O, but needst I to listen to t'ese wishes, benign as t'ey are, but wild and inevitable-yet inaudible as dreams. Burnt by sophisticated passion, and whirring hells of torpid astonishment as my being at t'is moment, but smooth and glowing tenderly with affection-as thy love still I long for, woven so secretly ye' neatly alongst th' tangled paths of my mind! Yes, and its layers-turbulent patches of skin, yellow skin, crafted passionately by whose Creator, and imbued with unconquerable infatuation just like 'tis now. But no breathing soul canst I bestow it on-this overarching destiny, healthy and red as t'ose garden plums-impatient in t'eir wait for the shiny May summer-aside from thee, as 'tis but always thee, Kozarev! Uninvited as I am, by any other'ness' t'at might as well enrich my love story, as enough I feel, about t'at unrelenting history! Thou art th' sole man, th' only justified heart whom I adoreth, and want, so selfishly, to marry! As ripe as t'eir lips might be-but stifling, and immature in constitution, thinkable only when juxtaposed merrily with t'ose squirming nymphets about yon schoolyard; corrupted not as a newborn fern-with thighs carefully fastened to greedy-looking material, basked in immaculate sunlight, and so fresh to human sight, when all t'ese circumstances art but chaste no more, but beg, beg our hearts, and implore our worrying souls, to stay.

