In this dim night
before the dawn of All Saints,
no need to take fright
of the spirits you acquaint —
for they are merely the ones who went on before.

Beloved dead whom we miss
reenter the world of the quick
and blow us a kiss
with a treat but no trick —
as we celebrate their return from the dark shore.

The dead are still wriggling.

I thought I'd stamped hard enough
Twisted my heel long enough
Been vicious enough
To render their meddling
Null in their void
Enough to create them sterile
In their bequest
To bestow a double portion
Of pain.

I thought they were dead
And gone.
I was wrong.

In the darkness of the night, a soul does fade
Through the veil of death, it starts to wade
Life slipping away, like sand through fingers
Leaving behind memories that forever lingers
The breath grows shallow, the heart beats slow
As the final moments begin to show
The body grows cold, the spirit takes flight
Leaving behind a world of endless night
In the stillness of the room, a loved one weeps
As the reaper comes to claim what he keeps
A life once vibrant, now still and cold
A story left untold, a tale left unsold
But in the end, we all must part
It's the cycle of life, the beating heart
So cherish each moment, hold them near
For in the blink of an eye, they may disappear
And when the time comes for us to go
May we find peace in the afterglow
For death is not an end, but a new beginning
A journey into the unknown, a chance for winning.

Too many people take
The shortcut home; the one to make
Your journey
No more than thirty
Seconds shorter. It may
Be dirt now, your everyday
Pathway,
But I’d just like to
Bring you
To the past,
When this path was still grass.
When the lawn was green
And lush,
Before people’s needs to rush
Became more
Important than the lives on the floor.
Maybe if you just took
A look
On the ground,
Then around
You for another road,
Then the grass wouldn’t have the load,
The weight of your body on them
Once you step upon them.
Make a pass
On the grass.
Take a different path
To avoid the plant’s bloodbath.

Yesterday hid behind the dense
switchgrass
on the look out for us
to light candles of thought,
so it may remind us

of scent, quiet but lingering,
of a fragrance, infused beneath memories’ skin
and ferry us back in time.
seeking forgiveness,
seeking that we might forget,
on the eyes of restlessness an obol shall rest
and leave what was as dead,
as if a rash, cooled to no longer rage,
to no longer itch.

Yet, we can’t forget.
Unbidden, yesterday returns as spring
but with a hint of winter
and the frailty of things.

Do must we,
But break clocks
And wish gears lost,
In the end we are found
On the road where we
left our ghosts.

you're gone
all words
have turned to ash with you