I believed in ghosts
Who haunt and taunt
Whose muffled midnight meanderings
And claps and taps
Echo in other rooms.

I once saw spectral spirit
Pass through a bedroom wall
When young
But now I suffer
From poor night vision
And all I see
Are shadows
Moving across
Obscured walls.

If I could talk 
With the dead
Would I listen 
More than I speak?
Are you friend or foe?
What is it you seek?

I don’t talk
With the dead
But we visit
In my dreams
We relive the good times
And revise the bad.

My ghosts
Are my friends.

I used to be afraid
Of ghosts
But now I know
They are not my foe
But rather my friend
And I look forward
To our nightly adventures
As we celebrate the good
And repair the bad.


You rest in a small pine box 
In the back of your garage
Frayed fingertips
Soiled grassy green
And earth-stained brown
During spring renewal

Remnants of your work
Continue to thrive
In your small patch of earth
Your living legacy

You served us well
May you dig your slumber

Check out this other poem about my parents.