O Kozarev! Startled wasth I, to enter into thy proceedings, yester! Like an imbecile now my whole countenance-and its entire, ****** constitution-ah, but depleted, harmfully depleted, by laughter. What a raft of cynical conflagration! How grimly sadistic, ye' poetic in some ways! And t'ese remarks, and praises of love-begin but to dwelleth upon me all over again. Distracted is my firmness-by thy invincible power, guileless as thou hath always been, seeming not to hath heard my volatile heartbeat; and how doth I uttereth t'ose chuckles to my own mirrors upon flinging back into my bedchamber whenst our exchanges areth over. But indignant art thou not to my reddish blushes-which, like t'ose thorns of morning roses-enliven my soul up from within, after t'eir bleak winter!-and blanch darkly all my griefs away. In a thousand years and I shalt still miss thee, just like t'is, but 'tis just now t'at futility seemeth no more capable of wooing my calamity-and indulge it so adversely t'at it shalt turn towards me! Yes, how thou hath, with holiness, touched and entrapped my amorous passion, my love! In t'ese dreams-flourishing dreams, just like th' greenish pond and its superficial foliage outside, I but walk by thy moonlight and be blessed in thy fascination. Mighty and balmy shalt be th' sky overhead, hanging aloft with its mild arrogance, smelling like roofs of restrained rain-musty and soaking with glittering reproof; and wan abomination. But pure! Purity is but its sanctity, and protected by miraculous heavens, dwindling about like whitewashed statues being shoved around by a deadly lagoon of children-unknowing of what tomorrow shalt baffle us on, with faces of steel-like jubilance. And th' trees! Tropical wands be t'eir refuge-but horrifying as t'eir remorse-ah, in which souls shalt be brought about whirls of contemptuous winds, enslaved and stupefied all th' time-by mounds and havens of gruesome cruelty. But no care doth I fix on yon mortification-as thou art t'ere with me, Kozarev! Strolls shalt we take-t'ose encompassed by purplish and cheerful verdure, who admire us from t'eir gold-like stems afar-and into each other's cleavages shalt we retreat, by th' means of stories-yes, my love, stories of glee, pleasure, and yet-uneasiness, in order t'at t'ey shalt be wounded away and superseded by joy. Our love, rings of love, t'at is to come as immediate as nature might permit, and shalt allow us to admit-as yester hath unfolded, by bracing my feet for bouncing outside, across t'ese carpeted tiles-into th' very vicinity of thy chamber. Ah, thy handsome face! As white as pearls-yet frail as th' bulbous chirping snow. May I console 'em, my love, by my hands proffered-in th' most honourable marriage I desireth to come? But look, look afar, how t'ose stars-in t'is merciless universe, whispereth to one another, and talk gaily between t'eir wicked souls, of plans on bewildering our love-our bonds of vivid, mature fragrant compliments! How t'eir jealousy is mockery, and a swelling threat to us. And th' moon t'at is combing the hair, again, of t'at vicious ethereal princess-with a snooty swish of anot'er black hair-which is but a sea of anguished torment to me, should she descend the steps of her own ***** maidenhood-and carry herself off into our earth. Hark, how she doth it! How heathen, and indecent! But canst thou hear that-Kozarev? Canst thou be knowing of her shamelessness-and her counterfeit jewels? And her claws, her foster claws-ah, sharp as bullets, and notorious as her own evil heart! Luxury t'at is fake, ye' miserably auspicious! How I loathe her! Boil doth my temper at her genteel sight-and hostile auras, with t'at pair of necklaces t'at wasth born from falsehood, and ah! concealed deceit by portraits of clever contentment. How should thou hath seen her lips twitch over and over again, upon her setting t'at blackening imbecile gaze on me-me, who albeit from th' same brethren, but far from her flawless marches and stately refinement. And a creature, just a minuscule part of th' others, t'at she deems unworthy ye' deserving of torture! Silver and gold is she exclusively acquainted with, whenst torches in my garden art not even set alight. But look! How thou proudly saunter forward to welcome her, and salute her unforgiving cordiality with th' marks of thy lips, on her hand! And how t'is view scythes my chest, my heart, and tears it open just like th' blade of a sneaky knife shalt do. I am dying, dying from t'is tampered heart! And t'ese candles of my heart t'at hath been heartlessly watered-look how t'ey art brimming with sweat in cold demise. O Kozarev! Hath I been too late to seek thy love? Thy hands, my faultless prince, art but th' only mercy I canst pray for! Hath nature been so unfair as to savour all my dreams, ah, and even t'is single longing-and bequeath onto me a tragic life of undesired ghostlike mimes-in th' wholeness of my future? Thou art th' lost charm of t'at wholeness, my love, and should be I bereft of thee again, I shalt but be robbed of my entirety-and pride, womanly pride t'at I sadly out'ta hath. Ah, Kozarev, in thy movements doth I find bliss-a creaking blow to my wood-like stillness, and a cure for my sickly contrivances. I came here for thee, and always didst! Canst thou hear t'at-and satisfy this fierce longing with just a second of thy soundless touch? Lights flicker, and smile in t'eir subsequent death-but t'is is a token of subservient passion. And I shalt not give up like 'em-as t'is life greets us once only, before transporting us into regions of th' unknown-yes, it doth, my love, wherein eerieness is still questioned and overtly unfathomed. Ah, and before death I long to have you-Kozarev, and sit as we shalt-side by side, charmed by our generous yet moronic affection, until th' earth doth make us part, and shalt then we retreat into our most dimmed apertures.

Thou art my blissful paradise, Kozarev! Thy presence but bringst out my well of solemn cheers and proud, sun-like congeniality. And in t'is warm, gentle spring I shalt write but merely on thy vivacity! O imagination-blame, and curse her as thou might do, is in fact, my key, to my newborn triumph and infallible victory; th' marks of glimmering satisfaction-and visible restoration of my sin, my soul. T'is is because I believe, strongly, with all th' forlorn might of my heart, t'at sincerity shalt forever tower over every tweak of malevolent innocence and repressed wishes for destruction. 'Tis, Kozarev, is th' voice emanating towards me from within; and bracing t'ese lips, and *****, for facing her-t'at accursed rival of mine, with bravery and independence I hath never been brought to acknowledge. Ah, petrified as my customs let me be, conviction shalt stay within my hands; and t'at shadow-o, picture of our old days together, on th' veranda-yes, decorated with lights of our love, spur me on. Thy love is born as, and devoted to mine, my love! Crafted, shaped, and designated for me only-and to be mine, only mine-for evermore. We art but a chain of perfect concord, as God hath so sweetly decreed! And I shalt doth nothing else as remarkable as determine to retrieve it-with all th' charms and intellect t'at I possess-and my words as sugar sweet, as well as th' leaves of grace and my becoming, comely wit.

