Don’t want to hang ’round these ghosts no more
as they moan and wander and pace this ol’ floor.
Don’t want to hang ’round the spirits of past, as
they linger and promise things that don’t last.
They slink through the hollow,
they hang at the door
their faces so sullen
that they lie on the floor.
They push wine and pastries
but deliver spoilt food and mush-
they coax me to stay
sitting alone on my tush
not lifting a pen
nor writing a stroke
and behind my back
they chide me, “Slow-poke.”
“L-a-z-y,” they say…
“She won’t make the cut.”
“Let’s hang ‘round until
she’s stuck deep in this rut.”
They mutter and clamor and they raise such a stink,
telling me “Consider our feelings...”
that I must “Stay put,” or “They’re leaving!”
Won’t listen to their chastisements—no, not even one
as they dangle carrots that vanish-that leave me undone.
You could have been “This…” or “You’re over the hill.”
“Look over there--” “Now, try if you will…”
“You won’t make the day,” “You haven’t come far,”
“You’ve frittered your chances and fallen short of the bar.”
Their obvious content at my own demise
should cause me to act out with an upheaval…
to shake them right off like the weevils they are!
These spirits that plague me are never content
’cept to harp on my obvious faults and my failings
leaving me on the ropes and the railings.
They weigh me down with concern for my plight,
yet they secretly cheer when I’m drifting…
poking holes in my sails all the time when
my spirit is lifting.
© Karen Powell