Ghosts Poem by Leslie Philibert
Ghosts
We are the first dead in this house
Books in dysfunctional piles: debris,
Tins of old paint in the garage,
Airtight as the finish on bedroom doors,
A density of standing air; solemn
With the austerity of dried cornflowers.
Sour margarine on thin, grey bread
Old gruel of past weekdays, gone;
Children`s laughter in a bottle;
Too late, too cold, now not part of it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/25/2024 11:59:30 AM # 1.0.0.1119
The house is definitely a haunted place. A beautifully written imaginative poem, well crafted, insightful, and subtly penned. Thanks for sharing.