Mest læste ▸
Dave Bonta
the meadow at dawn
gives birth to ghosts:
slow dancers of fog
beneath a crescent moon
that’s just been deserted
by its entourage of stars
the goldenrod’s dark gold
mellows to yellow
a whole 30-acre bowl of it
between wooded ridges
where the sun comes
as a parishioner
among the monarchs
and the green darners
and later the lopper
with its steel grin
All the while i sat watching the rocks, a spider was right behind me mending her web, knowing i offered protection from the birds. You’re never as alone as you think. I hear water trickling underground, remember that fateful drink and grin. It’s not so lonesome i could cry. And when i do, it’s just to talk back to coyotes, or that family of barred owls who hoot like chimpanzees. When the sun goes down, the hollow turns strange. Jumping mice dance in the moonlight. A whippoorwill clears his throat three times before he launches into his diatribe. Corpses of trees glow with foxfire and flying squirrels whistle high and thin like ghosts—whose ghosts, one can never be sure. Once i found a green stone that had been worked, given an edge that could still scrape a hide. It fit so easily into my hand. It took all my willpower to put it back into its hole. The original owner might not be done with it yet.
not knowing
what’s around the next bend
five-year-old me
the headless hunter’s
lantern on moonless nights
in her quavery voice
more frightening
than our neighbor’s ghost stories
those wooden legs
I still look for her house
but there’s just the red privy
its vacant hole
Stabbing,
A corpse.
Burying,
A zombie.
Sleeping,
Through day.
Hurling,
Abuse.
Fighting,
Yourself.
Remembering,
Regrets.
Forgetting,
Tomorrow.
Hating,
Ghosts.
By the prison gate
lone brown napkin somersaults
forward in the breeze
Man in the wheelchair
needs his umbrella back...
sweat bulbs in my sleeves
Twilight-tinged window
scent of cooking liver
three hours to Sunday
"O, no one loves me!"
a game for my mind
woolly countless eons
One shoe, a tin cup
spoiled celery for breakfast
shadow of the church
Madman screams again
one way or another,
the world that haunts me
will bleed away.
I am empty .
Theres nothing special about me.
I am just here .
Of course you don't notice me ,
sometimes I barely notice me too .
It's like I am not even alive
sometimes.
It's like I am a ghost .
You never know they're there .
They could be sitting right next to you .
Empty , like the bottle .
Empty , like my stomach .
Empty , my heart
after you .
Nightmares from when I was 6 years old
return to terrorize me at twenty
and I keep discovering little things
that might mean more.
I begin to realize the intricacies,
hearing them whispering on the streets
and a news report in my head
reporting everything I’m doing.
Specters of people invade my room,
searching, sneaking, stealing,
taunting, tormenting, torturing,
and then fading into thin air.
Tell my doctor and he sends me
where I can’t wear shoe-laces,
or smoke a cigarette outside designated times.
They pass out pills, make me forget I exist.
In this chapel, ten by eight
A wedding.
Guests- ghosts from the past
Crowded – stood mute.
Before the alter of life
I stood
Waiting.
Wedding March played
In silence –
For all gathered
Were deaf.
Do thee, Bala, take her
For your wife?
Will you, Bala, care for her
Feed her, clothe her, cherish her
Till death sets thee apart?
At the back of my mind
Lies an undigested piece of thought -
That I have to leave my home tomorrow.
My bike carries me through these streets
Along the familiar scenes, pauses
At the places so known to me -
The coffeshops, bookshops, my haunts -
The libraries, the gardens, my previous office
The corners where I have hung around,watching
The milling crowds, a few faces recognized and nodded at.
Faces from my past, faces that have grown old with mine.
The city has grown, its roads wider and cleaner
Trees and corner shops have given way
To malls and multistoreyed monstrosities.
I try hard to remember what were there before
The old, tile-roofed houses replaced
i was pulled away from you
left as a ghost desperately grasping onto what was left of my existence
the earth slowly floated away
but I shall stay holding you
for neither life nor death could ever make me forget
the nights spent kissing stars
watching as you quickly forget
no longer saving my memory
I fade away
because I was only you
with you I am nothingness
I do not exist
but I am still here
for as long as I have you
I will never go away
I could never leave you
Again, the rustling of a piece of toilet-paper
summons you back, bringing you pacing & fidgeting
down the long cell-blocks of cubicles,
trying the doors or pretending to be looking for a nickel
until suddenly, your few seconds up,
the automatic flushing system unleashes,
discharging you back into your drowning.
Hart,
stay back there & forget me-- forget
this system their pumping refills, this stillness
already being baited with fresh rustlings.