(Scene: A funeral service, at the graveside. Two mourners talking to one another)

Duncan died then, so he finally gave up his goose.

< (disapprovingly) Gave up his ghost not his goose! >

Tis sad, very sad.

< Aye, maybe twas for the best, I heard he'd been sufferin'... He's gone to a better land now. >

(Looking at him amazed, having not heard properly) He what ! He's gone where!! He's gone to the Netherlands!!!

< He's gone to a better land!  a better land!! A better place!!! For fecks sake! >

(A lone Piper starts to play a lament by the graveside)

(after a few moments listening) I love the sound of the poops. A lone **** in the wind....He's a fine wee pooper that lad.

< He's a Piper not a Pooper!
(under his breath) Only Pooper around here is you. (smiles to himself thinking) A Super Pooper. (smiles even more) A Super Duper Pooper. >

Y'know he was quite a pooper himself in his day, was Duncan. I can still remember his pooping well. A Prize Pooper was Duncan, his pooping was often the talk of the town.

< (sadly & dreamily) Well, no more will his...his poops be heard around the Glens. Only silence now and the wind....o'er the heather, the fields and the crags. >

I'm not a bad pooper myself y'know.

< (smiles)  I bet ye are. >

< (thinks to himself) But the heather will bloom again, and the children, they'll play in the meadows.>

there is a girl in a garden
who sits under a dying tree
sometimes I look out the window
and she waves or smiles at me

frost paints over the window
cobwebs fill the room
and still the girl in the garden
sweeps away the gloom

I've never spoken to the girl in the garden
I couldn't if I tried
but her smile is a sight to see
even if she's long since died

Curtains may fall
And people may go
But the ghost light’s
All I know

People may shout
And prance around the stage
But the ghost light
Will never age

See them laugh
see them cry
And get more for the encore
When next they arrive

See them live
See them die
And get scored for the next chord
When next they survive

I watch over their theatre with pride
But don't think for a minute that I’m on their side

Why do they call me a ghost?
When I am surely alive
Don't tell me I'm wrong
Surely I survive

When singers are done with their long songs
When dancers will find no more dances, they're wrong
And I will stand here in the dark all alone
In this theatre, I call my home

So I find I'm more than this
More than your people have taught me to be
If you fear a shadow behind you
That of course
Is me

I don’t know when it started.
I guess it was always there,
my ability to feel ones energy.
My ability to read tarot cards.
People, even complete strangers, are shocked at my
pinpoint accuracy.
How is it possible that I dream and my dream
becomes a reality?
Through vibrations and voices, I hear statements,
I feel what Spirit wants me to deliver.
A year before my mom went to heaven, I heard
A voice loud and clear, “this will be her last Thanksgiving.”
November 2021, my mom went to be with the Lord,  
a few days before Thanksgiving.
Why was I chosen with this extraordinary gift?
Why was I chosen to deliver messages?
I channel messages and feel spirits near.
But I’m glad I can hear them and not see them.
I’ve dreamed of loved ones coming into my sleep,
Passing on messages for me to deliver.
Honestly, I think it’s pretty cool, my abilities
have gotten stronger through the years.
I am happy that a part of me can do such a
wondrous thing.
People may not agree with me using my gift,
at first I felt the same way, but people are being helped,
their concerns are being put to rest. I am blessed when I
help a person who needs answers.
Like it or not, I am here to stay, or at least my
Intuitive abilities are.

-

they have empirically evidenced
      a spectral existence within
          computer imagery of
                small glowing
                       orbs
                      ~  o  ~

                     "yawn"

if i found myself in the middle of
these things as they bank off the
walls and nudge against my arm–
batting their lil' eyes at me,

it would likewise illicit from me
the perception of a largely
innocuous event,

But—

the
creeping
shadow of
a skeletal hand
appearing to reach
for my shoulder from
the opening of a doorway
within the steady limitations of
a traditional negative photograph–

would most certainly
pull me into

it's
               reality...



s jones
2021



.

“Why did you do this for me?” He asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.” “You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”
- E.B. White Charlotte's Web

Blooming violet, ghost
Of the blonde sun.
Beauty of contrast.
The sun shines brighter
But not perceived by many,
The violet no longer hides
And eclipses the star with
Its heart shaped petals

Mythic essence, desired
By queens... emperors.
Her hidden power.
The might of Greece
Kneels down to her grace.
The flower of spring Persephone
Has chosen. Athens symbol.
Flower to fool Apollo

Withheld greatness, how
modest she is to all.
The gift of Humility.
The faithful flower painted
Timidly by the Bible’s artists,
Is occasionally too reticent
To glance at her kind spirit
And behold my rescue

Healing Heartsease, blossoming
Even before melting snow.
The soul savior.
Violet’s tender touch of protection
Softly soothing my skin.
The salve of my machine.
Her words, the river dam.
But ephemeral is the scent.  

Friendship essence, sweet
Magic wholly consuming me.
Tolkien of love.
How elegantly and delicately her
Colors dance and sing with the wind,
To engender the Victorian praxis
Binding us both with thoughts
Occupied by timeless bliss.

Elegant royal, spiritual
Guide of my fortune and good judgment.
Muse of twilight.
For she finds me in cold calamity
And warms my hand through the abyss.
Stargazing, I dream of hope, clarity and
To be born anew. She left her nectar.
Early morning emerges in delight.