Tag Archive: rhyming ghost poem


Worm-Larder Jane

Worm larder Jane

she rose again,

as the earth did peal away.

She shrieks and moans,

through silver bones,

full moon as bright as day.

 

Her rotted flesh

was born a-fresh,

the bone-house planks now torn.

Feet struck with blight,

this dreaded night,

into the darkness born.

 

Some careless witch,

foul warts that twitch,

gave the ancient hex a try.

Close study she ought,

but lost in thought,

the spell had gone awry.

 

In darkness fled,

where none would tread,

the pathway to her lair.

Graves with dark flame,

they’d know to blame

the witch though none would dare.

 

The hoar-stone set

where boundaries met,

the graves and the fields of rye.

Those times had past,

the centuries vast,

now ruins to meet the sky.

 

Born into strife,

her villainy rife,

the scabbard fit her snug.

So without a care,

they’d stuck her where,

no grave had ought be dug.

 

Here lies Jane,

the sad refrain,

set as her epitaph.

Her granite block,

the ancient rock,

too close by a yard ‘n’ a half.

 

Looked at the plot,

knew they’d forgot,

hadn’t the sense to question why,

the grand old stone,

must stand alone,

her cutlass raised to the sky.

 

At revelers sound,

she spun around,

those souls would take their leave.

The strangest light,

had met her sight,

for it was All Hollows’ Eve.

 

She looked confused,

at the cloths they used,

to celebrate the dead.

They welcomed her in,

with sword and grin,

and the tales that she said.

 

So they’d spent the night,

with drink and fight,

and now they weary slept.

She bid them well,

they’d live to tell,

of Jane and the life she’d kept.

 

Then as she turned,

the graves still burned,

Jane curious to see,

Though dreaded dead,

none would be freed,

hands reached in desperate plea.

 

She walked on past,

no mind to ask,

what magic had been done.

With no intent,

to graveside rent,

life’s second chance begun.

 

Glossary:

Worm-larder, worm-scullery or bone-house: (n), a cheap, poorly made coffin usually with gaps in the woodwork. (Roger Vincent 2010)

Hoar-stone – an old hoary stone, an ancient boundary stone.

 

(The reason for republishing this is that I have made corrections and added verses to this poem, hope it is OK?)

 

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Frozen Ghost

Lonely ghost drifts through the house

scares a cat, freezes a mouse.

boney fingers scrape the wall,

ice appears right down the hall.

 

Rotten flesh hangs down from bone,

from her mouth a piercing moan

One lady frozen on a stair,

missing heart and half her hair.

 

Like time has stopped for ever more,

her blood it never reached the floor.

A gruesome pose, the sculpture still,

throughout the house a deathly chill.

 

Down the garden path it goes,

flowers turn away and close.

The midnight hour all but lost,

back to its earthly grave of frost.

The Ghost

The gentle breeze,
blows past my knees
and urges me to go.
It says don’t stay
but run away,
to some safe place I know.

Ghostly hands touch
and therefore such,
is the company I keep.
Should be in bed,
somewhere instead,
my eyes they dared to peep.

She came one night,
like pale moonlight,
breaching my chamber door.
The bolt still locked,
my head half cocked
my racing heart was sore.

Closer she came,
her dress like flame
but on her face a smile.
What did she plan,
for this poor man?
Sure not to talk a while?

Resigned to fate,
the hour late
and in the air a chill.
Was I a game?
Some nameless name?
And her with time to kill.

Her icy gaze
could last for days,
no weapon need she draw.
She could soon rest,
hand on my chest,
then I would be no more.

The air was thin,
came drifting in,
the noise of my cats wail.
Would I float high,
remembered by,
some old unopened mail.

Now here she stood
and run I should,
somehow I had to stare.
To my surprise,
she had kind eyes
and long white flowing hair.

Most people die,
when I stand by,”
rang out her soothing voice.
Let your heart calm,
I mean no harm
but you must make a choice.”

Sigh of relief
and disbelief,
she died by some foul deed.
To be a friend
or justice mend,
from earthly life she’s freed.

Then soon I fell,
under her spell,
with her I was awestruck.
Heaven or hell,
may come as well,
perhaps just rotten luck.

By night she came,
through window frame,
that faced the great north wood.
The trees they groaned,
with snow the moaned,
as if they understood.

How I am vexed
and more perplexed,
at my predicament.
Can’t call a friend,
at my wits end,
why ever was she sent?

How will I last?
I’ve fallen fast,
I judge that she’s the same.
Sometimes to stay,
or go away,
to some place I can’t name.

She knows my mind
but still is kind
and wont give up just yet.
Now in the end,
she is my friend
and not some spooky pet.

The snow did melt
and trees they felt,
the warming breath of Spring.
As flowers grow,
more ghosts I know
and stories that they bring.

I could have run,
toward the sun,
on some warm foreign shore.
Would not have met
and never set,
eyes on one I adore.

The trees now leaved,
dancing and heaved,
under the strong west gale.
Drifting through wood,
together stood,
the ghost and I both pale.

By Roger Vincent
Author of “Apostrophe to Zenith”

 

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