song_of_thea

I recently spied a ghost drifting over my threshold
Her radiance sparkled and called my attention to
Her expression was pensive and her heart unsearchable
As if resigned to some role-play in endless loop

This ghost was everything I imagined her to be,
I had read about the house’s history and knew it must be she,
The first mistress of this house,
And she came to see me!

Draped in a canary yellow pant suit, and carrying a glowing cigarette,
She seemed to spot me as I gazed upon her visage,
I paused, imagining what the house must appear like to her,
Cold, perhaps, as all modernity persists.
Smoke free, no golden shag carpets
Only startled cats scampering away,
Firm oak floors that shine,
And the sheer absence of the color yellow,
Save for on the painting above the piano.

Ethereal clouds of scentless smoke drift from her nostrils
While the glow of her cigarette catches my eye
Our other pictures, portraits briefly catch her glimpse
Before she crosses the house toward the cabinet near the kitchen

“I could use a drink,” she said at last,
I jump, unaccustomed to the idea of a ghost entering and demanding libation
Then I comply, on a whim,
As if a ghost could hear me ask.
“What would you like?”
“Champagne!
To celebrate the life I’ve just left behind,” she replied.

“You’ve just died?” I ask with incredulity,
“You died and simply came here?”
Perhaps recently departed have problems to solve
Before leaving this spinning sphere.

“I certainly think so,” she said,
“My life was lived here
For many years
In this sweet abode.”

“I had forgotten that,” I said, feeling ashamed
For the walls covered with paint
Masked her history,
But she did not seem to mind.
I wondered why.

I opened the refrigerator, and procured a bottle of champagne
I had planned to drink it a few days from now
On my next birthday

Perhaps she read my thoughts, as ghosts are want to do,
She lowered her lids a little,
Then exhaled
Another cloud
After a drag from her glowing cigarette.

She finally said, “For your birth, I shall toast to you.
For my death, you may toast to me.
Simply set the glass down, and I shall partake in my own way.”

I did as she asked,
Then I raised my glass,
Took a sip of dry bubbly nectar from not quite France

“What was it like here before?” I asked.
It was burning in my mind for years.
“Quaint,” she said, “a storybook village
Perfect for families with young kids.”

“Not for you?” I whispered.
She merely shook her head,
“It does not matter,” she said,
She exhaled, and
A scentless cloud swelled and cleared

My mistress passed,
I felt a chill, but it did not linger,
Then gracefully, my ghost sat,
And in her champagne flute
She dipped her finger
She raised it to her lips, and blew a kiss
Before she leveled her gaze and asked me this,

“Do you know where you go after you have died?”
“How should I?” I asked, “I’ve only lived this one life.”

“That is not true,
Think harder this time!
We live, then we die, we
Rise like steam to the heavens
We shower down from the skies
Like pollen in the spring
We are reborn
Then we perish
Ad infinitum
Like the bubbles in this flute!
We are graceful in our ascent
We are clumsy in our downfall
There is not one life,
Though you may live it, and give it your all.”

“We reincarnate?”
“Not at all.
We recycle, like rain.”

I glanced at her radiance,
Noting that her visage had changed
She looked the child
From an old story,
While simultaneously like an elderly matron.

Suddenly, there was a little POP!
Then there was nothing,
I jolted awake in my living room chair

Had I imagined this Mistress?
I wondered,
Then I rose
It was late,
The air was stale
The clock on the wall read ten twenty-eight

I sighed and gathered my things for bed
Whence upon the table I glanced
A discarded butt of an old cigarette,
And two empty champagne glasses

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static_abyss

Lovely. I love the structure and rhythm of your poem. It builds along nicely especially with the vocabulary you chose. You gave it this nice sound and such excellent imagery. Beautiful!