Everywhere I go I find John Keats at restaurants at shows at poetry meets I ask him from whence do you come good sir he lowers his eyes and ponders from where clearly I come from what is my history why here why now and why to you is no mystery
I come from the 19th century when poetry was proper from a time of common dying of virulent smother and though my living was done in joy and in haste a short life so full but a future laid waste I feel grievous loss of what could have been further words of nourishment through me were to be seen
i see my poetry lives on but with it I as a ghost a poet lost to the world mere transient host of love truth and wisdom beyond my young years spoken words and transcripts for the world’s longing ears such that when it comes to longing I am the best thus I cannot I will not lay my purpose to rest
so I have found thee my muse my restless spirit to guide I will occupy you as poet and create from inside your already worthy and agile mind a readily moldable person generous and kind one prepared to work throughout night and through day to fulfil a life’s vision for a last stand and I say an influence I will exert I no malign despot just there to whisper words lost to time is my plot
my muse will know human hearts and souls to the core and my muse will channel poetry such as never heard before my muse will be one with me in spirit and in word opening minds to joyous wonder at every utterance heard but with my haunting alas comes an ever pungent smell of death thus I propose when done to bequeath to my muse a full life’s fragrant breath
The Cape Schanck lighthouse is still full of ghosts of keepers passengers and sailors who died on this coast as white as the thick walls through which they keen they swirl through the tower only glimpsed never seen forever unsettled by tragedy at the mercy of storms restless air is chilled by their cold empty forms even when the wind is warm and the wide strait is calm they struggle with their violent cruel death and its legacy of harm remembering loved ones left behind who grieved at the cost ghosts grieve for futures never had to the sea that were lost
today's lively visitors to the lighthouse one and all never leave without hearing a whisper or a ghostly call when they climb the spiral steps to look at the view they hold loved ones closer against a chill as if they knew each of the ghost stories from each deep watery grave all stop a sad shivered moment with the souls never saved then they return to their homes families and friends departing a ghastly lighthouse dance that never ends
My response to The Skeptic’s Kaddish W3 prompt. Make sure you read Dennis Johnstone’s and Nancy Richy’s two wonderful poems included.
poetography.ink 