A Perception of Ghosts

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update, June 15th 2019: A reader says he is left 'very confused' by my use of the term 'posthumous conscious' so I will try and be clearer. Take my old English teacher , 'Jock' Rankin, where I went to school in 1956-64. He has had a profound influence on my life (and poetry) although I had no way of appreciating just how much so at the time.  He died some years ago, but a part of him lives on in me, just as it does his family, friends, and probably many other young people he taught. Knowingly or unknowingly, we influence others, either by word or deed, even both, thereby archiving a little bit of ourselves in them. 

I often refer to  'Jock' Rankin in my blogs; hopefully, he lives on here as well as in the minds of all those who knew him in one capacity or another, although they may not realize it at the time, or any time for that matter. So it goes on... each and every one of us sowing seeds in each other that will grow as part of the human continuum for as long as humanity survives, and given its basic instinct for survival, I suspect that is likely to exceed all expectation.]

Meanwhile...

Now, as I grow old(er) there are times when childhood  seems like yesterday and even leaves stirring in the wind carry its echoes to my ears; the stronger the wind, the stronger the echoes, now happy and excited, now weepy and anxious, as I cannot help but reflect how life is much the same...

A PERCEPTION OF GHOSTS 

North wind,

roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Birdsong,

faintly among the trees like an echo

through my years

like tuneless whistling noises 

made by a child failing

to impress peers that mock,

and run away, 

never to know the hurt to self-esteem

left to contend with cruelty 

in all shapes and forms

left roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Wind drops,

nature’s opera taking off on wings 

of light into a blueness

such as a child feels when playing 

with imaginary friends,

happy and sad at the same time 

for meeting reality halfway, 

creating a safe place, yet less safe 

for being wide open

to fantasies, deserted, by the same 

once on-screen trolls insinuate all defences 

to loneliness

South wind,

gently stirring the last glowing coals

of a sunny day

Birdsong,

as strong among the trees in the twilight

of my years as shrieks

of joy uttered by a child when birthdays

finally arrived, in such times

as family get-togethers were mixed

signals of such love

as the child craved, feasted on, 

yet always left hungry, 

never (quite) able to satisfy an awareness

of a growing maturity always found wanting

in its nurture

Human hearts,

engaging with changeable perceptions on time

in personal space

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2021

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog in 2013.]