which we look at the hidden occurrences in our souls. Erich Fromm
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the placidity of the night's embrace,
bewitched the cosmos with an arcane grace.
The moon, a silver orb, may induce its rise.
Oozing its ethereal aurora over the skies
Whispers of worm words waft on wafture wear,
As the stars spangle, their nexus is spare.
The night wiles with its vestigial spell,
Drawing us in, under a talisman dwell.
Penumbras plaster pegs poltergeists of trees,
The twilight augury decry casts souls at ease.
Geezers of nightgown awaken from slumber,
Suing solace in the Cimmerian shade to clamber
The eventide sky overawes with a cosmic array.
Stars bedazzle and coxswain us on our way.
Moonlight sumptuous aura in a gentle glow,
Steer us through the shadow as the nexus flows.
Ebony necromancy decry a glamorous sight.
Drawing us close to the serendipity of the night.
In this cosmic wee hour, dreams bear flight.
Our souls are raised, and our hearts blight.
So let us indulge in this nocturnal delight,
As dusk vamps, squirting a glamor of delight.
Let us wander in the moonlit haze,
As sableness susurrous surreptitious sprays
Wee crepuscule twiddles, a plum night symphony
Where conceit phantasm and verity shed sympathy
Allotting an awareness acumen ariose and aureate
Upon ubiquitous utters uncanny unsophisticate.