Class Distinction
A quiet house where quiet ghosts
haunt quiet rooms but silently
The Ghosts respect their living hosts
and treat them most respectfully.
They can’t go back they won’t go on.
Confused by their predicament,
they wait until the daylights gone
before they show they are present.
They do not wish to cause alarm.
as common ghosts are wont to do.
All part of their well bred charm.
Though they are dead they hold the view
that no aristocratic ghost
should stoop to frightening their host.
26-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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After Pulling Down And Rebuilding A House
OLD Ghosts, ye all are dispossess'd,
Your former house is levell'd now;
Another house at my behest
Has lifted over yours, its brow.
But flit, old Ghosts, and live with me;
As yet we are but living hosts;
But watch the new house patiently,
You soon shall have companion Ghosts.
poem by Carolyn Clive
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Glee -- The Ghosts
In life three ghostly friars were we,
And now three friarly ghosts we be.
Around our shadowy table placed,
The spectral bowl before us floats:
With wine that none but ghosts can taste,
We wash our unsubstantial throats.
Three merry ghosts--three merry ghosts--
three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
With songs that jovial spectres chaunt,
Our old refectory still we haunt.
The traveller hears our midnight mirth:
"O list!" he cries, "the haunted choir!
"The merriest ghost that walks the earth, "
"Is sure the ghost of a ghostly friar."
Three merry ghosts--three merry ghosts--
three merry ghosts are we:
Let the ocean be Port, and we'll think it good sport
To be laid in that Red Sea.
poem by Thomas Love Peacock
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The Ghosts
The ghosts of not repentant souls
Wander in the quiet woods night.
Only chilling cries of the owls
Cause the lightest fright.
Flying Dutchman frightens seamen,
Its sight is a portent of doom.
It was told by John Leyden
Sinful souls went to gloom.
Ghosts dwell in the hills.
Climbers know a ghost can kill.
To some they help to cross the river,
But seeing them you would shiver.
Haunting cities, haunting countries…
Are they humans eye illusion?
Are they really verities?
It looks they come to make pollution.
Ghosts are here, ghosts are there!
It seems they are everywhere.
©Larisa Rzhepishevska (Odessa, Ukraine)
The 8th of August,2011
poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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My Life in the bush of Ghosts (reprise)
Down the bush path
I came running down my hut
I have a pot of food
But what do I do with food
When I have no appetite
And why does life seem
To leave me so soon
.
After a few decades in life
I find my soul roaming
Aimlessly in the bush
Of ghosts, when I wasn't
Really dead.
I never believed in ghosts
Until I saw a ghost
And now, I am to be host
To a host of ghosts
In the bush of ghosts
Which I, myself have not
Come to understand
.
Things do change with time
,
I have worked very hard
To be among those who feel life
But yet, life seem to be
Very far away from me
I have said to myself
When I see life, I will grab life
With both hands
But I will not steal another
Mans life to have life
I will not bring sadness
To another to have life
I will not deceive another man
To have life
I will not seek life through the back door
For what do I gain if I
Bring sorrow to others
To gain life for my self
And what do i do with life
If life I seek to find
Will not stay with me.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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The Ghost Of The New World
'_There are no ghosts in America._'
There are no ghosts, you say,
To haunt her blaze of light;
No shadows in her day,
No phantoms in her night.
Columbus' tattered sail
Has passed beyond our hail.
What? On that magic coast,
Where Raleigh fought with fate,
Or where that Devon ghost
Unbarred the Golden Gate,
No dark, strange, ear-ringed men
Beat in from sea again?
No ghosts in Salem town
With silver buckled shoon?
No lovely witch to drown
Or burn beneath the moon?
Not even a whiff of tea,
On Boston's glimmering quay.
O, ghostly Spanish walls,
Where brown Franciscans glide,
Is there no voice that calls
Across the Great Divide,
To pilgrims on their way
Along the Santa Fe?
Then let your Pullman cars
Go roaring to the West,
Till, watched by lonelier stars,
The cactus lifts its crest.
There, on that painted plain,
One ghost will rise again.
Majestic and forlorn,
Wreck of a dying race,
The Red Man, half in scorn,
Shall raise his haughty face,
Inscrutable as the sky,
To watch our ghosts go by.
What? Is earth dreaming still?
Shall not the night disgorge
The ghosts of Bunker Hill
The ghosts of Valley Forge,
Or, England's mightiest son,
The ghost of Washington?
No ghosts where Lincoln fell?
No ghosts for seeing eyes?
I know an old cracked bell
Shall make ten million rise
When one immortal ghost
Calls to the slumbering host.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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“Ghosts are for the telling”
Ghosts are for the telling,
We call them experts and impressive,
As more of them appear from the woods.
Ghosts have understood us for the rules,
So that mastering is a problem and real;
Our mothers want us to comply and so they result.
Each ghost is great in beauty,
Full of foolish whims and ideas,
Their wish is to comprehend us, even to master us.
A little ghost is no liar, but one of them,
And that degree is hidden,
For we strive to alienate it as much as we can.
