[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.]