D.F. Paul

The ghosts of memory haunt the empty sunburned plains,
play phantasms of form where the eye cannot see.
One lightning strike would break the foregone spell
before the earthbound thunder could sound reason’s call
to dispel the days the phases of the moon long-since forgot
from a wind-blown mind under the lee of sympathy.

They come when the wind sings willowly in the leaves,
a song sung low to entice interpretation
that would always ensnare a forlorn listener’s ear
and steal her away into a world gone by,
where the hyacinth bloomed amid a soft spring rain
and would not wither against the waster’s drought.

They rewrote the worst storms into pleasant days
or beheld a match’s spark as the devouring flame;
they claimed the seven-seas in a puddle-jumper’s scheme
and saw Camelot’s fall in their every tragedy.
With mercurial truth in warbound times,
the ghosts told tales of desire’s blinding light.

The ghosts of memory came with a standard to raise
to claim the field and throw tomorrow aside,
to revel forever in failure to raise the framework
of dreams passed long ‘neath a woeful beggar’s moon
that stole the sky on nights the world held its breath
and exhaled soft when midnight descended upon the hearth.

The ghosts of memory require man’s release
to freely roam the scape of his waking hours.
Though he may be beguiled by the lullabies at night
and misread the lines on the page of life,
it is in his power alone to dismiss the craven cry,
to claim instead the unfound grace in tomorrow’s eye.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on April 5, 2012, in D.F. Paul, POETRY and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. MM welcomes D.F. Paul to the list of poets. There’s something Gothic, maybe Poe, in this poem. A worthy addition to the miscellany of the misfits.

  2. Memories are ghosts which do not depart like who done its, they return as backwaters of human
    existence of our own ratiocination and reflections on our pages of life.

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