I walk old and gaunt
Floating ghostlike down old haunts
Martinelli
And Washington
And East Lake
I return
Far flung from a prodigal son.

Empty streets reflected in empty eyes
Power lines buzz in futile rebellion
To the silent black night.
I pull my jacket tight.

Stop at the Villager
In search of an old friend.
Security shakes me down
“Do you have a pocketknife?”
I laugh.
Look in at the eager faces.
They hail the old demon
I ran down in futile chases.
See Charlie and Sarge.
They’ve forgotten who I am
And shouldn’t remember
Anyway.

Turn back to the dark,
To the dim streetlights
Glowing exhausted and pale
Like me.
Light up,
And fill my lungs
With deathly relief.
Traffic lights mist
In cold colors
Where shadowed roads meet.

Something here died.
Something close,
Something warm.
I walk on,
Old and gaunt,
Floating ghostlike down old haunts.

Sands of the beach,warms

to the glory of sunrise,the

red rays play gleefully on

their dunes giving them life,

A new dawn awakes to the

soft roar of the waves,rebellious

yet content.

Along the horizon the morning

fog removes her mystic veil to

reveal a ship,ghostlike,it slowly

approaches the shore,while seagulls

gyrate above in unclear patterns,

and the calm ocean in harmony with

the sky merge into the Oneness of Creation.

Water over stone speaks to me
Voices in my head or reality?
Bubbling, babbling, a fluid oration.
From liquid, an opus of reverberation.

Closer I get, speech becomes blurred.
A child, a crowd, an implicit word?
Retreat a step, lucid communique
Desire to immerse, ingest the parley.

Sit between banks in tears from on high
Hear her voice in the brook as I try
To understand, and follow the sentence at hand
A cacophony of silence sifted through sand.

Meaningless, mindless, numbing address
Just what’s so important she’s trying to stress?
Words from the distant, ghostlike, perchance
Wispy and passionate midsummer’s dance.

My ears reject resonance, but the mind draws it in
To decipher the past and perceive an old sin.
Apologetic, pleading, no mold to this play
Just babbling on, with no true thing to say.

Hands growing numb from water’s icy hold
Must leave this brook, for so I’ve been told
That mystery lives in the motion of hearing
Of water’s sweet journey beyond my heart’s clearing.

1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back,  everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.

2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.

3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.

4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.  
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.

poltergeist,
rattle my ribs, your cage
knock on my skull
remind me of when you
kissed me
quite saccharine
and bewitched me
body and soul.
charming
disarming
but faint as my breath
memories flooding from times
past
never last
and less tangible than smoke.
poltergeist,
your chilling whispers
your temperate moans
are all i have.
i cling
but i am tenuous,
nothing but a shadowy figure,
even more obscure
vague
ghostlike  
than you.

I. the breathing of human nature

her poetry weaves a chimera
through ontario maples,
ghostlike songs intoned in late november breath:
*i don't really want to be a pretty girl... *

whispers of woodsmoke fall from sky
(sky, pink as cochineal, pink as avarice
sky, blue as bruises, as jazz, as tropical waters)
she steps from the fog and ash into the beckoning trees,
seduced by leaves,
an autumn saturnalia of honey, flame, amber,
nectar, pistil, anther.

she is cupola and chalice,
budding fuchsia and iron cherry--
but she writes and breathes
as if something more than a woman
who knows all the names for the ocean
stirs and struts inside her.

