Ghosts

Do you ever wonder about ghosts? Not just the ephemeral beings of your imagination and dreams, but the descendants of your past that you carry forward, that haunt your present. This triptych of poems deals with these topics.

Some Questions and Answers about Ghosts

alone some night in the dark

you might worry

you might ask

if ghosts see other ghosts

if they wait for us

if they watch for us

or poke at only those of us

who stumble

into the fog of their familiar

are they frightening

because we are afraid

are they here only

because we are here

are they the dead or

what’s left of the dead or

entirely something else

do they linger longer than we linger

dwell perhaps on some greater purpose

bound by some unspoken oath

loyal to some unknown god

do we startle them from sleep

or are they forever awake

(and if they sleep

you might wonder

what fills the nightmares

and the dreams of ghosts)

do they harbor a malice

having been tormented by evil

or are they nothing

but tiny beacons of hope

hinting to us

to unfold from our smallness

are they aware of their ghostly clarity

their ephemeral white

their trailing gowns

or do they see themselves

only when they stare into our eyes

and become what we imagine

are there some who are only mist

never born to a name

do some linger in the past

or foretell a future falling

do they haunt

the old places of the world

until we

in our blundering

come calling?

            *

i bought a tree

a copper beech

and planted it

in my arrogance

in this spot on the hill

behind the garden

i have no shame as i whisper to the tree as i dig

that we are both temporary things

here for a spell and then gone

i have no shame or remorse

when i say to the tree

that you will live longer than i

that i am more temporary than you

and in my dream

i am here

in a hundred years

finding shelter from the sun

beneath its bronze canopy

and in my dream

in my world

i am here through the seasons

feeding the birds that stop in its branches

bringing water in the dry summers

before its roots have gone deep

protecting it from winter storms

and cold winds and the bite of deer

me and the tree

reciting a long prayer together

tree that i have planted

suffer not my arrogance

or the carving knife of lovers

suffer neither my hope nor my ignorance

and grow strong

            *

my grandchildren are playing

in the shade of the tree on the hill

behind the garden

the girl, in a blue sundress,

has a handful of daisies and is singing

the boy with no shoes

who is older

has a rusty hoe from the shed

and is scraping at the earth

i look on as they play,

watch unseen as they pretend

laugh as they slip so easily between

what appears to be here

and what they imagine

the rays of the afternoon sun

are pouring through its branches

like a million blinking eyes

a squirrel watches

drops a twig, a jay

turns it head

squawks at the circling hawk

a sudden wind

rustles the leaves

pulls at the branches

tugs at the hem of her dress

threads quickly through the grass

like the fingers of a ghost

More Speculation About Ghosts

what is that

            *

the wind pulls at the branches

and the branches crack

snap

insects chew

at the broken spaces

squirrels and woodpeckers

carve holes in the wood

like sculptors of god

until the bark begins to curl around the wounds

and faces emerge from the furrowed trunks

some tortured some tormented

some clean

holy

some so complete as to be

haunting

            *

and sometimes when the rain slants

when the late snow melts

from the bark and the burls

sometimes as the dew settles

through the night

cold drops

of water

fall from

the eyes of the tree

like tears

            *

who is that in the fog

why, always, the muffled voices

of the watchmen in the distance

comforting each other with their familiar stories

as they search with their raised lanterns

for something lost

was it

a stray dog perhaps

howling in the dark

or a child perhaps

weeping at the ebb

or a lonely soul perhaps

who whispered

a last goodbye

before she fell

silently

from the pier

A Final Musing on Ghosts

you were

an only child an only

child so

you could not have known what it was like

to grow up in a house

where your father was raping your sisters

but your cousins knew

some dead

some not

knew what it was like

to grow up like that

sired in a half-built house

in massachusetts chasing work

with their half-wit father

through florida in a rusty trailer

listening to christian radio during the day

smothering in christian virtue during the night

later as the pieces come together

you imagine the kind of brother you might have been

to the sisters you never had

in the house of the rapist

complicit and quiet

or steadfast and murderous

always wondering where the knife would cut

and as more of the story falls into place you begin to question

what your parents knew how they drew the lines they drew

what they were willing to see not see what atrocities

they tolerated ignored smiled past for the family’s sake wondering

how you share a christmas dinner with a criminal chewing past

the horror swallowing the poison

what tasteless wad of gum did they wrap

in the used wrapper of silence and discard

so efficiently so discretely in a single sweep

from mouth to hand to trash

after the sweetness was gone

and the juice sucked out

some nights you wake

in the middle of the old conversation

a man any man your father standing there a woman

any woman your mother walking away, just before

you stutter and the words won’t come

why i mean how i mean why did you not do

something, anything, nothing

            *

the most frightening ghosts

return to the attics of old houses

drawn by the objects

the living forget

you don’t have to pull the string

or flip a switch yo make

them appear or disappear

changing their ghost clothes

next to the cedar chests

reaching for a broken toy

a doll with no arms

a soldier with no gun

turning the moldy pages

of old paperbacks

gnawing at the tangled wires

until the lights flicker

staring from the yellowing pages

of folded newspapers

with their gray eyes

buzzing like the wasps in the high gables

and under the eaves

always ready to sting

            *

the tethered soul

of your untethered uncle comes

like uninvited sorrow

to each reunion

laughs

and pokes and

prods at his daughters

now grown

until they are drunk

spills wine

stirs old resentments

teases the dog until she barks

at what seems like nothing

through the black window

finally his gaze falls upon you mocking you

for your hatred for your self-righteous indignation

mocking you asking you what does it matter

every daughter needs a father needs to love a father

a father challenging almost pleading asking

what are you going to do now with all the anger

now that i am dead