The Haunting

ghostly iciclesSomething wicked this way comes,

Marching in to Arctic drums;

Promised gift of spring succumbs

To ghosts of winter past.

Ice Queen reigns supreme for now,

Frigid frost on frigid brow;

Soon, she’ll have to take a bow,

For phantoms cannot last.


Out of Place

cosmos angel


Ghost of Summer Past parades

on incongruous stage, rays

reflecting a sunshine lost

in folds, memory’s purse set

aside for special purchase;

it dances, floats, levitates,

takes a bow as warmer days

fall, moaning, into the crypt.