The Little Ghost Poem by Juan Olivarez

The little ghost came down the stairs,
Floating in the dusty air.
Hands folded neatly at his back,
Looking for his old backpack.

His history book he had to find,
And he could'nt make up his mind.
If he had left it in his room,
Or in the kitchen closet with the broom.

In his fathers study he took a look,
And found another type of book.
A book sitting on a dusty shelf.
With faded pictures of himself.

And memories once more flooded his brain,
Of sunny days and days with rain.
Of fishing with his loving dad,
And suddenly he became sad.

Cause he remembered once again,
As he did each night at half past ten.
That no history book was to be found,
There was no history book around.

Memories of his life flooded his head,
And he knew again, that he was dead.
And that he had to bide his time,
Before those stairs he'd be allowed to climb.

And right that minute, a voice called him,
And said ' come up now, we need you Tim'.
And he saw the light shining up high,
And he knew his time at last was nigh.

He climbed the stairs with a joyful face,
Into his mothers warm embrace.
And cried to see his dad once more,
And wondered what heaven had in store.

7/5/10 Alton Texas