Ghost Stories

Gaze ever into cloud dotted blue skies
From the comfort of this four posted bed.

Is there anyone for him to talk to,
An opthamologist of blue skies

Who can diagnose those faraway eyes,
Examine the visionary’s vision,

Then prescribe the antidote to bring his
Eyes back into this room where we have lives?

Long tales, vague recollections, dream remnants
Pile up in my mind, mere ghost stories, lies,

How they comfort me through the solitude
Of together alone times on long rides.

Talking to ghosts is becoming pastime.
Then I remember these memories ain’t mine.

No, there will not be time for revision,
Muted voices don’t make patterns on screens.

Come with me into the moonlit garden,
Show me the secrets of forgetfulness

Scribbled in notebooks, hiding in closets,
Echoed in coffee cups left on counters.

Your laughter, a skipping stone on water
Where your mother still fishes for huge trout.

Suddenly it flies, the warmth runs from you.
Bones rattle out beats for angel dances,

Only seen when glancing quickly, sideways
at sunlight tinkling on river waters.


About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in perception, poem, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Ghost Stories

  1. amabear says:

    love this. you are really hitting your stride.


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