Tag Archives: Ghosts

Too hot, too hot

Like tracks in the snow
Little lives go
In our melting

 

Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Not the poem I thought I was going to write, but the one that came. Another is brewing, but this one is for all the small lives lost in forest fires everyhere…..

Written in reponse to Earthweals challenge ‘Ghosts’ at

https://earthweal.com/2020/01/13/weekly-challenge-ghosts/

Please go and see what else is there!

The Funeral

There is a ghost at your funeral today
a face so familiar, still loved
my friend, your wife
gone these twenty years
now you too have left us
we all stand stunned
grieving
missing your expansive
presence in our lives

Looking over the crowd
I see eyes, cheek bones, jawline
the image of her mother
your much loved step daughter
wiping away fond tears

Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond

This summer we lost Martin Hoare. A great presence and a good friend. We were standing-room only at the funeral, his coffin was a TARDIS and the committal music was the Dr Who theme tune — which turned out to be quite moving. At the end, we all sang ‘Always look on the bright side’ and we all had tears running down our cheeks.

….and then as we left, I saw the ghost…..

She came to see me

She came to see me
Resplendent in red
Glittering with dust
Her elegant bone structure evident more than ever
Desiccated and dead
Spacesuit blown
Floating past the view screen
When I  know we retrieved her from orbit yesterday

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

Originally published in the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Associations print journal Star*Line 40.4  October 2017  http://www.sfpoetry.com/sl/issues/starline40.4.html

Burning

English summers, often damp, can invoke long stifling twilights
nothing landbound needlessly moves
contrails crayon across the sky
so many, this close to London’s hub.
Distantly, the buzz of a low plane, pleasure rider reaching up
into the realm of the starlings as they susurrate
a car comes past in the lane droning away round the curves
here the runway cross remains
the old tower still stands intact
as ponies munch and cattle chew
larks lurk in the grass where bombers once turned
occasional ironwork testament to hydrants and gun emplacements
war and weapons layered over by Nature and time.
But, as the dark deepens, the lost come home
tearing blazing incandescent screams rustle up drowsy birds
look up and the dazzling burning blurs past
metal screeches as it tears apart, each time the same
one last attempt at landing whole, at bringing the crate home
so wanting to see sweethearts and Blighty again
then gone, back to oblivion.
The burning pilot saluted you as he passed.

Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond

This poem first appeared in Peacock Journal earlier this year.