Haunted

If there are ghosts, then I think
they are the ghosts of children.
They must be the ghosts of children –
the sounds you hear are a slap dash
of running feet, a shard of laughter,
a moment of song.

Children who sing.
Children who slide into small spaces,
who creep through the dark
and then emerge into sunlight,
children who dream of full bellied sleep,
children who can still dream.

If there are ghosts, I am haunted
by the ghosts of children,
all the lost children, snatched
by the ocean, left behind
in the deep dark of the world,
the wraith children who faded away
in silence. Only their breath.

We are hunkering down as Storm Brendan passes overhead. This is for the other Brendan and the Earthweal project. 

Ghosts at my table

I have previously blogged this, but I’m doing it again for Jilly’s Casting Bricks challenge. I did a poetry reading the other night, and read this, and somebody commented that it ended very quickly, just as they were starting to get into it. I tend to write pretty short poems, but it struck me that maybe I hadn’t actually finished this, just stopped writing it.

there are ghosts at my table tonight
I write, not mentioning that
my table is a pale rectangle
of wood, so that perhaps
you picture your own table,
round, white, plastic –
or a dark mahogany oval,
and your ghosts are
the dark ring left by
a wine bottle, the last time
you had dinner with
a long lost lover,
or the scorched place
where you set down a pan
too quickly, the day
you heard that news
about your sister, while mine
are the assorted stains
and scratches left by my
children as they leave their
childhood, not quite ghosts,
waiting to fade.

Ghosts at my table

there are ghosts at my table tonight
I write, not mentioning that
my table is a pale rectangle
of wood, so that perhaps
you picture your own table,
round, white, plastic –
or a dark mahogany oval,
and your ghosts are
the dark ring left by
a wine bottle, the last time
you had dinner with
a long lost lover,
or the scorched place
where you set down a pan
too quickly, the day
you heard that news
about your sister, while mine
are the assorted stains
and scratches left by my
children as they leave their
childhood, not quite ghosts,
waiting to fade.

Metafictionfor the Toads