The baby is asleep, the ghosts do weep,
And I am fast away in slumber;
Much are ghosts to do the enormous chatter before they die.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Ghostly House
You need language of ghosts
To communicate with spirits that impose on us.
You crave for the very food our ghosts need.
Come with the religion of yours to distract them.
For it pray and they will go away, for all eternity!
Your House is Haunted. Be so wary!
Even call the police, and they will never enter your home.
Your House is Haunted. It needs some policy to rid it of evil and despair.
You House needs some care. It requires the life to adjust. You must.
If ghosts are about then leave the house and complain.
Nobody listens except the Priest, and he is not around.
Go to the doctor, and feel doom in abundance. The ghosts do not win.
Good Luck!
poem by Naveed Akram
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Ghosts
Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come, moving their useless arms
like forsaken servants.
Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;
fat, white-bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurching
above my bed.
But that isn't all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;
curling like pink tea cups
on any pillow, or kicking,
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing
for Lucifer.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Ghostly Plateau
Ghosts make across the plateau due to their skill at being wanderers of great precision. Their ghoulishness makes a point for those on the plateau, so snowy now that we have ghosts. Ghost after ghost made journeys too long ago, too far away are their destinations, forming pity and concern. These graves remove the ghosts’ laughter, for the death of a young person is like theirs.
poem by Naveed Akram
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At first cock-crow the ghosts must go
Back to their quiet graves below.
quote by Theodosia Garrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The War of the Ghosts
Three Ghosts that haunt me have I,
Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,
Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul,
That haunt me by day and by night.
The first was a dark mountaineer,
Who hunted with arrow and knife,
To whom the turf was a bed,
And the wind of the moorland was life.
And the next was a mariner rude,
Whose home and whose grave was the sea,
For whom the land was a prison
And only the ocean was free.
And the last was a shrunken recluse,
Who lived with the dust and the gloom
And wrote of the Saints and of Him
Who went for us to His doom.
And all through the days and years
These ancient Ghosts contend,
And my soul is a battle-field
Of passions that pierce and rend.
And whenever a sunbeam alights
All gleaming and fresh on my page,
I am wild for the hills and the bush,
I am torn with the hunter's rage.
I am sick of the smell of a book,
I am off with the dogs or a gun,
Or I gallop my fifty miles
Before the set of the sun.
And yet from some loftier peak
When I look on the sea from afar,
I feel like one in a grave;
And I long for a ship full-sailed
And an ocean wide on the lee
I choke on the solid land
For the lift of the undulant sea.
Yet ever the battle goes on,
And ever there rises a day
When the Ghosts of the wave and the wood
To the Ghost of the cell give way.
Then the land is a wilderness drear,
And dismal and vast is the sea,
But cloistered in peace with my books
My soul is uplifted and free.
Three Ghosts that haunt me have I,
Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,
Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul,
That haunt me by day and by night.
Yet ofttimes there joins in the fray
One gross and sluggish of limb,
No spectre is he but a man,
Whose strokes are heavy and grim.
For a man is not nothing, I swear,
Nor a braggart am I when I boast
That though he be slothful or sleep,
A man is more than a ghost.
And my soul is my own, I aver,
The master and lord of it I,
And whenever I will to bestir,
All ghostly usurpers shall fly.
Then I what is mine will assume,
Nor diverge from the path of my will.
Though the Ghosts I have routed still call
From the desk and the sea and the hill.
poem by William Gay
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Moonlake Ghosts
There’s a lake off of Moon Lake Road,
where stories are woven and retold.
about longtime gangster Al Capone.
Now I stayed in a house
right across the street,
and believe me I did not see,
but I heard a ghost talk to me.
See now legend has it,
that Al put people in this lake,
Now ghosts are around make no mistake.
I was in this house with Uncle Lenny,
he wasn’t scared for he couldn’t
hear a dropp of a penny.
He told me the ghosts leave him alone,
for they know he's handicapped
unlike his nephew Tone.
Yes, Tony said he heard them too,
I don’t know if he’s lying
or what he says is true.
All I know I don’t want to go back,
you can laugh at me and call me a quack.
I’ld rather see a ghost
then have one move my stuff,
that is scary and this I can't rebuff,
It’s not like eating at Denny’s
and having a lunch,
I believe in ghosts with an
absolute hunch.
Written by Christina Sunrise Feb.21,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Unicorns
Are you uneasy about the many ghosts in the palace of fright?
The feathers in my head and body,
When the ghosts commence, and the air
Is sweeter and sweeter,
The real manners are hidden, the men are held to the end,
Only the spirit world;
He is understood as a spirit, and a genie is too much of beauty
To wish from.
I can not make my desire:
Ghosts are not read in the book world,
Hold on to the reins of the unicorns that were those ghosts.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Ghosts By Moon Lake
There's a lake off of Moon Lake Road,
where stories are woven and retold.
about longtime gangster Al Capone.
Now I stayed in a house
right across the street,
and believe me I did not see,
but I heard a ghost talk to me.