II. the statue and sobriquet

piano wires melt into statues,
heat steals rusty bottle caps
and bends them eerily into muses.
butterflies perch astutely on their shoulders,
violet, violent, a mosaic of shredded lilies and shellac,
paris in flames, flowering tea-houses,
the mariana trench, a thicket of morning glory.

nature sculpted this metaphysical tribute to her
for all that she has done, for all that her bent fingernails
and snow-covered lips have given
to inspire solstice and equinox--

in the night-songs of the crickets,
crystal bells and rustic chirps,
she was lauded.


III. declaration

she feels the songs in her eyelashes
and writes of wine and palest bone,
fragments of bashful moon,

roots her fingernails into the tarnished canadian willows
and finds her way through magnolia clouds and sea-spray sky;
after all, she can soar.

We walk like vapor-genies
in old growth forests,
ghostlike & elegant,
we move
like true fairytales,
gnomes whittle the way
for us
past exploding ferns.

It’s true,
we have seen the rain
coming down in torrents
along blue ridge trails,
fallen logs strewn about
like matchsticks,
fungi licks our shins
while lightning cracks
thunder like bullwhips.
I love moments like that…….
I hear Creedence every time we go.

And didn’t you know dear friends,
it’s spiritual medicine
for restless souls,
like my fellow companions & me.

I propose a toast
to a honeycombed crux
charred black
it wanes but it's no moon.

Molasses streaks the sky
disguised as light
it will not calm the alabaster globes
bobbing in the icebox of her gut.

Stolen
she wanders ghostlike and barren
expectant for the cuckoo's cry
consent to come
unhinged.

An overture in reds and golds -
hardly untruth
the hues bury shame:
eggshell-white and stuffed full of monsters.

Take heed
and never trust the oleander
the fox-eyed traitors
of the flower patch.

The white fog creeps from the cold sea over the city,
Over the pale grey tumbled towers,--
And settles among the roofs, the pale grey walls.
Along damp sinuous streets it crawls,
Curls like a dream among the motionless trees
And seems to freeze.

The fog slips ghostlike into a thousand rooms,
Whirls over sleeping faces,
Spins in an atomy dance round misty street lamps;
And blows in cloudy waves over open spaces . . .

And one from his high window, looking down,
Peers at the cloud-white town,
And thinks its island towers are like a dream . . .
It seems an enormous sleeper, within whose brain
Laborious shadows revolve and break and gleam.

My boat is broken. 
Pieced together from shipwrecks I've caused
Pieced together with the wretched lives I've taken. 
Ancient decrepit wood
nailed on in disjointed configurations. 
Puzzle pieces that don't quite fit right.
My flags are tattered and torn 
black, and ghostlike
barely strung together
and hanging from mangled masts. 
On the bow is a twisted  Stygian crow 
holding an ancient quill pen 
bleeding obsidian black ink into the ocean
surrounding my boat
Turning the water as black as the death I cause
The air surrounding my ship is an icy cold blue air
almost too thin and cold to breath.

I am Cap'n Ghost Lee Waters.
long black tangled beard
hollow sunken eyes rimmed with aching death. 
I move in frozen desecrations and icy darkness
I move towards you with murderous intent
And soon you will be within my grip
And you will feed my ship.

My cat is alarming the daylight every single rotten day.
I wake up chocking from the un flickering dream,
Numb and kinda nervous, still watching the leftovers
Of characters fighting the path, back into reality.
All my nights since my life began revolving around my addictions
I patronized them, I begged them, I bribed them, what I did or what I not...
Exclusively the ordinary: buying flowers, candies,
Slot machines, **** videos, riding on elephants,
Cornering the cliffs, eating spiders, smoking ***
And beaming at the stars while they were changing music covers
Aside me, in slippers, house dresses and chewing cockies outta space,
Between a tooth and the next one located at five minutes array.
So you cannot call  in my nature as a bee. Or not to bee.
All the **** that you can do or not in dreams, I did.
Results presumptuous. As all dreams are.

