Acadia Returns

The fog hovered low that evening as he stood silently in the sand listening to the waves. The rhythm washing every scar of the day, the worrying.

Rocks made smooth from the ocean, he thought about her and that he might even smile, until he needed to zip up his jacket a little higher. He relit his pipe, and as he walked home he watched the sand,

surrounding his boots and then give way again and again. He pulled his hat down further due the chill, and he thought of the lamps he left on in his cottage,

and quilts hanging over chairs, and a steaming, hot cup of tea.

He wondered if her ghost would be there again.

Either way, Acadia would always live

within him.

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2021, rivers renewed

Rocks Falling

Rocks falling shattered into pieces, suddenly a quick moving shadow flickers,

gliding through the trees, and I realized this spirit was tribal

a story of heartbreak and prior glory, never malicious

yet standing her ground, a firm foundation.

I wasn’t afraid, simply nodded

acknowledging the presence,

the smell of wood burning

lingering in the air,

and crow feathers descending

floating through the trees.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Time Traveler

Belgium. I always loved this place but never the time period. Women’s dresses showing too much of our tops, every breath putting us on display. My name had changed many times, but here I was Emma.

As I stood on the veranda, overlooking the gardens, the house, also known as the “castle” had called me here, there was no doubt about it, assuring me I could change form and practice it. The night wind moved in as torches on brick walls cast shadows. I summoned my shawl, the navy blue, my favorite, with a snap of my fingers.

It gently draped over my shoulders, and I was enfolded in the dark color. I decided to wave my arm and changed easily into a bat, flying above where I had just stood. I looked down. Another wave, this time with my dark wing and I was the night….

I don’t mean I was part of the night or blended with it….I was the night. The sensation was incredible. And as I expected, the phantom came straight for me, barely visible. Cloaked in black and grey, a faint outline really, with an angry look on his face. He demanded, “Who are you?” “Are you the one with the red-haired Countess?”

I nodded, then realized I had no head, so I simply whispered, “Yes.” I couldn’t help it, but his bad manners prodded me, so I added, “And by the way it’s auburn.” “What??” he said. “Her hair is auburn….” I giggled and with another wave of my arm I was back to being a bat.

Overall, I counted the night as a success, as I flew around the veranda with torches casting shadows on brick walls.

Writing and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

When I Was Young

When I was young years ago, it seemed like the spirit moved through the trees more often,

and there was never any malice in the air

lingering

in the shadows,

even the ghosts were innocent of blood,

and were seldom scary.

Everything was so different back then.

Poetry and Image Copyright © 2021 rivers renewed

Note: This is fiction.

The Christmas Ghost

Rosa heard music again, a choir singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing”, in the distance. As she sat on the edge of her bed, tears flowing, she looked over at her mother’s picture on her nightstand. She could still hear the words, the arguing, from the last night Rosa saw her alive.

“Mama they will call me a whore!”. She knew it wasn’t true, but she was willing to say anything that night to get her off the track of Rosa going to church. “Rosa, please…it’s Christmas Eve after all.”

It was the night her mother passed away. And the guilt Rosa felt about everything, was crashing in on her now, including the wild parties, and drinking until she was senseless.

Grabbing her head, and laying on the bed, the pain was getting worse. And why were the women at her job so mean to her today? She could not help it that she didn’t know English very well. They were vicious, and all for working at a fast-food restaurant!

She shouted, “I hate Christmas!” into the ceiling, then sat up and went for the pill bottle in her nightstand. She stopped, there was that music again….. “Where was it coming from……?”

She also had a feeling, an unusual sense, that someone else was there in the room now…..but strangely, she wasn’t afraid. And then oddly someone sat on her bed…..or at least it seemed that way, but she didn’t see anyone…..

To be continued….

Writing and Image Copyright © revised 2020 rivers renewed

Note this is fiction.

Ghosts Often Keep Silent

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In the mist, in the density of fog, ghosts often keep silent

taking away even the joy

of birds chirping

preferring a silent forest,

yet keeping their presence

their shadows as they

blip

in and out, waiting

saving the scare

for tourists with too much cologne

and clean,

expensive tennis shoes.

      

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

In the Summer Fog

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Ghosts shimmer in the shifting shadows

of the summer fog,

lamenting of losing their former glory

seeking to escape……

the absence of flesh or at least

to explain their plight

to a willing writer, walking

in the woods unafraid.

If you stand perfectly still……

they will sense

your heartbeat.

       

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies

Ghost Writer

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Did you think I was dead? I admit I look ridiculous standing in the middle of the forest,

enjoying the fog, listening for angel’s wings,

but I’m just waiting for the flame

of another poem, or at least

some simple phrases

to be lit deep within my heart.

So no I’m not dead, not yet.

     

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2019, ancient skies