See now legend has it,
that Al put people in this lake,
Now ghosts are around make no mistake.
I was in this house with Uncle Lenny,
he wasn't scared for he couldn't
hear a dropp of a penny.
He told me the ghosts leave him alone,
for they know he's handicapped
unlike his nephew Tone.
Yes, Tony said he heard them too,
I don't know if he's lying
or what he says is true.
All I know I don't want to go back,
you can laugh at me and call me a quack.
I'ld rather see a ghost
then have one move my stuff,
that is scary and this I can't rebuff,
It's not like eating at Denny's
and having a lunch,
I believe in ghosts with an
absolute hunch.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on Feb.21,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Ghosts By Moon Lake
There’s a lake off of Moon Lake Road,
where stories are woven and retold.
about longtime gangster Al Capone.
Now I stayed in a house
right across the street,
and believe me I did not see,
but I heard a ghost talk to me.
See now legend has it,
that Al put people in this lake,
Now ghosts are around make no mistake.
I was in this house with Uncle Lenny,
he wasn’t scared for he couldn’t
hear a dropp of a penny.
He told me the ghosts leave him alone,
for they know he's handicapped
unlike his nephew Tone.
Yes, Tony said he heard them too,
I don’t know if he’s lying
or what he says is true.
All I know I don’t want to go back,
you can laugh at me and call me a quack.
I’ld rather see a ghost
then have one move my stuff,
that is scary and this I can't rebuff,
It’s not like eating at Denny’s
and having a lunch,
I believe in ghosts with an
absolute hunch.
Written by Christina Sunrise Feb.21,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Other Side for M Lady Tara
Two little ghosts out walking at night
When one little Ghost cried out in fright
Oh Dear I think I see a man.
He’s over there I’m sure I can
The other ghost says you cannot do
there are no men they are not true
Just old Ghosts tales to frighten you
and if they were what could they do
There are no men there never was
I know that’s true because.
My old professor told me so
and he was clever he should know.
The whole idea amuses me
A living man you’ll never see
(Apr 04)
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Yesterdays Ghosts
Everywhere I go;
there are the ghosts of yesterday.
They inhabit everything we see.
Their presence is felt
within every step we take.
The ghosts of yesterday
watch over us.
We may not be able to see them,
but we at times we know they are there.
Who are these ghosts of yesterday,
friends, relations, acquaintances
we met along the way.
I do not know the answer
and it is not for me to say.
All I know is they are there,
the ghosts of yesterday
19-20 October 2008
poem by David Harris
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Penumbra
As I sit here in the quiet Summer night,
Suddenly, from the distant road, there comes
The grind and rush of an electric car.
And, from still farther off,
An engine puffs sharply,
Followed by the drawn-out shunting scrape of a freight train.
These are the sounds that men make
In the long business of living.
They will always make such sounds,
Years after I am dead and cannot hear them.
Sitting here in the Summer night,
I think of my death.
What will it be like for you then?
You will see my chair
With its bright chintz covering
Standing in the afternoon sunshine,
As now.
You will see my narrow table
At which I have written so many hours.
My dogs will push their noses into your hand,
And ask—ask—
Clinging to you with puzzled eyes.
The old house will still be here,
The old house which has known me since the beginning.
The walls which have watched me while I played:
Soldiers, marbles, paper-dolls,
Which have protected me and my books.
The front-door will gaze down among the old trees
Where, as a child, I hunted ghosts and Indians;
It will look out on the wide gravel sweep
Where I rolled my hoop,
And at the rhododendron bushes
Where I caught black-spotted butterflies.
The old house will guard you,
As I have done.
Its walls and rooms will hold you,
And I shall whisper my thoughts and fancies
As always,
From the pages of my books.
You will sit here, some quiet Summer night,
Listening to the puffing trains,
But you will not be lonely,
For these things are a part of me.
And my love will go on speaking to you
Through the chairs, and the tables, and the pictures,
As it does now through my voice,
And the quick, necessary touch of my hand.
poem by Amy Lowell
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They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
Do haunt the houses and the graves about,
Of such whose life's lamp went untimely out,
Delighting still in their forsaken hosts:
So, in the place where cruel Love doth shoot
The fatal shaft that slew my love's delight,
I stalk, and walk, and wander day and night,
Even like a ghost with unperceived foot.
But those light ghosts are happier far than I,
For, at their pleasure, they can come and go
Unto the place that hides their treasure so,
And see the name with their fantastic eye:
Where I, alas, dare not approach the cruel
Proud moment that doth enclose my jewel.
poem by Joshua Sylvester
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Obtained By Ghosts
Ghosts obtain justice from us,
As we are near extinction.
Ghosts monitored our moves
Like houses of parliament.
Their revelry is unjustified
As far as lieutenancy.
I marry those ghosts meaningfully
To images of past poltergeists.
I have conquered burgers and chips
With a few of them.
They sedate me, cast a crate of food
On the floor in malpractice -
Professional or educational?
Both of these men are ghosts
And I am teased, when I am haunted.
poem by Naveed Akram
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