Vague ends fishing the tale of monster Colombre.
He's old and he's lounging in Poseidon's trident,
Into the space between  the waves of gravity
Along with the pearl promised to every human being ,
As long as they are clapping hands for  fairies not dying
And children's bed time stories that  never lasts enough,
At every gasp they take when something murderous
Is happening  while   mothers turning into stone are reading,
The horrors of daily news at9 clock whisky .
For a  first, they enter into the deem reality
My imaginary ghostlike friends. I waved them farewell, at last.

I don't wanna spend more time buying crickets  or entertaining Terpsichore.
Now I'm busy writing songs  about them, eating  space cookies  with a little prince and feasting  on crickets with Maruska.

How did we get this far apart, we used to be so close together
How did we get this far apart, I thought this love would last forever.

What was it jogged my memory
what was it filled a gap
when as I sat and ruminated
this forgotten thought came back
from long ago when I was ten
I stood alone outside
the stars were coming out
the Jotunheimen land of giants
was lit by northern light
far off their ghostlike splendour
fair took my breath away
such mirage-like illusions
were real for me that day

Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th April 2016

I suppose I had always wanted you to give up on me

I was always testing you to see if or when you would.

Finally, you did.

But it’s not all entirely my fault - you also put yourself in the position

of the antagonizer,

of the predator and the prey.

I was always just waiting for you to pounce on yourself

accidentally thinking you were pouncing on me

but I have long since given up on

falling for your traps. I set my own and fall for my own

and that is how it has always been.

Put me in a vulnerable straightjacket and I will talk you into trying it on for yourself,

Swiftly and seductively.

Dare me to tie you to a train track for the thrill of it and I will laugh and kiss you on the forehead and whisper goodbye

as the sound of a moving train will be heard in the near distance.

Blame me for disappointing you, because taking responsibility for your own feelings

Is always hard and close to impossible.

But I will always know who disappointed who, I will always know what kind of damage we willingly caused ourselves.

I am a mermaid that has fallen out of longing for legs

The only light that guides me now is that of the moon

And her unequivocal yet ghostlike offer

Of reprieve.

There is no escape...
A creature of evil—the dark!
You roam through the night well hidden—
ghostlike!
Your strike –
a deathly finesse! Crushed, smitten,
he falls down – your victim, your mark.
There is no escape!

I am in love with the night.

My body craves the chilling midnight breeze.

My mind lingers in dark corners

and wanders through the silence of the small hours

with ghostlike ease.


I am one with alley cats

and all the prowlers of the dark.

We dance our slow samba

through sorrow and peace,

weaving from one emotion to the next

and back again.


We sing in whispers,

harmonizing with the hush tones

of life in piano.


We are phantoms.

We are the moonlit shadow-men.

We are the presence you feel just before sleep takes hold.

Feel us sweep through your mind like a storm wind.

We bring the cold.

We bring the quiet.

We bring peace to all but ourselves,


for there is no peace in the night.

We are the children of uncertainty.

we have taken the hand of chaos and kissed it

and felt all of life's woe and elation.


I have seen possibilities so boundless

that I may never rest this riot

and so

I will forever be a lover of the night

and she will forever be my mistress.

And I looked at her then,
So many years after

I saw her

Smile for the first time
And long after
I swore to her endless
Days of pure love

Ghostlike I felt then
Observing her figure,
Or maybe it was a shadow.
Defeated I walked to her,
Breathing heavily,
Yearning for the past,
Even then I loved her so,

We've got an old way
of working things out
and an old life
(we are young, sister)
though you say we're young
(I never lie)
but how could we be
since that old dusty memory
is clear…. clear… clear
(ah, yes, you see we're young)

And I didn't say I didn't care
I just want to forget...
and would heaven
be at our door
if it never had happened
(Is that a question?)
well why did it happen?
just to us
(just to us, both of us)

