October Form Challenge: Haunted Ballad

[PandoraGlitters]

Have you seen a ghost? Or you just look that way? The October 2012 form challenge is a ballad that is also a ghost story. I will provide examples as soon as I dig some up (elbow nudge).

Check back here for links to ballads (though you could also pop over to Tzara's Thread of Forms). Criteria for the challenge:

Poems tell the story of how someone died or what they do once dead
Poems use a ballad form
Poems are submitted to the site at the end (taking a cue from Neo) to give the New Poems Recommenders some pretty things to recommend.

I will be back with more details, soonish!

Back! Here's one. and here's another, but always the Tzara Thread of Forms is a good place to start.

I suppose you could, if you detest writing in form, take your cue from Pound.

 

[butters]

count me in! though god knows what imma gonna do with it

 

[Desejo]

Oh...Sugar.
Haunted I can do. Ballad I am not so sure. Maybe I can get Barry Manilow to help me out.

 

[twelveoone]

just lookin at the AV's
i should put mine back up
whough

 

[Desejo]

just lookin at the AV's
i should put mine back up
whough

Whough ? is that a hacking cough?

 

[champagne1982]

Halloween Bill

Please accept this as merely a placeholder, perhaps an inspiration for the muse or your amusement. I'll see if something surfaces for this one, I've always loved rhyming and metered poems.

 

[njoyjade]

Virtual Meal

Hope to improve!

 

[greenmountaineer]

Angie's Ballad Re-visited

Deleted. See subsequent post.

 

[butters]

this is knockout, gm. i was thinking of starting but having read this, my muse just shriveled and disappeared . no doubt it'll return, but for now i am left all impressed and stuff

 

[Desejo]

this is knockout, gm. i was thinking of starting but having read this, my muse just shriveled and disappeared . no doubt it'll return, but for now i am left all impressed and stuff

Seriously...way to scare the bejeezus out of all of us aspiring balladeers. I will just have to terrify you with something truly awful.

 

[greenmountaineer]

I apologize for deleting the ballad previously posted. I made a serious error that I should have avoided. Here's the story behind it:

This is a true story. However, the newspaper story I only recently Googled suggested the suicide of the father and the mother's infection happened differently than what I portrayed in the ballad. The child's death occurred in 1990 and I wrote a much different original ballad, relying on town scuttlebutt, rather than what I read subsequently on-line in a local newspaper archive I'm embarassed to say only after I posted the ballad. The reasons for the husband's suicide and how the mother contracted the AIDS virus and subsequently transmitted to her unborn daughter were given by the mother who died shortly thereafter. I do not want to challenge the mother's veracity, absent information suggesting otherwise.

Ordinarily, I would not have deleted the ballad, except that the e-mail I very recently received from the best friend of the one surviving member of the family that I referenced in the ballad is also a true story. Niki was five years old in 1990 when her sister died. Her e-mail asked me who I was and how I knew what I knew and stated that my reply might resolve "unanswered questions" that she and Niki had about her family tragedy.

It's likely that Emily and Niki found the original ballad posted on Lit because of specific names I mentioned in the original. I deleted them in the October Challenge ballad. However unlikely it is that they would discover "The Ballad of Angie Re-visited" through a subsequent Internet search, I do not want that possibility weighing on me.

I hope to re-post an amended ballad that may not be as dramatic. So be it. Poetic license is no reason to possibly suggest to someone the reasons for the deaths in her family may, and I emphasize may, be different that what she had been told or read in her local newspaper.

This has been the most unusual experience I have ever had on the Internet, not to mention Literotica.

chipbutty: Can I trouble you to delete the content of your post as well in as much the ballad was quoted?

 

[butters]

done, gm

 

[Black13]

Alright, here's mine:

The end of his last session came,
And he felt more than healed
Though things would never be the same
From what had been revealed.

With her, he'd faced his deepest fears,
Conquered his darkest shame,
And the beast that stalked him through the years
Seemed so easy to tame.

They sat inside each others' space.
She smiled with calm delight
And asked him "Have you found your faith?"
He said, "I know I'm right.

Mankind has always thought ahead,
From that he wins the right
To keep existing, but now he
Must live his life in fright.

The world will give it's all to him,
At which point he must go
To find that which keeps him sustained
And more to help him grow.

At some point then, the sun will die
So how will he survive?
Man will evolve and fill the galaxy
To stay alive,

But wait! Now there's a greater peril
Stephen Hawking sees.
The Great Attractor draws us in
With other galaxies.

