Ghost Post
This poem was inspired by my previous dog. He made eye contact with something or someone invisible to me and barked as loudly as he could for ten minutes because he was protecting his human mom. I got a few rejections on it before I stumbled upon The Raven Review. They want dark atmospheric writing…
The Incubus
It’s time I had a time alone.
The spirit comes to call at night.
An Arab man would cast a stone.
My dog begins to bark with fright.
He never says a word, this beast,
But lust may speak through stares and touch.
The ghost, in wrong like wicked priest,
Returns. He must atone for much.
I feel the weight upon my chest
As presence pushes purpled past.
I toss and turn all night, no rest.
From front or back, he’s cheetah fast.
And now, I feel the crush of air
As bed begins to slowly tilt.
The phantom finger brush of hair
Becomes a burden bearing guilt.
My husband’s whispers trickle down
Like melting ice. The water drops
Can weather rock. A tug on gown
And sense of peace and purpose stops.
The madness starts again; my arms
Are pinned like captured butterfly.
My body still as cold reforms
The sound of silence breaks with sigh.
I see depression form in bed.
The sudden sag substantiates
My spouse’s superstitious head.
My poet husband contemplates
The curse. A shaman knows the art
Of healing man and alters fates.
But does this demon have a heart?
Sadistic spirit masturbates.
His kiss with taste of ash repels.
His tongue is forked and serpentine.
He had a dream of wedding bells.
I didn’t become his valentine.
On sheets, the sweat collects and blends
With sickly sweet lethargic hemp.
I told him drugs are losers’ friends.
He’s power-mad, once was a wimp.
He only comes at night like bat,
Eclipsing all that lies in path.
He has a thirst like jungle cat.
He kills my hope in aftermath.
I dare address the thing by name.
I think he will recall our days
In school before the drugs and shame
Of diabolic dark displays.
Immortal wisdom, paradox
Of death. His soul is stuck in time.
He had a dream of ring in box,
But placed a witch’s spell in rhyme.
The woman warned of consequence.
He ignored crone and paid her fee.
The heart will pass by weak defense.
A lady’s love is never free.
The question asked is what’s the cost
Of action. Price and value rise.
He looked in mirror, fingers crossed.
He knew the truth concealed by lies.
We part at death is wedding vow,
But separation happens soon
As pair destroys the here and now
Like Gypsy quickly reading rune.
The future looms like hurricane
In Gulf as storm decides which path
To take. The present, full of pain,
Destroyed by temper-swelling wrath.
My husband lights the way, the floor
Through window sealed by candlelight
And prayer from holy book, but more
Than hope and man of second sight
Should battle foe who hides in air.
The house is circumscribed by salt
And cleansed by sage. He strips me bare
In dreams declaring lack of fault.
The ghost is startled; smoke alarm
Staccato beeps with burning sage.
He once was handsome, full of charm,
But death has given ugly rage.
In 2015, I won first place and honorable mention in The Political Poet’s poetry contest and Frank Poe published both of my ballads on his website. The first one is a true ghost story. The second one is fiction. However, everybody knows that Fiddler’s Pond in Mt. Dora, Florida is haunted:
World Wide Web
As mother kissed the steering wheel,
She bit her lip. The red
And salty fluid gushed, but calm
Replaced the mortal dread.
The car decelerated, stopped
On shoulder. Glass with blood
Designed a lengthy spider web.
The other car, a thud
Against a pole. The acrid scent
Of smoke polluted air.
The bodies bent like question marks,
An answered final prayer.
I thought I saw a shadow dance.
I witnessed mother leave.
I heard the roll of gurney’s wheels.
The rush began with heave.
Hallucinations visit mom.
The rhythmic beeps alert
The staff about a pressure change.
A parent lies inert.
Another one did disappear
From family life by choice.
The doctors look away. I try
To scream, but have no voice.
The nurses look away as well.
I walk through walls with ease.
I hear a doctor diagnose
But never cure disease.
She said addiction is a foe
Who masquerades as friend.
I see a nurse. She is my mom;
I think I will pretend.
I bring my doll. I hide in air.
My mother never smiled.
I am adopting stranger mom.
She won’t neglect her child.
Her layered hair is dark and frames
Her pretty oval face.
My curly hair is dirty blonde.
The past, I will erase:
A mom who never slaps my face
Is all I dream about.
I watch her squeeze a lemon dry.
The drops collect on trout.
I watch my brother eat like slob.
He slips a piece to dog.
