Ghosts Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Last passing leaves leave, life's page sage admires,
most boasts are ghost hosts, post haste phantom choirs,
now tripping, hesitant, upon life’s board,
stillborn, denying deepest heart’s desire.

As puppets men, leaves, dance upon branch wire
taut from birth to death, - staged play's proved liar,
taught to act but not to BE! - the sword
of Fate each early, late, must all retire.

For few dare seek the stars, or yet aspire
for freedom, seldom glance above their mire,
fear chloroforming chlorophyll cuts cord
that holds life's journey from horizons higher.

The burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to God the purifier, -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
as Fall to Winter wanes, frost snaps high-flyer.

Lifes leaves soon grieve, deceived by Summer, ire
replacing lush greens flush, Time sees misfire
intimations of immortality
when verdant vibrance turns red, brown, then mire.

Life is too short, who strums soul poet’s lyre
must tame frame's vagrant strings. Sole versifier
intensely seeks sense off the fence, each chord
in tune with Autumn moon runes' mortal quire!

Leaves drop, hearts stop, in season all retire
from green-scene bud to has been dud quagmire,
so little space to race then silent doom,
strum still tombed, dumb will catacombed entire.

Revised 19 October 2011
see also Rubaiyat of Ghosts




GHOSTS

Few passing strangers may the sage admire,
as most are ghosts without a phantom choir,
now tripping, hesitant, upon life’s board,
stillborn, denying e’en their heart’s desire.

Most men as puppets dance upon a wire
taut from birth to death, - to play as liar,
taught to act but not to BE! - the sword
of Fate each early, late, must all retire.

For few dare seek the stars, or yet aspire
for freedom, seldom glance above their mire,
for eighty, maybe ninety years life’s cord
they tread and never aim at something higher.

The burning bush survived the blazing fire,
and witness stands to God the purifier, -
yet oil on troubled waters oft is poured
by those who shun each prophet as a liar.

Life is too short, who strums the poet’s lyre
must tame the vagrant strings. The versifier
must seek deep harmony where every chord
in tune responds to feelings all inspire!