When I am home
I get shivers
and cold feet
as they touch
where he had fallen
and you are out drinking
(I am always here)
as I am sinking
and the fat ugly droplets won't fall
they're weak things tugging at my scalp
if they fall, I can rest
(you sleep better than me)
I want them gone
but my skin is a cage is a desert
(darling, face it.  You have dry eyes and a messed-up conscience-)
and whatever tries to seep out
evaporates into nothingness
why had this happened to me?
(you mean us, you silly girl)

What can come from tragedy-
this is no blessing in disguise
(it was bound to happen)
and your eyes are that of an old man's
(our eyes.  Looked into the mirror recently?  I think not)
yes we are older than him now
headhunters gather strength in their victims
we gather age
(we are young, don't lie to us)
chained together by skin
(bound together is a better word)
invisible to the eyes of others
you sit, ghostlike in the bar
(I haven't had a drink in years!)
Sometimes coming back to the skin we share
you are my sister
my blind spot
(the intelligent side, come to think of it)
the dirt on my tongue
which I haven't found a way to spit out yet
you crunch under my teeth
(you are the dirt, the whiner, the pessimist
the man was a worthless criminal.
I saw him dreaming of us.
and I cannot digest his foul thoughts,
I knew him better than you
I saved our life.)

I wish not...
To harbor these vessels.
For I know
In those holds is sickness.
Crates of longing
Often opened, empty.
Barells upon barrels
Of jet black loneliness
Forever splashing, unsealed, seeping.
So like my dreams
These ships of her navy.
Christened with shades of she
"Lost Love", "my One", "my only", 
"nevermore", "ever after"...
They set no sail
Anchored securely off my shores.
Out of reach
Yet constant in presence.
Seeking no barter, no passage...
No plunder.
Ghostlike they haunt
All of what I most want.
And dreams like mine
Always calling
Taunting those black sails
In windless waters
Embracing no breeze
Only serving to open old wounds
My spyglass weeps
Fixed on yesterhorizons
Where gone and do go
Phantoms and shades
My sea of regrets. 
Jfehlmann

We've got an old way
of working things out
and an old life
(we are young, sister)
though you say we're young
(I never lie)
but how could we be
since that old dusty memory
is clear…. clear… clear
(ah, yes, you see we're young)

And I didn't say I didn't care
I just want to forget...
and would heaven
be at our door
if it never had happened
(Is that a question?)
well why did it happen?
just to us
(just to us, both of us)

When I am home
I get shivers
and cold feet
as they touch
where he had fallen
and you are out drinking
(I am always here)
as I am sinking
and the fat ugly droplets won't fall
they're weak things tugging at my scalp
if they fall, I can rest
(you sleep better than me)
I want them gone
but my skin is a cage is a desert
(darling, face it.  You have dry eyes and a messed-up conscience-)
and whatever tries to seep out
evaporates into nothingness
why had this happened to me?
(you mean us, you silly girl)

What can come from tragedy-
this is no blessing in disguise
(it was bound to happen)
and your eyes are that of an old man's
(our eyes.  Looked into the mirror recently?  I think not)
yes we are older than him now
headhunters gather strength in their victims
we gather age
(we are young, don't lie to us)
chained together by skin
(bound together is a better word)
invisible to the eyes of others
you sit, ghostlike in the bar
(I haven't had a drink in years!)
Sometimes coming back to the skin we share
you are my sister
my blind spot
(the intelligent side, come to think of it)
the dirt on my tongue
which I haven't found a way to spit out yet
you crunch under my teeth
(you are the dirt, the whiner, the pessimist
the man was a worthless criminal.
I saw him dreaming of us.
and I cannot digest his foul thoughts,
I knew him better than you
I saved our life.)

I

Battered by a brute
Nor’easter, the cottage
rocks in rough wind,
teeters on tall stilts,
architecture animated
by howling provocations
until even the somnolent
wine glasses begin to sway;
suspended and racked in rows
below kitchen cabinets,
crystal clinks on crystal,
clear bells signaling alarm—
the storm forewarned is upon us.