Still, man has always stayed a step
Ahead of nature's cull,
And I'm sure we'll find a way to dodge
The Great Attractor's pull.

Even then though, from all that
We know and that we see,
Existence may collapse into
A singularity,

Or stretch so thin that Heat Death comes
And all matter decays.
How the fuck will anything
Survive the End of Days?

Why would we be filled with such
An urge to stay alive
And fill a void inside which we know
Nothing can survive?

For all my life, I never found
A faith that made much sense,
But since we met, I've looked inside
Myself for evidence.

Inside myself there's so much going on
That I don't know.
It's screaming to get out of me.
I couldn't let it show.

My fear of primal urges which
I felt were of no use;
The shame brought on in childhood
Through a decade of abuse;

Regrets of chances never taken
Narrowing my path;
The bleakness of a future
Dictated by science and math.

Then one day it dawned on me
That the universe makes sense:
Nothing occurs in nature
Without rational defense.

But man has acted against nature
Harshly, I'll confess.
She always tries to kill us, and
Thus far without success.

She planted instinct in us.
Sure, as apes we were all free,
But something sparked inside us soon:
Irrationality.

I never could believe in stuff
Like God, it seemed a farce.
The logic is lacking at best,
The evidence is sparse.

I don't know if you have much faith,
But you once said to me
That faith does not answer to reason,
Which is quite plain to see.

The zealots of the world spout garbage
To an angry crowd
Of Christian/Muslim/Jewish sheep
And boy, they say it loud.

Then the time comes where they sing
And shoot each other dead;
The atheists all laugh, and
Mother nature shakes her head.

You cannot run a world with faith,
Mankind can never grow
With tools conceived in thoughts about
The things we'll never know.

This is where the atheists are right:
While you are sane,
You can't acknowledge any god
And say you use your brain.

For if there were a god, he would
Exist in sheer defiance
Of all that's real and rational,
Of all that's math and science.

I came into your office because
The world seemed quite unkind,
And said to you, quite literally,
'I'm losing my mind.'

There was something in me, screaming
Silently for release.
The past 9 sessions that we've had
Have brought me here, to peace

For now I realize the one
Connection I have missed.
The main regret I've had in life,
I found her, and we kissed.

My fears have been dissolved away,
My shame I've reconciled.
I've poured my heart out to the one
Who once my heart beguiled.

And now I see, like Zarathustra
Waking to the light,
The thing that I was born to do
To make everything right.

Nature works like a machine
Of great complexity,
But with a cold and simple logic
Man can only see.

Still, man has something nature fears,
Destructive it may be,
Yet it creates so much she can't:
Irrationality.

Imagination's alias
Is irrationality.
And where does God exist?
In irrationality.

We are gods in waiting, ma'am,
But chained by natural fear
Of things we cannot understand
And that's what brought me here.

Your therapy and hypnosis
Has done all it must do.
You've made me now a stronger man
And for this, I thank you.

The answer has always been there,
It's not too hard to find.
We all just need to separate
The body from the mind."

The smile she had now beamed so bright;
She did her job so well.
Her busom heaved, a luscious sight,
But she knew he couldn't tell.

The man paid no attention
To the things that she achieved.
And all of the retention
Subconsciously made him believe

That all it took was one big leap
Of faith to validate
A shallow man, always asleep,
Pretending to create.

The thought of what would come
Made her wet, but she'd never show.
Her heart beat like a drum
And her cheeks started to glow

As he serenely stared away
A moment till he turned.
She looked him in the eye to say,
"I see that you have learned."

He kissed her deeply for what seemed
A flash, a lifetime long.
Her breath drew short and her loins teemed
As if this wasn't wrong.

He sat back slowly, letting slip
A contented little smirk
And said, not yet smelling her drip,
"I thank you for you work."

A wave of fear gripped him somehow
But he brushed it aside
Nature must be conquered now,
He thought, and reached inside

His coat and pulled a loaded gun
From a pocket inside.
His fear was conquered, he had won,
Now he'll enjoy the ride.

He pointed it up slightly
When he placed it on his tongue,
And while he squeezed the trigger
He thought of when he was young

When he first figured out that he
Was here, on earth, aware,
Sitting on grass when he was three.
He didn't really care.

He caught a scent that brought him back
Just as the hammer fell.
For an instant his mind lost track
What on earth was that smell?

He looked into her eyes, her smile
Would fill him with regret.
He knew it now, that all the while
This bitch was getting wet.

