I BELIEVE IN GHOSTS

in

Where the young Ohio
takes its southern turn
under the bridge of steel and stone at the old rusted dock, you returned.

A freight train rumbled by, headed northwest.

We sang and smoked and dreamed
as other brothers had done before.
You talked. I listened.
The morning dew lied as the sun soared.

And I was with you, this time around.

You taught me how to study the water
and all the things you know;
how to cast, retrieve, which jig for which fish to see what moves below.

As a coal barge dried slowly downstream.

Through the wooded hills behind the house
under the leafy canopy, we trekked.
Past the old ambulance that sits among the trees
birdsong and twigs were the only sounds we came to expect.

A cool breeze hinted at Septemberʼs coming.

Walking sticks turned to swords
trees to enemies and hats to helmets. Then, from the back porch, momʼs voice “boys, time to come home” she tells us.

And the woods became woods again.

In your translucent way,
you paused under those ancient oaks
beams of sun made their way through the leaves and through you. You smirked as if to tell another joke.

Even the birds stopped singing.

With your eyes
half there, half here
you threw your head back and laughed at something you shouldnʼt wrapped me in your bear-like arms and drew me near.

And off you went.

Lightly I strolled back to the road your playful voice still sang clearly “You get a line. Iʼll get a pole...”
And joy and cheer overwhelmed me.

And still does.

John Daniel Reed

WHEN DEATH COMES

in

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

Mary Oliver

THE FIRE THAT BLACKENS MY HORIZON

in

The very fire that blackens my horizon warms my soul. The darkness that oppresses my mind sharpens my vision. The flood that overwhelms my heart quenches my thirst. The thorns that penetrate my flesh strengthen my Spirit. The grave that buries my desire deepens my devotion. Man’s failure to comprehend this intention of God is one of life’s true calamities.

James Means
A Tearful Celebration