Spirit of the Past
The spirit of the past
Lives in
The whispers of the wind and
The hoot of the hoary owl,
Which echoes sadly evermore
Against the lonely trees -
Who for days uncounted
Have seen the endless journeys of men
Come to and end beneath them -
This final respite
Marked by names and dates
On lonely tombs.



Ghost Hunting
There is a ghost in the shell
Of every old place -
Whether the unclaimed metal skeleton
Of an abandoned steel mill,
Or the spirit that lingers
On the grounds of a historic graveyard.
These ancient places carry
The immortal remnants
Of old civilization.

Exploring them to
Examine their secrets
Like an urban archaeologist -
Chasing down the answers
To urban legends
And ghost stories -
Simply to know
What came before.



Abandoned Factory
Once full of life,
This old building;
With memories locked away
Under layers of dust.
Cigarette butts and broken beer bottles
Litter the lonely lot.

Once vital and active
In the world of mortal men,
Now immortal in its skeletal frame -
The ghost in the shell of the
Abandoned factory
Speaks secrets of long misused tools,
Broken cinder blocks,
And locked away rooms -
Modern ruins and electric tombs
Long left behind
On this hidden highway.
And evermore in urban legend.

Stomping Ground
Traversing the rural fringes
Of urban reality,
Haunting the spirits
With lamps and curious minds.


Marble City
I know when you were born and died,
But I want to see beyond the moss
On your gravestone.
Who were you in life?


Old Church


I. Cathedral.
I go back in time as I brush webs of dust
From the stained glass window,
Wondering what secrets this
Old church buried with its dead.


II. Esoteric.
As stained as memory,
This old window yet reflects light
Like the sermons once held
In the holy hall.

Farewell Party (Leaving the Old Church)
The ravens on the roof
Stand guard like gargoyles -
These grim feathered ghouls
Perch atop the once proud passages
That they now pretend to own,
And sing a sad a cappella
In mockery of memory.


To End a Journey
I leave as the morning light
Lifts the late night's velvet veil
And the moon bids farewell
To the starry sky,
Wondering if warning signs
Will be like hieroglyphs
To a future age.



Into the Light
Walking at the crack of dawn on
This early morn,
Through fresh cut grass
And beside foggy fields,
My shoes soaked with dew -

I stop to take a drink
And pause to think:
This simple heaven's
Greater'n
That urban hell.


Atalaya
Dark watch tower
Overlooking the lonely beach
Built without blueprint -
Summer home sculpted
From brick and mortar,
Its plans first and solely sketched
In the dreams of a genius and poet.


Ordered chaos - artistic anarchy;
The sculpture room seems to
Summon the spirit
Of the poet's late wife -
As if the ghost
Of the lady sculptor
Haunts the mossy halls
Just to finish her last work.


Manifest Destiny
How wild was the west?
How true rang the gold,
That men sought and killed
For it?


How mighty the steed,
And how much mightier
The man who rode it
And held the law on his hip?
How long the roads of those days?
How deep the secrets?
Would the spirits of
Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp
Speak to us in the old saloon?