Two ghost poems

My father’s birthday was April 25th, so this is his week.  We are all thinking of him in our own ways.

These are old poems, and I was going to include a whole bunch of apologies and whatnot for not being gardening-related or childrearing-related, but hey, I’m making ZERO money from this blog, and the fame isn’t that much ahead of that zero mark.  So read them or not; it’s okay by me.

Ghosts 1: Skeleton Birthdays

There's not a month

that passes now

without a few

the year is littered with them

friends who have moved

on, leaving only

their birthdays

fossils in my mind.

They will dig me up

years from now and probe

my brain.

What is all this?

The sacred

birthday burial ground.


Ghosts 2: Haunted Numbers

The telephone number I need

Springs to mind

Bubbles up

Eager to be of use



So familiar; this must be

the right one

I almost dial, but my fingers

Stroke the keypad

Sketch its delicate right angles

Tracing out the pattern


Something isn't right


Is that you again?

The telephone number hangs its head



to belong to my dead grandmother


disconnected three years now


to be useless now

Resorting to trickery

So I will not forget


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