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?