No More
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
