Posted in favorites

Antigonish

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there again today,
I wish, I wish he’d go away…

When I came home last night at three,
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall,
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door…

Last night I saw upon the stair,
A little man who wasn’t there,
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away…

-Hughes Mearns-

Maria Michaela

Posted in miscellaneous, original

Death of Ghosts

Ghostly presence from the grave

Haunt the meadows at eerie night

Seeking justice

Vengeance over gold

They lie down waiting

Silence upon their tongues

They speak not of the wicked deaths

But scream and mourn

To be heard

Posted in loss / death, original

The Ghosts Were….

The ghosts came running….running away

Half a mile they crossed only to be led to their doom

 

Wandering spirits were they

lost in oblivion

Nothing more but a memory

and only to be forgotten

 

What many do not know, is that ghosts are afraid

Afraid to be lost, to be forgotten, to be shunned,

to be thrown to the fiery depths

 

Ghosts! Many are they

Many were they

 

Now they are but a haze

and nothing more

Posted in favorites

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
‘Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness- for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne’er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!

-Edgar Allan Poe-

Posted in original

Phantom

the pieces, the pieces are broken – torn apart

gone are the days it once knew

it sees through the walls beyond it, the roof beneath it

it phases in and out

out of focus, out of sight

it reaches out but it falls short and down it goes

seeing the unseen, feeling the unfelt

but it only wants to feel the warmth once more

the sunshine back on its face

it’s face! yes, there once was a face, now faded almost into darkness

it searches never-ending trying to go back to what it once was

but it’s not meant to be, never again

for the pieces, the pieces have been broken

Posted in original

Her Ghost

she was pale, her eyes were sullen

she probably have been crying forever

to be stuck in the middle, not able to move on

people have wondered what she was waiting for

her hair is always in complete disarray

always on the inside looking out

unable to move freely she’s trapped

and she haunts the place

for she is unable to leave

bound by something, no one knows

she’s lost, she’s tired, in tears, confused

she only wants to go on, but she can never leave

she walks and the floor boards creek

you hear her cry, unable to console her

she’s unable to rest,

unable to go, to where she needs to be

 

and so she wails and moans and screams

in the dark, in the dead of the night

she touches you and your hair

stands on end

you look into those dark dead eyes

as she continues to haunt the place

Posted in original

The Haunted House

There is one house in Cheryville

That sits atop a tiny hill

It’s old, it creaked, it didn’t have color

A mansion it was, with a bad-smelling odor

It was built on the eighteen hundreds, they say

It used to be the most beautiful house during those days

Now it sits there rotting slowly

The used to be grand house is now lowly

However, it holds a secret that has been known

People who went inside it have been shown

Outside it looks ordinary

Inside they say it is very scary

A moan you’ll hear, a scream will shrill

Sending shivers down your spine, it’s not a thrill

Someone from somewhere will call your name

No matter how hard you try, you’ll never know where it came

You’ll be poked, pushed and scratched

You’ll be dragged, stabbed or worse when your catched

 Restless spirits haunt the house to this day

That’s why no person would want to stay

“Demolish it!”, others suggested

But no one dared, they were all too scared

“Do not enter”, the sign would warn

That one house on Cheryville

That sits atop a tiny hill

Posted in favorites

The Ghosts of the Buffaloes

Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry,

The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high,

The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar,

 White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar.

I rushed to the door yard. The city was gone.

My home was a hut without orchard or lawn.

It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream,

Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream… Then…

Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row,

Gods of the Indians, torches aglow.

They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer,

And eagles gigantic, aged and sere,

They rode long-horn cattle, they cried “A-la-la.”

They lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear,

They lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below,

The midnight made grand with the cry “A-la-la.”

The midnight made grand with a red-god charge,

A red-god show, A red-god show, “A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.”

With bodies like bronze, and terrible eyes

 Came the rank and the file, with catamount cries,

 Gibbering, yipping, with hollow-skull clacks,

Riding white bronchos with skeleton backs,

Scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad,

Naked and lustful and foaming and mad,

Flashing primeval demoniac scorn,

Blood-thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn,

Power and glory that sleep in the grass

While the winds and the snows and the great rains pass.

They crossed the gray river, thousands abreast,

They rode in infinite lines to the west,

Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam,

Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home,

The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled,

And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.

They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep.

And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.

And the wind crept by Alone, unkempt, unsatisfied,

The wind cried and cried —

Muttered of massacres long past,

Buffaloes in shambles vast…

An owl said: “Hark, what is a-wing?”

I heard a cricket carolling,

I heard a cricket carolling,

I heard a cricket carolling.

Then…

Snuffing the lightning that crashed from on high

Rose royal old buffaloes, row upon row.

The lords of the prairie came galloping by.

 And I cried in my heart “A-la-la, a-la-la,

A red-god show, A red-god show,

A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.”

Buffaloes, buffaloes, thousands abreast, A

 scourge and amazement, they swept to the west.

With black bobbing noses, with red rolling tongues,

 Coughing forth steam from their leather-wrapped lungs,

 Cows with their calves, bulls big and vain,

Goring the laggards, shaking the mane,

Stamping flint feet, flashing moon eyes,

Pompous and owlish, shaggy and wise.

Like sea-cliffs and caves resounded their ranks

With shoulders like waves, and undulant flanks.

Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam,

Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home,

The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled,

And on past those far golden splendors they whirled.

They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep,

And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep.

I heard a cricket’s cymbals play, A scarecrow lightly flapped his rags,

And a pan that hung by his shoulder rang, Rattled and thumped in a listless way,

And now the wind in the chimney sang, The wind in the chimney,

 The wind in the chimney, The wind in the chimney, Seemed to say:

 — “Dream, boy, dream, If you anywise can. To dream is the work Of beast or man.

Life is the west-going dream-storm’s breath, Life is a dream, the sigh of the skies,

The breath of the stars, that nod on their pillows With their golden hair mussed over their eyes.”

 The locust played on his musical wing, Sang to his mate of love’s delight.

I heard the whippoorwill’s soft fret.

 I heard a cricket carolling,

I heard a cricket carolling,

 I heard a cricket say: “Good-night, good-night, Good-night, good-night,…good-night.”

– Vachel Lindsay