The blast inside the barrel would
Now ring forever more.
Frightened, he did all he could
To see what he missed before.

The time she touched his arm so lightly
Saying things like "god."
Each word and touch programmed him slightly,
Every little nod,

Every hypnosis where she
Had gotten in his mind,
She left a trigger word to be
Where he would never find

Until a conversation came
Where someone spoke just right;
A word like "revelation"
Made him think he's seen the light.

He finally noticed past the shelf,
The wall above her hutch,
The words he thought he made himself
"Your reason is your crutch."

The bullet exited the gun,
And the gas would burn his nose.
The last regret had now begun,
The last door would now close.

He noticed that the wall behind her
Stood a picture of
A man with light shot from his mind
Into the stars above.

How had he never seen these things
Or put her words together?
And now he felt the final sting:
That he was gone forever.

The bullet pulverized the place
Where brain and spinal cord meet.
The last expression on his face:
Surprise, regret, defeat.

The final trip of death, he felt
His life play from the start.
He watched his grip on reason melt
As he saw every part

Up to that pang of fear that tries
To hold him from the end;
Then saw the flash before his eyes
And lived his life again

Inside the flash, he lived and lived
Right up to where he died.
Then each time he would see the end
And fall deeper inside

The flash inside the flash up to
The flash, time ceased to be.
Existence had collapsed into
A singularity

And every time his life arrived
Up to where he would cross,
His sense to keep himself alive,
His doubt and fear of loss

Would make him live his life anew
And it went on and on.
And on the other side, the answer
Slipped out and was gone.

Trapped inside an instant now
Was how his mind would be,
Burdened by his fear and shame
And rationality.

She screamed so loud now at the mess,
But not a scream of fright.
Her right hand stuck right up her dress,
She came with all her might.

Unparalleled attacks of pleasure
That come with claiming souls,
Racked through her aching body
As she fingered both her holes.

She screamed again, because she knew
Those screams passed off as terror.
She stopped then because she had to,
She could not make that error.

The secretary barged inside
She saw her pale white face
And panicked at the blood and brains
Sprayed all over the place

"CALL 911!" No one knew
Her distressed look was all from
The greatest orgasm she'd ever have
She still could cum.

So as the secretary ran out
Panting from the door,
She ran into the bathroom stall
And fingered herself some more.

 

[butters]

The Legend of Sarah MaGee

Way back in the days when the grasses grew deep
and the river ran swiftly, so grey,
a tow-headed maiden would sing as she strolled
with a smile on her face every day.

Her da was a miner and money was scarce,
the soles on her shoes paper-thin,
but Sarah MaGee had a song in her heart
and a sweet-secret love, name of Jim.

Her Jim was all angles; the boots on his feet
were heavy and hobnailed fer sure
but his hazel-bright eyes and his daft crooked grin
made a maid wish for kisses, and more;

and should it occur that he'd spy her and wave
a blush would swift stain her pale skin -
she'd sometimes walk with him alongside the banks
and imagine them wed, her and Jim.

She waited and hoped and she waited in vain
for the lad to come-by, take a stand -
he fair never noticed poor Sarah's deep sighs,
for Jim's heart was wed to the land:

from the bleak windy ridge to the lush valley floor,
from millpond to ravenous gorge,
though his bones be as raw as a farmer's his soul
was a poet's, a-smelt in the forge.

One feverish day his mind was aflame
with words he could scarce voice or write,
when Sarah appeared and, in his torn state,
he stole from her, roughly, her light.

He cast her aside in his shame and his fear,
his acts far too base, far too dark;
sweet Sarah Magee wept piteously,
loved still with her great wounded heart.

He wasn't to blame for his madness that day,
or so she chose for to believe;
by scarlet-red ribbons (her da's birthday gift)
poor Jim had been greatly deceived.

He'd thought her a whore, and what else are whores for
but to ravish and fill with man-seed?
And so Sarah reasoned, unwilling to blame
the man for his treacherous deed.

No more did he walk with her down by the river,
no more speak of woodland and hill,
no more look at her and confide in her smile,
to see her tormented him ill...

the swell of her belly, the scandal it raised,
poor Sarah would never denounce
her Jim as attacker, but grew grey and thin;
by her da she was sorely renounced.

On a cold, foggy eve, with her love misconceived,
she gave this last gift to her lover: -
whore-ribbons in hand, her Jim she bereaved,
she fell to the rain-swollen river.

But life will go on, her baby was torn
from her lifeless and poor frozen form by
a shepherd who heard the splash and her plea
"Forgive me, my dearest unborn, I... !"

