National Poetry Month: Ghosts

This poem is also part of my 'Learning To Stop' phase. Ghosts was the first time I was able to write a poem about something I had felt many times over the years, something that I think most artists feel at one point or another. There are times where I would have all this incredible creativity just flowing out of me like a fountain. I wasn't trying to be uber creative, and yet paintings, writing, and/or whatever would just flow out of me without any effort and it was all really good. At those times, you sort of step back from yourself and ask: "Where is all this coming from???" It's exciting and rewarding, but it's also a little freaky at times and I always loved to ascribe something supernatural to it.

Ghosts

And the Fall returns—
a guide not a friend.

Chill night winds
cross over into day
rousing spiders
and dead leaves.
I write verse
like a spell caster.

In the late afternoon
voices whisper secrets
on slanted sunlight,
lulling trees to sleep.
I greet each moon
without blank canvases.

These days flutter by—
pages in a book of shadows
crowded with fresh letters,
poetry, and paintings—
ghosts given form.

Am I speaking
or spoken through?