Ghosts Pass By Poem by john clinock

Abandoning their armchairs,

stubbing out cigars,

swigging the final drop

of vintage port

they leave by the back stairs,

hanging a sign

on the closing door

as they go:

“See You At The Parade.”



Ghosts pass by

leaving the penthouse

of the mind,

no longer welcome.

Long squatting ended

they join the Felliniesque fandango

and pass on –

- animals and spirits,

crying phantoms

in wheelchairs and on stilts.



Ghosts pass by.

They turn their eyes my way

but no longer have a claim on me.

In wide hats, feather boas

and cloaks of stars

they stay no more,

cluttering bedrooms

for days and months and years

with swirling mists,

droning whispers and icy sighs.



Ghosts pass by

the darkened windows

of my night as I watch

their two dimensional

ambling with eyes of dawn.



The parade is long and

filled with fascinations, fears,

and the magics of moon

but I have cut the chain

and am exorcised by love.