Ghosts

I want to get back into writing poetry. In an attempt to inspire myself I’m posting some old poetry in the hope of getting the creative juices flowing again.

Ghosts

We think ourselves rational,

the height of intelligence. We

are too smart to believe

in that which we cannot see.

 

Yet, all around us,

ghosts. Remnants

of things past. Visions

of things yet to be.

 

We see news (stories)

of haunted houses and laugh

at the believers. We

are too smart,

too rational to speak to spirits.

 

Yet, we hold onto our ex’s

shirt, our Grandfather’s watch. We

clutch these remnants

of the past to our chests

and call ourselves rational as we stare

into our Grandmother’s mirror and see

her face in ours.

 

We run our memories over

and over. Like prayer beads

grasping at the nebulous past. Summoning

those who have gone

before, yet saying ‘We

are rational. We do not believe.’

 

We deny them

their new life. Yet

they live. And so

they surround us. And we

push through

a world of ghosts.

 

j.d.b

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