Ghosts & Spirits
Not every ghost wears chains. Some are memories, old loves, forgotten places, and versions of ourselves we’ve left behind. These poems explore hauntings both supernatural and deeply human.
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On Halloween morning, I invite every dead version of myself to the fire—then turn toward November carrying my own light.
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Every birthday has empty chairs. I light thirty-one candles not despite who is missing, but because I am here to remember.
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A candle left at an ivy-swallowed house becomes a small act of remembrance for whatever the world forgot there.
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You keep coming back. Not loudly.Not enoughto leave fingerprintson the glass. Just enoughto fog it. A little look here.Another there.A quiet strollthrough roomsyou swearyou do not care about. Funny,how curiositystarts looking a lotlike hungerwhen it keeps returningto the same table. I wonderwhat you are hopingto find— his name?your fear?proofthat the pastis still breathing? Maybe you…
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Curiosity becomes haunting when someone peers through the window of a life they think they understand and finds poetry sharp enough to recognize them.
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Detectives may leave the badge on the dresser, but some cases follow them home in photographs, memories, and moments they cannot simply wash away.
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Surrounded by familiar darkness, she keeps dreaming toward heaven—small as a candle in a graveyard, shaken but refusing to go out.
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Some ghosts are still alive—the people who vanish without funeral, explanation, or goodbye and leave silence to do the haunting.
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The village feared the crows; she listened to them, carrying feathers, wildness, and a name older than the one she was given.
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Bleached bone beneath prairie sun becomes a reminder that some forms of beauty survive even after the body is gone.
