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The many ghosts are everywhere I lookThe many ghosts are everywhere I look.In obvious places—a photo stack,In knick-knacks, urns or an old, dusty book,A closet or a wardrobe, in the back.So lately I’ve been pondering the nookAnd why it’s so ideal for ghosts to pick.They choose those places we long ago forsook,Forgotten now, but where the memories stick.They know the dark contains a mental hook,Associations that will overwhelmUs with unfinished business, time that tookUs somewhere else, and time that took the helm.The ghosts are everywhere I look and nowThey laugh, I weep, and only time knows how.
There was a time when I was smartThere was a time when I was smart, so smart,I set a course and thought the journey safe,And what eventuated, my sure art,Would be repeated, slickly, smooth, unchafed.There was a time of falling, fell and fellAnd fell some more, and couldn’t stand or walk.The only smart was pain, the journey, hell,The art was artless, all remaining: talk.There was a time when hope crept back, with care,And wisdom whispered: journeys end, the nowIs what there is. And though it’s hard to wearLife’s garment lightly, that’s my fragile vow.There was a time when I was smart, now less.New wisdom says that light and fragile’s best.
LoatheI love most nature, but I loathe a bug.I like most freedoms yet I hate all heights.And once I was so scared, I clawed and dugBeneath the covers far from all the lights.I love humanity and want to hugThe sweetest faces everywhere, till whenI watch the news and then I want to lugThe evildoers to a prison pen.I picture millions jumping up to mugBefore a camera fixed to capture joy.But cameras capture everything. I shrug.A satellite’s a military toy.I’ll take the garbage, send it off by tug,To live with things I loathe, the bad, the bug.
If I were making heaven just for youIf I were making heaven just for you,I’d find an airy set of little rooms.I’d paint them navy, white and wedgewood blue,And hang some curtains made by pearly looms.There’d be a kitchen to host company,With tea set: creamer, sugar, fancy cups.And every day at three, you, busy bee,Would rest and drink (however there one sups).There would be several cats, one white, one black,Who’d rub against your ankles, purr, then sleep,And bring those many memories tumbling back—And you’ll decide which ones you want to keep.If I were making heaven just for you,I’d paint it happy, peaceful, wedgewood blue.
Earth's Edge BluesI went to the kitchen but you were not there,I went to the kitchen but you were not there.I guess you left to find that sweet somewhere.I went to the porch and called your name,I went to the porch and called your name.All I saw were moon and stars, what a shame.I called your phone and heard a message,I called your phone and heard a message.Your voice said, gone to find the earth’s far edge.I went to the bedroom but it was empty,I went to the bedroom but it was empty.Hard to know what got you tempted.Kitchen, porch and bedroom, all too small,Kitchen, porch and bedroom, all too small.If you find the edge, well, please don’t fall.
Therein lies magicTherein lies magic’s instability:It won’t exist without the constant careOf everyone whose pliabilityOf mind and will and hope surmount despair.The trees and rocks and sky continue dayBy day without our thoughts. But magic roamsFrom heart to heart. It jumps. It will not stayFor long, and never borrows, never loans.Though you may hear that magic’s dark, or light,In truth the only kind that’s real is good.It follows children, lovers, all who writeAnd paint and dance and feel, I could, I could,But never should. For should drives magic farAnd pliable gets old and stiff and hard.
Now angels are a lesser thing with hopesNow angels are a lesser thing with hopesMuch smaller than for gods. Expect the roughOr sharper edges to be worn, the ropesThat trip you put away, and all those toughDecisions mulled and softened for your brain.But most of all, you get to think that youAnd you alone are coddled. They may feignDevotion but (reality) a slewOf you’s are tended by angelic hosts.I’ve heard that when you sleep they fly awayTo tend the next one on their list. Yours floatsaway when nighttime over there shows day.But still it’s nice to think that someone lovesYou more than anyone who breathes or moves.