Poems - Ghost Series

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

January 30, 2011

An Ode to the Afterlife

1. Traditional beliefs, neither good nor evil,

yet always deceased. History. Necromancers, séances, hunters,

cartoons, trains, and ships;

individualistic parts of a whole.

Mythology based and feared in more than

nightmarish dreams of reality.

2. An indoor phenomenon, usually.

Poltergeist. Troublesome disorder. People haunting.

Causing havoc is their fun.

Peeves gets us all peeved.

His pranks are more legendary

than any history recorded.

3. Unfinished afterlife business

causes unwarranted trouble for the living.

Haunting. Apparitions haunt specific areas of designation.

Their purpose becomes our worst fears come true.

Objects moving, nothing to guide,

The restless are not appeased.

4. Appeasing fears religiously.

Spiritualism. Exorcisms and ritual magic

brings joy and comfort

to those who seek truth or fear it.

The world is filled with unanswered questions.

Who’s to say how we find them.

5. To pursue is to fear and we fear what we stalk.

Hunting. Spirits entertained us under our false ideals of study.

We do not study what we fear most of all; death.

If material proof found,

fear would turn to abhorrence

and abhorrence to violence.

6. We need not fear or become violent,

cartoons have proven this.

Casper. He was friendly.

The friendliest one we know.

He had a smile for every soul around.

Alive or dead.

Poems - Witch Series

Burn

Is this what it has come to?
Waiting for death,
my sister next to me.

Eleanor deserved this.
Doesn’t all family?
But what did I do?

The purest of all white magic
was needed to bind her,
black magic and all.

Our future surrounded us.
The newly ordained priest
reluctantly sentenced us the day before.

Was he afraid of us?
Of my sister?
She certainly wanted him dead.

With the town crying at us to burn
I stopped my sister’s attempted murder
And closed my eyes for the last time.










Watching and Waiting

Evil most foul.
Vile and filthy sinners,
all of them.

Sister sinners,
christened dirty
for blood-linking with their ancestors.

All deserve to burn in
fire and brimstone.
The law does not understand what I must do.

Executions were done
one way and one way only.
There are no hangings anymore.

My predecessor was wrong.
I killed him.
No confession to punishing the guilty.

My collar didn’t look as white as usual.
The prisoners were mumbling.
Nothing happened.










Dog Walking

Spike is taking a shit.
He does so on this spot every day.
He’s never been told not to.

New York City is a great place.
Passerby’s don’t notice.
Passerby’s don’t care.

A woman walked by.
She dressed funny.
Was today Halloween?

The dress she wore was in rags,
torn through the middle,
not covering her modesty.

I smiled.
Was she protesting?
Maybe a flower child wannabe?

I smiled again as she turned
and dropped all pretenses.
Her steely glare chilled me.










The Perfect Sacrifice

The twenty-first century.
I was no longer feared.
I am the last of my kind.

My traitorous sister,
long dead and buried
with the rest of the bloodline.

Doesn’t matter now.
I came here for a reason.
The Perfect Sacrifice.

No one will stop me.
The male with the four-legged creature;
both will howl in pain before I finish.

I shed my clothing, beginning the ritual on
a male in uniform, the local executioner,
The Perfect Sacrifice.

“The valley draws me near,
I taketh that which I must,
soul of an unclean warrior.”










Fire

She was talking about me.
The chanting was creepy.
Miranda Rights needed to be read.

Pulling out my handcuffs I said,
“You have the right to remain silent.”
I didn’t get any further.

My eyes exploded in blinding pain.
I dropped to the ground, grabbing my temples.
I reached for my gun.

Iron hot, it burned my hand,
blazing like fire.
How do I put it out?

My heart raced, not from adrenaline.
The pain spread.
My clothes were on fire.

I was on fire.
A young woman rushed to my defense.
I saw no more.










Fireworks

My ancestor.
Eleanor.
Sister of Hannah.

How did I know it was her?
How is she here?
She turns to me expressionless.

The haunted look
in her eyes
frightened me.

“I don’t need you anymore,”
she said to the dead policeman,
“Ancestor’s blood is stronger.”

Absorbing my gasp,
I twisted it into my own device of
horrors to unleash.

I closed my eyes.
Eleanor screamed.
She light up the street like a fireworks display.

Two poems - Gradma and Forgotten Wonders of Time

Grandma

Grandma, I love you.
Where have you gone?
Grandma I miss you.
Why did you leave?

There is comfort you provide
when all seems lost and gone.
There is warmth you provided
when your presence never dare dwindled.

Grandma, I need you.
Who are you with now?
Grandma, I welcome you.
When will you come home?

Every hour is a pinging pain my heart
begs as if in want of your chief loss.
Remembering moments of you
a radiant smile appears on my face.

Grandma, I hate not knowing.
What are you doing?
Grandma, I love you.
How are you doing?

Comfort and warmth is not enough.
Pinging pains grow more sorrowful.
Sorrow turns to joy
When we see each other again.










Forgotten Wonders of Time

Memories exist in motionless places and time.
Current thoughts escape on a cloud,
fluffy and puffy and swirling and pink in their prime.
Nature’s too rich and oh so loud,
for one such as you to ignore.
Rewarding you thus makes me proud.

Forgotten wonders, then and now lost eternally,
neither sun nor moon awaken,
bonds of so so long ago. Eclipsing, faithfully,
all evil tortures forever.
Life eternal and youth divine, make us carefully,
carefully, darefully, hasten.

Sitting, watching, lying around as age takes a hold.
Waiting for youth to reassert
what has been lost to both you and I to extreme cold.
We ignore all said signs of dessert.
Cake, pie, candy, and molasses.
Sinful sloth, absent to assert.

A wakeup call is a sharp slap to lazy faces.
Why have I been holding back all?
When did you, my companion, stop taking all my cases?
We were strong, courageous, and proud.
Fools we were to let ourselves fall.
We get up. Tie our shoe laces.

At Thirteen and forty-two you humbly order me,
Never not knowing I listen.
The day has come and been gone. I fall and scrap my knee.
Hard at work we both do glisten.
How do we continue this new, everlasting road?
What hardships are there soon to be?

Memories of yesterday. Forgotten time and space.
A willingness that is divine.
A depressed moodiness turned into a cheerful face.
At long last, now we can go on.
Now we are great. We are wonderful and we are fine.
Do you feel that way? Like an ace?

This is now the end. Finished. And yet is not finished.
There is no relief in mere sight
for the continuing journey life has now anguished.
Reason and rhyme give form in night
Memories exist everywhere and yet still nowhere.
The sun rises; darkness perished.