I often refer to ghosts in my poems. Do I believe in ghosts? Oh, yes, I certainly do. Here, though, the ghost is simply a metaphor in the manner of many poets, writers, and artists before me and I dare say many more to come…
A metaphor, for what, did you say? Ah, therein lies the secret of the kenning form of poetry; you usually have to read it to discover the narrator’s true identity.
MYSTERIOUS WAYS
I am the ghosts
of seasons taking their cue
from all around me,
busy recreating roles to play
that I dare step back into
once choice comes into its own
while (still) denying access
to any 'live' past-present-future
offering to make peace
I am the ghosts
of seasons taking their cue
from a restless heart,
invading the enquiring mind,
seeking to be reconciled
with whatever moral order
loath to acknowledge
no (conscious) harm ever done
in agreeing to differ
I am the ghosts
of every season's fretting
about fulfilling
its potential, whether physical,
psychological, emotional
or, yes, sexual, since you ask
(and well you might)
given that we're both working out
a full life sentence
I am Conscience, human nature's diary,
the sum total of its eternal mystery
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
Labels: awareness, body-mind-spirit, condition, conscience, culture, ghosts, human, identity, imagination, nature, personal, posthumous consciousness, religion, social, society, space, spirit, spirituality
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