Children and I believe in ghosts.
We are as sure they exist as
the doubters are sure they don't.
Children hear them under their beds
and outside their windows
and see them
all over the place on Halloween.
Summer camp is where children
learn most about ghosts.
There came in my life doubting time.
Skepticism hit and I no longer
believed in Santa Claus,
spent my Sunday school
money on Delaware Punch
and laughed at the idea of ghosts.
And with that I entered that wonderful world
of the arrogant certainty
of systematic doubt.
Science, facts, data
and all that is clean, clear
and rational.
No room for ghosts in that world.
There just is no Casper.
Then one day I went to get a beer
out of the refrigerator
and clear as a bell I heard
my old friend Jo say:
”Sorry, I drank your
monthly beer supply.”
And he did just that 40 years ago.
I had been visited by a ghostly old friend.
Right then the thin walls of doubt collapsed
and again I believed in ghosts
Now with an accepting ear
I can hear from those
whose names are carved in marble.
My father comments again that
he is as satisfied with those few bites
as if he had “et” a hearty meal.
I hear my mentor using his pipe
to point out an absurd sentence.
The visuals are there also--
bookcases, briefcases and pipe rack.
And the smells of oak and leather.
A poem is read and I see with the poet.
My head is a staging area for
ghosts who will talk to me
as long as I have ears
to hear from ghostly old friends.
I wonder who will hear me
when I have no earthly voice.
July 11, 2010
304 words
57 lines