Poem – Ghosts

Some ghosts are women,
neither abstract nor pale,
their breasts as limp as killed fish.
Not witches, but ghosts
who come, moving their useless arms
like forsaken servants.

Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;
fat, white-bellied men,
wearing their genitals like old rags.
Not devils, but ghosts.
This one thumps barefoot, lurching
above my bed.

But that isn’t all.
Some ghosts are children.
Not angels, but ghosts;
curling like pink tea cups
on any pillow, or kicking,
showing their innocent bottoms, wailing
for Lucifer.

Poem – Do I Believe in Ghosts

I believe in what I have not seen
The power of persuasion can shape, 

What you think you can see, 

As your mind conjures up a, 

Plethora of how can that be.
The brain is just so complex, 

A control unit for our bodies

Translating every movement, word, emotion, 

And holding a library of memories.
Whose to say that as our, 

Imaginations store and play any movie, 

From which we can call upon, 

At any given time to see.
That the shadows lurking in the dark, 

The tale of ghost, demon and jinn, 

Tis not the spirit that is without, 

But that of the spirit we have within. 

Poem – Ghosts – Anne Sexton

Some ghosts are women, 

neither abstract nor pale, 

their breasts as limp as killed fish. 

Not witches, but ghosts 

who come, moving their useless arms 

like forsaken servants. 
Not all ghosts are women, 

I have seen others; 

fat, white-bellied men, 

wearing their genitals like old rags. 

Not devils, but ghosts. 

This one thumps barefoot, lurching 

above my bed. 
But that isn’t all. 

Some ghosts are children. 

Not angels, but ghosts; 

curling like pink tea cups 

on any pillow, or kicking, 

showing their innocent bottoms, wailing 

for Lucifer.