Sequestered Writing
Horses were turned loose in the child's sorrow. Black and roan, cantering through snow.
The way light fills the hand with light, November with graves, infancy with white.
White. Given lilacs, lilacs disappear. Then low voices rising in walls.
The way they withdrew from the child's body and spoke as if it were not there.
What ghost comes to the bedside whispering You?
-- With its no one without its I --
A dwarf ghost? A closet of empty clothes?
Ours was a ghost who stole household goods. Nothing anyone would miss.
Supper plates. Apples. Barbed wire behind the house.
At the end of the hall, it sleepwalks into a mirror wearing mother's robe.
A bedsheet lifts from the bed and hovers. Face with no face. Come here.
The bookcase knows, and also the darkness of books. Long passages into,
Endless histories toward, sleeping pages about. Why else toss gloves into a grave?
A language that once sent ravens through firs. The open world from which it came.
Words holding the scent of an asylum fifty years. It is fifty years, then.
The child hears from within: Come here and know, below
And unbeknownst to us, what these fields had been.
poem by Carolyn Forché
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Related quotes
The Ghost And Me
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
Everybody has washed their hand clean of...
A mistake that never happen.
A birth that was more like a regurgitation.
I didn't mean to do that.
Oh oh but you did.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
Now tell me
How hard is it to forgive
When one denies you everyday..?
Oh just disappear.
I wish you weren't here.
Those are the words I continuously hear.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
Voices marching to a beat.
Voices marching to an eventual defeat.
Running through a slaughter house just to fix a broken soul.
An what does it expose?
Is the blood real?
A talentless man with no cloths.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
I hate it.
It isn't fair.
But in this world of despair.
Tears will never heal these wounds.
For they're continuously felt each and everyday.
The pain will never go away.
It is here to stay.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
No never again.
A march to the very end.
When I'm hanging from that rope
I want nothing from you.
It is what you gave me.
Suffering silence.
The stillness that is so quiet.
No one is here except...
The ghost and me
The ghost and me.
Are one and the same.
We don't exist.
We are never to be seen.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Ghost In A Haunted House
All was quiet, nary a sound.
Yet there seemed to be something around.
The halls were vacant, the rooms quite bare
but the presence of something was always there.
It moved at night and left its scent
perfuming the air wherever it went.
The house is bought. People move in.
All is silent 'til noises begin.
Creaks and steps that sound in the air
awaken the people that stop and stare.
Nothing is seen but the air turns cold.
The ghost in this house is suddenly bold.
Presents itself in shadowy form.
All around, a space that's not warm
appears as a shadow draped in white
gripping the hearts of the people in fright.
'Who's there?
Who's there? ' comes the cry.
The answer is muffled but the wail is high.
The house is haunted. We cannot stay.
The ghost that's here wants us away.
A child says, 'That's not the case.
I've seen the ghost. I've seen its face.
It smiled at me and let me know
that it's only a ghost with nowhere to go.'
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Lilacs At My Funeral
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m dead
Lilacs in my coffin
Placed gently by my head
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs when I’m gone
Lilacs to help send me
On my journey home
Lilacs at my funeral
Lilacs for my grave
Lilacs instead of roses
Think of the money you will save
1978
www.dakotaraeaustin.com
poem by Dakota Austin
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Ghost
I'm like a ghost
Flying in the night
Im in the darkness of light
Im a ghost or at least thats how I feel
Im like a zombie
Things have taken over.
Im like a ghost
Hovering over myself
Looking down at the mess
Labelled with my name
I see the mess below me
The mess is me
Im a ghost of my formal self
Im a ghost that floats above
Im a ghost of life
A ghost of my old self
Half the person I used to be
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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I know a child
I know a child,
11 years old, and slices her wrists,
I know a child,
whose name is Elizabeth.
I know a child,
12 years old, and has a pervert daddy,
I know a child,
whose name is Maddie.
I know a child,
13 years old, and wants to die,
I know a child,
whose name is Ty.
I know a child,
14 years old, and came face-to-face with death,
I know a child,
whose name is Seth.
I know a child,
15 years old, and pregnant with a baby,
I am the child,
whose name is Sami.
poem by Sami Woodall
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Snow-White (Part 1)
Hers were the beautiful blue eyes and the black long hair,
She watched her blood dropp freezing to burn in the air.
Her pale lips were keeping the mark of her love's glow,
She wanted a child having the skin as white as the snow,
The hair as black as ebony and the lips as red as the blood.
That red on that white looked as beautiful as a flower bud.
She was sewing and watching the ebony of her window's frame.
An angel became visible in the air to tell her the child's name.
''Light up this love, my Lord, and give me this child of light
Unbearable is this pain of mine, light up my soul and my sight.''
Coming up the stairs, the king saw this and he told his queen,
'This white angel is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen! ''
The queen's heart used to be like a little book being unread,
But in front of her husband, it has become an open thread.
He tenderly kissed her, ''Your broken heart is no longer dead,
Because for Snow White on the snow your secret has bled.''