II

This seaside aerie rises
high above sand dunes,
undulating driftwalls
feathered with sea oats.
Protected by weathered
shingles and salt-pocked
windows never shuttered,
the house stands sentry,
stoic structure overlooking
the Graveyard of the Atlantic,
the vast saltwater cemetery
where untold ships and sailors
have come to wreck and ruin,
subverted by shifting sandbars
and chancy wayward currents.

Buried in navigational Neverland,
vessels slumber in oceanic silence
on a seabed as soft as coffin plush.
***** convene in chambers of ruin,
scuttling over rotted mainsail masts;
the jellyfish hover, ghostlike, in hulls
above steerage skeletons bedecked
in crenulated shells and sea anemones.
Plankton settles on shipwreck rust:
pervasive spores, mausoleum dust.
And draped across each wreck,
a pelagic pall of melancholy.  

III

On summer nights, children
chase ghost *****, freezing
them with flashlights, scooping
them into buckets brimming
with a berserk racket of claws
and shells scratching circular
walls of makeshift plastic crypts.
From the top deck, we follow
disembodied beams of light
zigzagging in darkness,
graveyard robbers darting
above holes in the sand,
black portals, each one
the size of a child’s fist.

IV

Years ago, so-called
wreckers would hang
lanterns from horses’
necks and lead the beasts
up and down the beach,
yellow beacons signaling
as though from distant ships
buoyed on placid waters.
The lights lured desperate
vessels inland, unsuspecting
captains and crews crashing
ashore in blind catastrophe.
At daybreak, islanders
scavenged the spoils
of their subterfuge—
silver chalices,
jeweled goblets,
golden cups and bowls—
treasures cast to rapacious
hands upon an indifferent tide.
And of course the corpses came,
caught between shore and sea,
rolling in breakers, stuck
in salty purgatory, churning,
shell-pocked and unsanctified.

V

Tonight a yellow mote of light
floats miles from shore, some ship
flickering like a votive stowed
upon a headstone’s crown.

And the half-drunk bottle
of pinot noir in the ship’s
decanter has me thinking:
When my time comes round,
wait for a moonless night,
black funeral gown
of sky embroidered  
with stars and satellites,
and sneak to the end
of the Avon fishing pier
and release the ashes
from whatever vessel
you’ve decided best
accommodates me.
Scatter finite confetti
to an infinite tomb,
ashes dissolving
unceremoniously
in saltwater,
subsumed.

Next morning,
perhaps catch sight
of a spirited sailboat
tacking over waves,
sails billowing in wind
like the unfurled wings
of a sea bird, full of grace,
alighting from grave to grave to grave.

Neon flickered ghostlike
with honks desperate below,
someone shouted down the hall.
Her cigarette smoldered
rancid smoke,
swirling up into
a fan spinning
lifelessly.

We lied,
naked in rough splendor,
side-by-side,
her leg cracked high
in a v,
my hand rested
on her sweaty thigh,
we giggled breathlessly,
inhaled guilty-pleasures,
our exquisite rumbling
was beautiful,
her and me.

I wanted to crawl
into her
again
&
again
&
again.

And if I could have,
I would've stayed
in that seedy room,
forever
on the
wrong side of this desolate,
unforgiving town.

Fingers crossed...

I don't feel like a happy person.

I don't feel like a happy person.

I feel like years of yearning would feel, grasping at dreams in the daylight.

I feel like guitars strumming, ghostlike.

I feel like wasted space and blurred lines, the weight of a song deftly moving in my head.

I never want to allow anything to hurt me again, I could promise. I want so much to walk the large, well-lit autumn-rimmed clear haven streets and not look back, always with destination. I am an artist not creating, I stagnate. I run.

