—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
GHOSTS DON’T EXIST
even though there is a big one living
under the bed: sleeping all day
down there between the dust motes
and the candy wrappers: flipping
the corners of his quilt out
of boredom in late afternoon: lurking
just beyond the brave beam
of his flashlight. . . Of course ghosts
don't exist: it says so in musty
library books: in the tall legs
of grown-ups: in windy sunshine
and kids that tease: in the bland drone
of the TV flickering blue in the next
room after he goes to bed. . . Of course
ghosts don't exist: all that nightly
grunting and rustling is just
wind from the open window: thump
of his heart keeping time in
the dark: ragged edge of a dream
he can't ever quite shake free. . .
even though there is a big one living
under the bed: sleeping all day
down there between the dust motes
and the candy wrappers: flipping
the corners of his quilt out
of boredom in late afternoon: lurking
just beyond the brave beam
of his flashlight. . . Of course ghosts
don't exist: it says so in musty
library books: in the tall legs
of grown-ups: in windy sunshine
and kids that tease: in the bland drone
of the TV flickering blue in the next
room after he goes to bed. . . Of course
ghosts don't exist: all that nightly
grunting and rustling is just
wind from the open window: thump
of his heart keeping time in
the dark: ragged edge of a dream
he can't ever quite shake free. . .
GHOSTS AND CHILDREN
own Halloween, sandwiched as they are
between the quick and the dead. Not quite
jelled, they flap like see-through bats between
Here and There, like holograms in some
elsewhere-kind of theme park, where they roller-
coaster/bumper car/ferris wheel all day, slipping
back and forth through reality cracks to bring us
bits of news and fresh pieces of other-worldly
pie. Just the other day, I caught one hanging
in my closet; but when I got out the broom, she
flipped back into her bed, pretending again to be
a mere child. . .
We earthenware adults had better stand aside,
especially on All Hallows’ Eve, or these spritely
creatures will bump right through us. . .
own Halloween, sandwiched as they are
between the quick and the dead. Not quite
jelled, they flap like see-through bats between
Here and There, like holograms in some
elsewhere-kind of theme park, where they roller-
coaster/bumper car/ferris wheel all day, slipping
back and forth through reality cracks to bring us
bits of news and fresh pieces of other-worldly
pie. Just the other day, I caught one hanging
in my closet; but when I got out the broom, she
flipped back into her bed, pretending again to be
a mere child. . .
We earthenware adults had better stand aside,
especially on All Hallows’ Eve, or these spritely
creatures will bump right through us. . .
A GHOST OF A RAG
stirs in an old window: threadbare
shreds of a once-curtain wave
at the will of the dusty wind: flutter
in helplessness: moths with aging
wings waver and flounder, no longer
sure of their purpose: stretch out
to bone-dry fields of saffron straw:
reach for withered daffodils once
planted by newlywed hands. . . Ghosts
of graying lace still fly, though: still
toss and turn all night, dreaming
of days of being hemmed and pressed:
still quiver in purple dusk-wind, as
the last daffodils nod there under
a crumbling window: their pale faces
glowing in the moonlight. . .
stirs in an old window: threadbare
shreds of a once-curtain wave
at the will of the dusty wind: flutter
in helplessness: moths with aging
wings waver and flounder, no longer
sure of their purpose: stretch out
to bone-dry fields of saffron straw:
reach for withered daffodils once
planted by newlywed hands. . . Ghosts
of graying lace still fly, though: still
toss and turn all night, dreaming
of days of being hemmed and pressed:
still quiver in purple dusk-wind, as
the last daffodils nod there under
a crumbling window: their pale faces
glowing in the moonlight. . .
GHOST SHIPS
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen.
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
lace made of flickering fireflies
darning the unraveling waves.
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
silhouette ghost ships in fog. Still
darning the unraveling waves,
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
silhouette ghost ships in fog. Still
the women reach for their husbands, as
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
no sign of relief from this pain.
The women reach for their husbands,
each day embroidered with fear,
no sign of relief from this pain.
Dread is the seam of a sea life.
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen—
lace made of flickering fireflies.
Dread is the seam of a sea life,
each day embroidered with fear.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did.
—L.M. Montgomery, Emily’s Quest
_____________________
—Medusa (your favorite hag)
Happy Halloween!
For info about
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
