Do Ghosts Leave Footprints

Ghost men have danced throughout my life.
Phantom men waltzing on earthen floor.
I knew them not, though they were there.
I have photos.
Who were these transient, transparent ones?
These creatures of shadow weight whose names I knew.
Rarely fully material,
their interest in me minimal.
Grandfather. Father. Uncles. Lovers.
I knew them not, though they were there.
Envisioned here are my ghosts remembered.
Were unrealized dreams, cached deeply inner space?
What lost boys did you grieve?
Ghost men, where did you hide while alive?
Twilight men, drifting towards slumber,
your sentry duties fulfilled,
thus spanning a Great Wheel's turning.
Ghost men, my own men.
Did you register my curiosity
or only see me as one?
Ghost men, gone long ago gone.
Spectral men dimming at edges.
Ghost men, first men, you were my introduction.
What did you neglect to share?
My recall's fading.
Wait. Wait. Don't go.
Did you sense? Did you know?
Enchanted and beloved Ghost men,
in sleep and sepia,
do I see you still,
fleshed again.

November 2003

Embered Memory

I early learned to entertain self.
Countless hours spent hearth gazing
during long, cool summer nights.
Even before old enough to light it,
I sat entranced by golden glow.
After a day spent pollywogging,
it held my interest nightly.

Two small rooms away,
grown-ups sat chewing fat,
while stirring the daily news
into their cuppa joes.
Kitchen windows black
like scrying mirrors,
backdrop to debate and laughter,
trumping pinochle bidding wars.
After growing bored,
I'd melt invisibly away.

Rorschach designs in knotty pine paneling.
The sizzle of deep frying redwood sap.
Ribboning licks of dancing light.
These, some of the ingredients
I used to fire my imagination.
Visions appeared among the flames.
My world was colored by warmth,
as barrier to obsidian nights.

11/11/07