The crying thunder breaks my fears into bugs and mud, it seeps through and out the pores and cracks of my skin. Somehow when the world decides to off you, a good night of sleep doesn't quite feel like the solution. How can I sleep with death swift under my eyes?

Confirm the beauty in my lack of rendition, and the galaxies deep in the creek of my dying summer heart.

Why are the night and day so different?; and do they have to be?

There's nothing tangible anymore in the seatbeltless buses of the south province (that's where I'm stuck). I crave one thing, but I know it's only a gap, a void I'm trying to fill. I can't stay here anymore is the only refrain that made sense to me when I sobbed it out loud.

So good riddance to my selfish fears and my hypocrisy. Hello new world, I am yours and you are mine.

The tired old station wagon
Pulls to halt in my driveway.
The five children fall out
of its rusted doors noisily
shouting and laughing.

She turns off the sputtering engine.
Slips ghostlike from the drivers seat.

Her five hours of driving
In a bedlam of her children’s noise.
Looking so slight and frail.
My heart melts again.
I enfold her in my arms.

And whisper thanks for coming.
Even though I have moaned
About her children’s disruptions.
The extra work cooking
And entertaining.

I look into my sisters face
And whisper I love you Sis.
You are always welcome
In my house.
And in my heart.

The old station wagon
Pulls to halt in my driveway.
The five children fall out
of its rusted doors
shouting and laughing.
She turns off the noisy engine.
Slips ghostlike from the drivers seat.
Her five hours of driving
In a bedlam of her children’s noise.
Looking so slight and frail.
My heart melts again.
I enfold her in my arms
And whisper thanks for coming.
Even though I have moaned
About her children’s disruptions.
The extra work cooking
And entertaining.
I look into my sisters face
And whisper I love you Sis.
You are always welcome
In my house.
And in my heart.

The grief will lessen,
the pain become
a mild ache, some said,
after the death
and the son dead.

Somewhat
like telling
someone
who is drowning
the substance
of water.

I cannot
measure out
the length of time
of my grief,
or how deep
the pain goes
by plunging a knife
into the wound
as if seeing
like some cake
or meat
if it is cooked.

I see each
morning dawn
shadowy,
as if ghosts
walk through
or clouds mask
what little light
I see or catch
or gone out
like puffed
out match

Even in silence
I sense his
being there
in the cool
morning air;
feel the loss
like sand
through fingers,
although his image
ghostlike lingers.

And at close of day,
when moon's
kingdom comes,
stars tell lies
by being there
when maybe
long ago they
burnt out
or were lost.

And you,
my son,
that last talk
we had,
mundane,
yet real,
tangible,
real then
as now the pain.

We lived right up on a grassy bluff
That looked down on the sea,
In a tiny cottage, fit for two,
Just Arabelle and me.
But Arabelle was a wistful wraith
Insubstantial in the flesh,
She hovered around in her ghostlike way
With an air of faint distress.

The surrounding air was turbulent
For it always seemed to blow,
Over the top of the bluff from depths
Down in the cove below,
But Arabelle was restless in
Even the faintest breeze,
Worse when the wind came surging up
And swaying the tops of trees.

‘Why do you let it get to you,
Why are you so forlorn?’
Often I’d say, as Arabelle
Would sit hunched up, at dawn.
‘I can detect a spirit there
That tumbles from out my breath,
That’s where the wind is coming from,
It’s a portent of death.’

Then she’d begin to gasp for air
As if she couldn’t breathe,
I’d say, ‘there’s plenty of air out there,
It rattles around the eaves,’
I’d take her hand and I’d lead her out
Walking along the bluff,
While she took many a gulp of air
Until she had had enough.

She died quite early one Sunday when
The wind had clattered outside,
I found her slumped on the grassy bluff
From watching the rising tide,
But now, there’s only a gentle breeze
Since I’ve been living alone,
I only hear the clattering gale
When visiting her headstone.

David Lewis Paget