He wrapped it in fleeces he tied with red ribbons
he'd prised from her deathly cold hand;
unable to save the brave infant's mother
he swore to his gods of the land

to do all that he could for the orphan's own good,
to raise her with love and to keep her
safe from all man's harm, so he gave her a name
to suit her red hair - he chose Sarah.

You'd think this, perhaps, the end of the tale
true, legends are better than this
so sad Sarah still splashes on dark foggy nights
but blows her sweet daughter a kiss.


----------------------------------------------------

writing in this form induced me to indulge in cheesy sentimentality, the likes of which came far too easily

 

[Desejo]

OK - Well, I post this with the usual disclaimer that I am not a form person and this probably really sucks. The others have me beat by miles if you ask me. But it does have the merit of being true.

Oh, I really do not want to post this unless someone can help me fix it, so please do that!

White Wolf


The floors creaked in our house
Nailed down by men long dead
But that is not where I saw the spirit, no
It was in the back shed

Our old grey cat’s loud protesting
Sent me there that dark day
The place of Meow mix and tools
An old slave quarters some say

The family was watching Saturday TV
Cat sleeping in my lap
When something make her jump up
And wake from her nap

She would not stop yowling
We had to respond to her call
And thus it was I who
stomped down the cold stone hall

I flung open the door
And saw a white wolf with red eyes and glistening snout
It gave a low growl
I froze and slowly, very slowly backed out

No one believed me of course
For when I dared to go back
There was nothing
Just the cat food waiting in the sack

Was it a spirit guide?
I don’t know what it wanted
Whatever it was
I was well and truly haunted.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Angie's Ballad

Her father died one thousand times
from rage that almost killed
before he checked the chambered round
and tilted what he willed:

"Hush, little darling, don't you cry.
Fiddle dum, fiddle dee.
Hush your sweet little angel eyes
and rock yourself to sleep."

Such irony, he thought, in June
the sun would set blood red,
the label on his Bud be red,
and there would soon be wet

red drops of death as in the bag
inside a post-op room
where Jennie met a ghost one night
that swilled inside her womb.

A wise man once said grief was truth,
whatever the offense,
but first denial, then comes spleen,
and then self-evidence.

I'd like to think that truth was peace
her last September night;
I'd like to think she had a dream
of one bright candlelight

that she and Angie soon would see.
Fiddle dum, fiddle dee.
Jennie, close your tired eyes
And rock yourself to sleep.

October came with Angie's hour
when fading shadows start
to whisper prayers that were not heard,
though heartfelt, heartfelt, heart.......

"It stopped," the doctor said who felt
no pulse left in the blood
and wondered if there was a soul,
much less if there was God.

There was, however, one more soul,
named Niki, five years old,
when Angie died and falling leaves
would better have been snow

to seem like flakes on Niki's cheeks
that had been melted there
before they'd cover one more plot
of cubic brown despair.

Envoi

It has been twenty years since then,
but in these words are five
remaining ghosts that haunt: a bag,
three dead, and one alive.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Post Script to Angie's Ballad

This challenge has been quite an experience for me and a ghost story in its own way in that my past has come back to haunt me.

In September I received an e-mail from "Emily" who identified herself as "Niki's closest friend." Without reading any further, I had a flashback and knew right away that Niki was the one surviving family member of the horrible tragedy in a small Vermont town I wrote about in the ballad.

The e-mail was cordial but heart wrenching. Suffice it to say that they discovered my original ballad on Literotica, and it raised "unresolved questions." I wrote the ballad shortly after Angela passed away October 15, 1990. I had relied upon what a local man told me who said some suspected the father was an intravenous drug user. I never corroborated that, and that man is now deceased.

This has been a humbling experience about the limits of poetic license. The ballad I've posted in the challenge is a corrected version, based on newspaper accounts, I'm embarrassed to say, I only recently bothered to search on-line.

If you bother to click on the link below, you'll read about Jennifer praising her husband. One might argue that she may have been protecting him. We'll never know. However, in the original ballad, she was portrayed as a victim. Here she is a heroine, whether she was truthful or protecting his reputation, knowing she was soon to die herself. I prefer it to be that way.

I'm going to take a break from Literotica for a while to think about the question of why I write poetry. The e-mail has been haunting me with that question ever since.

LA Times article

 

[PandoraGlitters]

So exciting to come back to this thread and see it stuffed full of ghosty, ballady goodness! I am beginning to read them with delight and hoping I can fashion something worthy of the efforts shown here so far.