A television soon provides
The only dialogue.
I watch my father walk the dog.
The skinny leash retracts
With press of button. Squirrels move
And crazy Dash reacts.
He lunges, growls, and swipes at air.
His paws extend like hook
Of boxer cornered deep in ring.
He gives me startled look.
His master tries to silence bark
By tugging collar hard.
I laugh as beast advances, tries
To bite my leotard.
I’m soft as cotton candy rolls.
His teeth are onyx hard.
He tries to lick me, whimpers, runs,
And hides in neighbor’s yard.
Our home is colored butterscotch.
I love to crawl in bed
With mom and dad. I like the books
On file my mom has read.
She has a magic made machine
That shows a book, but hides
The spine. The brick and mortar stores
Will close, my dad derides.
He reads archaic paper books.
He likes the musty scent
With yellow page and book which has
A spine that can be bent.
My spineless mother made a mess
Of life. She loved her highs.
She hated lows and ruined our deaths.
I’m sick of all the lies.
I watch my mother go to work.
I try to tug her sleeve.
This time, I touch her scrub. She fells
The pull. I want to leave.
I watch my father go to work.
His focus comes and goes.
He types with steady clack, but pile
Like poison ivy grows.
I watch my brother go to school.
He’d rather be at home.
He talks in class, is bored, and draws
A sketch that features gnome.
I go to cemetery gate.
I jump the iron fence.
I find my mother’s grave and spit.
She sees the consequence.
I watch a fly in spider web
And wonder where’s the light.
My mother had the right of way,
But never way of right!
The Ghost of Happiness in Fiddler’s Pond
The local water hole became
A legend once he drowned.
A body never floated up.
A fiddle case was found.
It is a fable some maintain.
Why would there be a ghost?
A wagon dropped its load in pond
And then recovered most.
The tourists go on local walk.
The skeptics say they’re conned.
Believers know the truth about
The haunted Fiddler’s Pond.
At night, they hear his music play
A ballad quite beyond
The reach of mortal hands. The song,
A dirge in Fiddler’s Pond.
This fiddler had a morning job.
The player cobbled shoes.
At night, the virtuoso tapped
The transcendental muse.
Adults and children speak about
The olden clothes he donned.
For over hundred years, he has
Been haunting Fiddler’s Pond.
The folks are scared to try to fish.
They hear the devil spawned
The evil goings-on
In modern Fiddler’s Pond.
A party searched for proof, but saw
A lonely overgrown frond.
It was another overblown
Attempt to save the pond.
The town had longed to fill the hole.
The spirit would respond
By serenading mayor’s wife.
She loved attractive pond.
Her husband was consumed with job.
He tried to pass a bond.
He had his business matters wrong
And hated Fiddler’s Pond.
The contributors held a roast.
A toaster praised campaign.
He substituted sparkling juice
For costly chilled champagne.
The hall was lit by candlesticks.
The orange and eerie glow
Enhanced by phantom music played
In flicker’s afterglow.
Obnoxious cocky spirit played
The couple’s wedding song.
The mayor’s wife adored the tune.
It made them get along.
At college, mayor met his wife,
A genius beauty queen.
Attending many opera dates,
They sat in mezzanine.
The fiddle player dreamed about
The preacher’s wife, a blonde.
He dared to sing a song to her.
They skinnydipped in pond.
He had to find a secret way
To quickly correspond.
With letter, scarlet blush would stop
Illicit passion pond.
Her husband read the paper, drank
His coffee, sighed, and yawned.
He had confession scheduled soon.
He took a walk by pond.
He searched for sermon’s topic, saw
A sinful vagabond.
Who knew that inspiration flows
In worthless stagnant pond?
He read his Bible, stayed in shade.
He witnessed ducklings swim.
He had condemned the violin
Except to play a hymn.
His wife began to plan a lunch
To satisfy gourmand.
She brought a picnic basket full
Of wine and cheese to pond.
Her lover’s appetite was light,
Of fancy never fond.
From water, silver fish escaped,
A light above the pond.
The couple dreamed about a way
To swiftly flee, abscond
From meddling melancholy town.
They skipped a stone on pond.
The purpled pair produced a plan,
But wisdom quickly dawned.
The waiting game like time delayed
Reprints across the pond.
Returning home, she baked a cake.
The quiet interlude,
A peace she found through batter mix:
The scent of devil’s food.
The pastor heard about a man
Who had a fiddle pawned.
He also heard the gossip made
A ghost in Fiddler’s Pond!
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