Subscribe: Laughing Ghosts
Added By: Feedage Forager Feedage Grade B rated
Language: English
back  cloud  cold cloud  cold  feet  ghosts  gray cold  gray  new  poem  puddle  pushing  stones  sun  thoughts  waiting  wall  words 
Rate this Feed
Rate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feedRate this feed
Rate this feed 1 starRate this feed 2 starRate this feed 3 starRate this feed 4 starRate this feed 5 star

Comments (0)

Feed Details and Statistics Feed Statistics
Preview: Laughing Ghosts

Laughing Ghosts

Originals are better than remakes.

Updated: 2014-10-13T07:48:19.041-05:00




Blue-Back Special

A seagull clawed the rippled menu, and
decided on the blue-back shad;
a delicious delight of silvery scales,
terrified eyes, and a last gulp of air.



Echoes in the ashes,
flutter from my ears and nose.

Memories, gasping for crystal air,
flee the grasp of a stumbling tongue.

Niggling ghosts of nothing,
naked in a fading sun.

Deep Fried Puddle


A frozen puddle
reminded me of a chicken thigh
lightly dusted with flour,
waiting on a deep dive
in roiling oil.

I thought about
stepping on the metaphor
but, decided not;
soon enough
it’d be cold broth
for a rising, hungry sun.

Hint Of Humidity


I zipped my zipper
in a cold Spring wind
(I’m sure you understand why).

Nature doesn’t have call waiting, or
a button to place on hold.

I checked for tracks
on the landscape of my legs,
no trace of the legacy of age.

Gray Cold Cloud


I crawled into the stomach
of a gray cold cloud
hiding from the fire-grip talons of day.

I rode bareback on a worm
through gauzy veils of flash-back memories;
not so good, not too bad.

I wrote anecdotes on naked roots
of roadside flowers, billboards,
for the dirt-blind eyes of sniffing sneaks.

I wished in the well
of a dromedary king, all
in the stomach of a gray cold cloud.

Authors note:
I promise I'm not stoned, tripped-out, or stumbling drunk through the labyrinth of insanity. Of course, you may see it otherwise.

Fatal Crash


I was recently in a head-on collision
with a Mac-Attack.
The sesame seed metallic hood
crumpled under the force
of my pearly white grill.

The double beef passengers
left this world
through the tunnel of appetite satisfaction.

A memorial service
was held in a chapel of grease;
their names recorded
in the book of my blood.

Wind Feet


The wind kicked the water
with wrinkled feet, and
crusty white toenails.

A foul mood
(being kind in my assessment).
Maybe, a cold Moon

rankled its shanks
as it cuddled up for
a dark-side one night fling.

Whatever from
the gouging heels of fury
lifted water hide off bottom bones.


A New Toy Poem


Like a kid with a new toy
I launched a poem
from a harbor of thoughts.
It sailed the waves of louvered blinds,
quietly on the stain of a Mahogany sea.

It disappeared in a valence fog,
reappeared upside down
navigating the stipples of artic ceiling.
I feared the letters without arms and legs
might fall in my eye and never be seen again.

It flipped without incident
came straight down the wall, only to
run aground at three on the snag of a clock.
Fifteen ticks later it slid freed at six, and
digitally anchored in this e-cove screen.

Squirrelly Beat


Its tiny little feet
beat across the top of the fence
like claw hammers
playing a slat-key xylophone.

Murphy’s paws sped
to an Aussie’s four-four time,
but the critters tune
was an octave too high.

Ring Tone Number Four


I heard the competition
bellied-up like a Chinese carp;
a sweet and sour rumor
caddish tongues couldn't wait to take out.

If true,
my phone will sing itself hoarse;
ring tone number four on the menu.

A Walk In The Light


Stepping stones of sunlight,
with hardwood cracks between,
led from the bay window blinds
to the marble masked fireplace.

I stepped on each,
tip toeing
back and forth,

looking for enlightenment
to shoot up my bones, and
jolt my cluttered cranium
into organized order and solace.

But, all I got was a path of swept floor
and a pair of dirty socks.

Better Times


The moon trudged
across the night sky
like a bag-lady dressed
in dirty, stringy rags.
Her rusty wire cart
left a trail of faded stars;
wheels eerily squealing
from ghosts of better times.