When she gave birth to her child, the sun rose to be so bright
And everything in the castle could be seen in the holy light,
But when the king came to see them, he heard only the sighs.
When he saw his dead queen, sad tears flooded his black eyes.
While he was living with his child being a lonely sad father,
The king thought to bring to little Snow White a new mother.
''Light up this life, my Lord, because I have only fears and sighs,
Change my fate, because I need a new morn in my sad eyes! ''
He married again, but the queen's heart was mercilessly beating.
She was like a dangerous snake and poisoned was her greeting.
Her sarcastic lips were always keeping the mark of her hatred,
Her powers were hidden, because for her the devil was sacred.
She kept her frozen air, although the snow was melting in Spring,
Her words could remain suspended in the air to freeze everything.
‘'Mirror, dear Mirror on the wall, who in this land is fairest of all?
‘'You, my queen, are fairest of all'', echoed the mirror in the hall.
The Snow White grew up becoming more beautiful than the queen,
The king told her, 'You're the most beautiful child I have ever seen! ''
When the mirror told the queen, ‘'You, my queen, are fair; it is true.
She added, ''Little Snow-White is still a thousand times fairer than you.''
The king started seriously to think of the passion they had known
‘Cause the queen's self-satisfaction and insensibility have grown.
He realized that it's a wretchedness to continue sharing their bed.
He wanted to open a dialog with her, but the words left all unsaid.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Crazy Jane And Jack The Journeyman
I know, although when looks meet
I tremble to the bone,
The more I leave the door unlatched
The sooner love is gone,
For love is but a skein unwound
Between the dark and dawn.
A lonely ghost the ghost is
That to God shall come;
I - love's skein upon the ground,
My body in the tomb -
Shall leap into the light lost
In my mother's womb.
But were I left to lie alone
In an empty bed,
The skein so bound us ghost to ghost
When he turned his head
passing on the road that night,
Mine must walk when dead.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Broken child
I see the face of a broken child.
A child who has seen more than his young eyes should.
I see the face of a broken child.
A child who would run away from it all if he could.
I see the face of a broken child.
A child who has been ravished by the likes of you and I.
I see the face of a broken child.
A child with to much pride to cry.
I see the face off a broken child.
a child who fights off anyone who cares.
I see the face of a broken child.
A child who wishes his mother was there.
I see the face of a broken child.
A child who wont let his hardships keep him down.
I see the face of a broken child.
A child who refuses to give up and reveal a frown.
poem by Joshua Reid
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Ghost In The Mirror
I've been hearing voices
Voices in my head
Can't escape the noises
Lying in my bed
The winter nights grow colder
The darkness falls too soon
I will hide till morning
How silent is this moon?
Just one look and I will find
Someone else on the other side
A trick of light or the darker mind
Ghost in the mirror
And as the dawn is waking
The shadows burn away
The sun reborn the savior
The safety of the day
Just one look and I will find
Someone else on the other side
A trick of light or the darker mind
Ghost in the mirror
The darkness calls me
The shadows fool me
Is it safe on the other side?
Is this my future?
If it's a dream why can't I wake?
Just one look and I will find
Someone else on the other side
A trick of light or the darker mind
Ghost in the mirror
song performed by by Asia
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Witch Child
This is a story of anger and pain;
Of inner storms with tears like rain;
Of hunger for love, and thirst for revenge;
Of lost hope, and a life of constant change.
There once was a child who had a great life,
Never knew sadness and never knew strife.
Until one day an old witch came a'knocking,
With dark eyes full of hatred and mocking,
And a mind with the cruellest intentions.
She ruined the child without hesitation:
She took away what the child loved the most.
All that the child had left was a ghost -
A ghost of an old faded memory,
And a heart full of pain and misery.
Innocence turned into monstrosity,
The child's pain turned into atrocity.
Soon the child was no longer a child,
But a vile creature, angry and riled.
poem by Maria Kirakosian
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Gecko Talks to Me
“I wish I was in a human body”,
the gecko said as he walked across the screen.
He spoke to me after the ghost turned back on my t.v.
I said o.k. I won’t mess with the t.v.
Then an hour later,
the fan went on and off 1 x 3.
I just let it do its thing,
why fight with a ghost I can’t see?
Then when in the bathroom,
I heard a noise coming from the other room,
I looked to see if everything was o.k.
until the light went out
without a clue.
Now 2 weeks later,
the fan starts by itself again,
I realize it’s my ghost friend.
(Written Suzae Chevalier on August 14, 2011 )
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Recompense: (For Lord Kilhacken)
That which I saved I lost
And that I lost I found,
And you are mine, oh tender little ghost,
Whose grave is holy ground.
That which I kept is flown,
So fast the children grow,
The only child I keep to be my own
I lost long years ago.
The little ones that stayed
Slip from me while I cry:
Oh, not so fast, so fast, you golden-head.
Swift as the wind they fly.
Not two days are the same.
To-morrow will not see
To-day's young children, crested like a flame,
Gathered about my knee.
One day a day will dawn
Will see me dispossessed --
An empty nest whence singing-birds have flown.
