Ghosts

Ghosts. How do you expel them?

You do not invite their intrusion,

Lingering ways and mayhem.

If only in truth they were an illusion!

Ghosts. Are they really there

In the same way that we are?

Or will they disappear in the glare

Of the headlights of a car?

Ghosts seem to be there all right;

Watching every move you make.

Not so much to give a fright,

But take when not awake.

Ghosts seem real enough,

But if we pay them heed

Are we the not the stuff

Of dreams? Ghosts that bleed?

Poppies

A blood red poppy all of a sudden bloomed

Completely out of the blue (or green) this year.

Since none had thus far been seen, we assumed

This to be a lonely, lingering, singular premier.

Yet on the 'morrow came more, the same,

Marching with frail petals, under our star,

With a carpet of red met by buzzing bees

And a breeze carrying voices from afar.

Who are you delicate ones with wings?

Whence came you to our place of green

With beautifully eerie silence that sings

Of where you've been? What you have seen?

The poppies grew in number and sighed

Once more, as we stood by the door gazing

At their fragile presence. And, then raising

Their stems, as if to attention, all slowly died.