behind your eyes (17/Jan/18)

clatter, clatter, storm and clatter…..
the perfect night for a ghost story… the setting was set, the soundtrack composed of thumps and of creaks and of rattles and groans and of moments of deafening silence when the storm seemed to pause, take a breath and then start up all over again with equal verve and ire and tenacity……
a lot of angst to get out and it was unleashing it in squallish fashion…
clatter, clatter, storm and clatter……
‘twas indeed a perfect night for a ghost story even though none was told… though all the ingredients seemed to converge including even a graveyard that’s sleeping next door, as well as even a graveyard can sleep on nights such as these with the banging and bumping…… anything that wasn’t lashed down got lashed by the fingers of winds that slipped dexterously in and around them to use them in ways they weren’t meant to be used, everything outside these walls was decidedly restless, no doubt even the graves that shivered and shuddered sternly and stonely under their plinths and six-feet or more of earth with lichen protecting the headstones and ivy a blanket lay liberally strewn and hunkered as close to the ground as ivy could cling……
nothing walked and nothing flew and yet everything moved however unwillingly while a hundred or more of hauntings and shadowy flauntings are torn and flung with last autumns leaves like ragdolls ripped from another time that someone forgot but still lurks in an inscription inscribed on a headstone now somewhat askew just there, over there, under the holly that’s been there for years longer than anyone remembers, the holly that nobody planted yet grows unknown of provenance now tall and thickset in wintergreen leaves, protecting itself, protecting the grave from intruders or from any who dare to tread too close for comfort…
it coddles an under-darkness, beneath the night, within the shadows it gives birth to those of its own, more deeper more recessed, the kind you only will find  sleeping behind your eyes….

© 2018 robert greig

eve (5/Jan/18)

there once was a ghost called Epiphany Eve

and all you could hear was the sound of her knees

she clicked and she clacked that sometimes did make

such a racket and every time

wide-eyed did take her aback

with a stare and a wave of her hands that weren’t there

profundity coursed with intangible ease

as thus she was known as Epiphany Eve

but no one could see nor be really so scared by

the glare of her stare that bothered across her big staring eyes

nor her hands all surprising and cursing the thinnest of air

because as you know as I told you just so

Epiphany Eve was a ghost and as we all know

no rational soul can truly believe in such things

that aren’t really there

they aren’t really there

they aren’t really there, are they?

unless,

unless,

a click and a clack,

could that the hairs on your back of your neck

stood to attention attending intent

to a sound that could be the sound of her knees

the sound of Epiphany Eve.

© 2018 robert greig

…. a poem for Twelfth Night, the end of Advent, the eve of Epiphany courtesy of having too much time on my hands, or too much coffee… though when is too much too much?