Who shall refill the nest?
The years run out like sand
To strip me of my pride;
Then in my hand will steal a clinging hand.
I keep the child who died.
God gives and does not lend
This one lamb of the fold;
And he will need his mother to the end
And never will grow old.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Anonymous Plays: XVII
YE TOO, dim watchfires of some darkling hour,
Whose fame forlorn time saves not nor proclaims
For ever, but forgetfulness defames
And darkness and the shadow of death devour,
Lift up ye too your light, put forth your power,
Let the far twilight feel your soft small flames
And smile, albeit night name not even their names,
Ghost by ghost passing, flower blown down on flower:
That sweet-tongued shadow, like a star’s that passed
Singing, and light was from its darkness cast
To paint the face of Painting fair with praise:
And that wherein forefigured smiles the pure
Fraternal face of Wordsworth’s Elidure
Between two child-faced masks of merrier days
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Zebra Child
I’m not black
I’m not white
I’m a Zebra Child.
My father skin is fare like a pinkish cloud.
My mother skin is dark like coco.
My skin is both swirled into a light caramel color.
I’m not black
I’m not white
I’m a Zebra Child.
My eyes are hazel with a hint of blue.
My hair is kinky yet manageable.
While I have African hips
I also have European lips.
I’m not black
I’m not white
I’m a Zebra Child.
I relish my difference
Although some times
I envy others similarity.
But I am what I am.
I’m not black
I’m not white
I’m a Zebra Child.
Agony Of A Child For Her Mother
my mother is the sweetest.
my mother is the cutest.
my mother is the smartest.
my mother is the greatest of all in the world.
my mother is the most wisest.
to save me from accident, she happily enjoyed to die.
i haven't seen my mother's face as i was of 4 years old then.
in my thoughts my mother is the most beautiful person.
she is like:
my mother's face is as white as snow.
my mother's eyes are as white as milk.
my mother is as white as cloud.
because she is completely covered with bandages.
my mother is the happiest person in the whole world.
because she can't feel any thing.
she can't feel any feelings.
she can't feel any pain.
she can't be sad.
as she was in comma, when i saw her.
i am the luckiest child in the whole world.
as i couldn't see her face.
i couldn't talk to her.
i couldn't play with her.
i couldn't share my feelings with her.
i am the reason why she was suffering such agony in life.
to save me from death, she sacrificed everything including her life.
i am the luckiest.
i am the fortunate.
i am the most happiest child for bearing this agony in my life.
As my mother is not with me on this earth.
she will always be with me in my thoughts.
poem by Neelapu Suresh
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Gecko Talks to Me
“I wish I was in a human body”,
the gecko said as he walked across the screen.
He spoke to me after the ghost turned back on my t.v.
I said o.k. I won’t mess with the t.v.
Then an hour later,
the fan went on and off 1 x 3.
I just let it do its thing,
why fight with a ghost I can’t see?
Then when in the bathroom,
I heard a noise coming from the other room,
I looked to see if everything was o.k.
until the light went out
without a clue.
Now 2 weeks later,
the fan starts by itself again,
I realize it’s my ghost friend.
(Written by Suzae Chevalier on August 15, 2011)
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Metaphor Of The Mirror And The Light
there is this face
in the mirror and it is talking to the body
to remind its skin
that it is real,
lights are turned off
and the face only hears a voice
from its mouth
it is assured still that it is a face
of someone it knew
so well
and will not deny it
the voice faded in darkness
and the face
hears nothing
and sees nothing about
its skin
and eyes
it is dark
and there is no voice anymore
except the
silence
and the loneliness that is about
to make a scream
to the mirror
that had long shut itself
because there is no light
the face demands a voice
the mirror begs for light
for the voice is a security
that life exists
and the light is the only
anchor of the mirror
when it becomes a boat
in the sea
of emptiness
but there is no light
and there is no voice
the mirror breaks the silence
the face becomes the wind
there is no boat
much less an anchor
there is only a word written
on paper
left on the floor
and it is spoken for no
one....
poem by Sebastian Soberania
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Our Little Ghost
Oft, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl's shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.
A winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the 'big dark' brings no dread,
And a baby's boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.
A fearless little ghost it is;
Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
Shines a sun that never sets.
A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl's shrill call.
A thoughtful little ghost if is;
And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
Shine before those baby-eyes, -
Endless fields of dandelions,
Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.
A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father's shoulder laid,
Its head on mother's breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings its own soft lullaby.
Then those who feigned to sleep before,
Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower -
Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
'God bless our little ghost!'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Ghosts
There are ghosts in the room.
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
They come out of the gloom,
And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.
There's the ghost of a Hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.
But her ghost comes to-night,
With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,
And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.
There's the ghost of a Joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.
There's the ghost of a Love,
Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,
But he towers above
All the others... this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.
I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
Make my struggle in vain,
In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Lydia Is Gone This Many A Year
Lydia is gone this many a year,
Yet when the lilacs stir,
In the old gardens far or near,
The house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;
On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,
Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantel laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her;
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbors walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis, do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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