Pushing The Wall


I’ve never mastered poetry,
though I’ve written hundreds.
The keys click, click again
like a street mime pushing,
pushing, pushing the wall
and then some more.

There’s resolution,
even initial satisfaction, but
the wall is still there, and
the stones of the last poem
turn to dust and blow away.

Single Ply Truth


It happened.
Surprised the fire out of me
when she said I googled you.

Why would she do that?
I spend my days sucking
acid reduced breakfast, lunch and dinner,
exposing the delicious smell of bacon frying
as the poopological con it really is.

I have mostly gray hair, and
a belly the size of a prize winning watermelon.
I do have all my teeth, and
some really sexy sunglasses.

Regardless her reasons
the odiferous truth is there,
my words are full of boaters good eats and drinks.
I am a shit poet.

Unroll a few lines of this single ply poem,
and wipe the grin off your face.



Thanks for being missed. I have been working my "poop" business and haven't had time to write or visit. Tis the season for boating, and boaters are faithful worshippers at the ceramic alter of party necessities disposal. I'm open and operating 7 days a week and haven't had too many days off since 5/30. But that's good. Hope to be back blogging soon.

Ashes Of Ghosts


Words can be empty
even when full.

You can tie them together
like garlic in panty hose,

hang them from
the toe of a lost poet’s dream;

they’re still just words,
empty when full,

ashes of ghosts howling
in the period after goodbye.

Even Though


i woke up this morning
with my bones melting
pooling in the soles of my feet

i squished
when i walked to the bathroom
sloshed when i stopped

yeah though i walk
through the valley
of the shadow …

I still fear!
leaving puddle-prints
of skeletal slush



Thanks for all the comments. I've been very busy trying to start a new business: Pumping poop on Lake Lanier. I hope to have the boat rigged out and EPD/Corps of Engineers approval this week and working next week. In the construction business I've taken enough crap to build a mountain range, it will be nice to get paid for taking it. Hope to be posting and visiting all of y'all soon.



Adrift in MySpace
where distance has evolved into sacred chambers,
hidden places,
and thoughts adorn silicon-chip walls,
as photographs,
skewed from whispers of illusory digital mache.

Bacterial Stones


The doctor called it a skin infection,
cellulitis to give it a proper medical name.
I thought it was the shepherd David
slinging missiles of bacterial stones.

There was a whoosh and whoosh windup--
which I didn’t see, but
the pain to my lower left shin
was Goliath as I ever felt.

Three thousand years of being dead
played havoc with the psalmist’s aim;
for this I “make a joyful noise”
and give praise unto the Lord.

Bouncing Off The Walls


There’s no sun today
arcing high like a basketball
floating down
through the steel ring of afternoon
disappearing in the nylon strings of night.

Only thunder clouds that cover,
like a robber’s mask,
with a muffled voice rumbling
to hand over my joy,
especially the stash
I keep hidden in the dog‘s leash.

I understand why
we won’t be playing outside today,
but Murphy-- my Aussie--
could care less about basketball,
and the only thief he’ll be barking at is me.

Light One Up


Are stars the flickering tips of cigarettes
being smoked by fallen angels that never sleep?
The sun, a fat smelly stogie burning down
to the last puff this world will ever know?

Paper rolling postulation?
Unfilterd thoughts of fantasy?

At the very least a musing
lighting up a smoke of imagination.

Something I Said


Words fall,
like soldiers on a field
of someone else’s choosing,

fatally wounded
in the trigger pull
of sound proof ears.

A Song Too Far


A mocking bird's song
skips like smooth stone-notes
across the lake
in a descending breezy scale.

In flight, or
water lips kissing,
whistled seductions,
the end is near:

a fading ripple dying
on sand and shell,
an unanswered inquiry
floating, floating down,
falling short the desire
of a waiting Spring dream.

All To Do With Temperature


I’m proud of my southern heritage:
“y’all” gliding from ear to ear
like a lazy-winged heron
piggybacked on a warm Georgia breeze;
wobbly-legged, centuries old oaks
with sparse patches of moss whiskers
pointing down to their sprawling root feet.

I have nothing against the North,
even know some “Yankees” I like.
It’s the bitter cold and gray of Winter,
and snow that won’t melt butter
like a bowl of hot Jim Dandy® grits.