https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Emails from several readers in the past have gently
mocked what they see as my unhealthy preoccupation with ghosts. Fair enough,
but we must agree to differ.
On the whole, my ghosts inspire me. (Doesn't everyone have a few that would drag us down rather than lift us up?) There is my late mother, of course, as well
as my old English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin from whom I learned considerably more
than in the course of any curriculum-set lessons about clause analysis. My old school captain, several former
landlords and landladies as well as a work colleague, Val Berry, a wise old
bird whom I visited until she died not so many years ago … all these people, to
name but a few, have taught me a lot about life, death, and making as much as
possible of each new day instead of whinging about (among other things) how time
flies and leaves us trailing in its wake.
In the course of writing this poem, I found myself
revisiting my favourite ghosts, and continuing to learn from them. I’d had
several bad nights with the prostate cancer, was feeling pretty low, and not a
little sorry for myself. Ah, but not anymore, though, which says a lot for creative
therapy. For me, of course, it’s writing,
especially poetry, but one person’s meat is someone else’s poison, and we have
a veritable spectrum of options; the arts, walking, gardening, looking after animals
and/or pot plants … anything that gives us food for thought and distracts us from
the slings and arrows that daily life so loves to let fly in our direction from
time to time.
Ah, but for a creative consciousness to inspire us and (hopefully) others along the way, it, too, needs to find inspiration; that's where our favourite ghosts come in, only ever a heartbeat away, as ready and willing to help us out in death as in life ... if only we will let them.
POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS, INSPIRATIONAL
Need to stay positive
when all positive thinkers
have gone to ground,
left me feeling desperate
for a lifeline
A positive outlook
too often seen as the stuff
of wishful thinking
in the face of any reality
under threat
Advised to get a grip
on what’s what, run a mile
from pretending
the worst not happening,
face it head-on
Now, looking the worst
in the eye, frantically trying
to make sense
of some dark, anonymous
senselessness
All but giving up on it all,
mind-body-spirit losing heart
given no one
offering a lifeline but Job’s
comforters
Suddenly, out of nowhere,
a posthumous consciousness
telling me off
for caving in far too easily
to circumstances
I can hear my late mother
demanding, am I man or mouse
to even consider
caving in to prostate cancer,
no fight left …?
Denial on my lips, diverted
by home truths having to admit
she had a point;
now sensing an upbeat heart
re-asserting itself
Copyright R. N.
Taber 2019
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