I hope your time to think about poetry is productive, GM. You will be missed, certainly, but I look forward to reading what conclusions you have drawn as you mull over the problem. Poetry is a rock in my shoe.

 

[njoyjade]

PandoraG, I offer you effort.

Virtual Meal

Holding dishes within our grasp;
stew and bubble,
here at last.
Plating awareness with extra thyme;
heat and stir,
now you're mine.

Land in a bowl where nothing's lost;
share utensils,
mix and toss.
Burn and sear, cook for me;
boil yourself in
the never see!

Hide behind all you feel;
full potential for a Hallowed meal....

Hold on to dishes within our grasp;
stewing and bubbling,
we're here at last.
Plate awareness with extra time;
heating and stirring,
now you're mine.

Landing in a bowl where all is lost;
shared utensils,
mixed and tossed.
Burned and seared, cooked for me;
choosing the stove of
the never see!

Hide behind all you feel;
you are perfect for this Hallowed meal....

 

[butters]

This challenge has been quite an experience for me and a ghost story in its own way in that my past has come back to haunt me.
...

This has been a humbling experience about the limits of poetic license. ...

I'm going to take a break from Literotica for a while to think about the question of why I write poetry. The e-mail has been haunting me with that question ever since.

a sobering experience, and a grounding one i suspect. your presence will be sorely missed, gm, but hopefully you'll not be gone too long. if they found you here on lit, perhaps returning under a new name might be worth considering.

my very best wishes for your continued writing, good health and family,

butters

 

[njoyjade]

Who Am I?

Look at me, who am I?
my life has been one long lie.
Fooling myself and others too,
pretending to be what isn't true.

I am a clown with made up faces,
my painted on smile left no traces.
Outside I am happy, joyous and gleaming,
inside I am hurting, crying and pleading.

I never show true feelings at all,
going on with life; pretending to have a ball.
The whole world spins around in my head,
like a carousel's horses with their saddles of red.

This pain inside I cannot bear;
wondering "does anybody care?"
I was hoping, I would find;
just one person who liked to be kind.

Needed someone to cuddle and hold;
someone loving, protective and bold.
Maybe if, they could compose,
an answer to this question I've exposed.

"Who am I?" seems simple,
but is such a scare.
Where is the answer;
will it ever be there?

Many times I reached for a star,
who's beauty was so much;
It seemed to move too far away
stayed just out of touch.

I've waited so long;
counted every hour.
Now I know,
it's beyond my power.

Those who made it this way
do not worry.
They go on with life,
in such a hurry.

If ever they realize,
it will be too late.
I am already walking
through the open gate.

I hear the voices in the
language of death.
I look back and see
there is nothing left.

I stumble and fall at
the foot of the wall.
I see this person;
try to call.

They hear my question
and realize;
Their actions have caused
another's demise.

I look back,
as I descend.
Their new beginning,
has become my end.





!

 

[HarryHill]

Here is more of my fine level 1 work in a dysfunctional ballad
..
Octobers tears fell all day long.
The first of the month was a clue.
Looking back see all destined to be
as day by day foreshadowing grew.

Dawns grey clouds raced to the west.
Mornings egg was a bloody surprise.
Dead moused door, yard covered hoar,
madness played games in your eyes

Grating rassssp, wetstoned lullaby
you said that the cutlery's dull
sleep at last, night quietly passed
uneventful days came, false lull

Wendesday born crisp and bright,
still dark omens steadily grew.
Bloody white dog; field covered fog
Spider crawled out of my shoe.

Fairyringed white mushroom portal
Opening southwest and then facing.
Compass lined gaze into the haze.
Heart uncontrolled and full racing.

Restless cattle 'cross the field.
Wind swirls grass like a hand.
High in tree white wings I see.
The sight was exceedingly grand.

Charging toward stampeding cattle.
Searching walls of great trees.
Peering ahigh, nothing I spy.
The cattle whirl and then freeze.

Follow pointing bovine gaze
Over the full heads of rye.
Movement of brush, frightening rush
Panicked cattle bolt as do I.

Fearsome inspection windows safety.
What in the world could it be?
Night passed pressed to glass.
Cower here, or just flee?

Mute meditation made sandy eyes.
Choice lost now and forevermore
sleep weary thought no safety bought
Alert eyes closed, lost chore.

Full dark startled eyes open
to the creak of an opening door.
Bone chilling fright, abysmal night
Whispering windstormed fogged floor.

Mate' white wings strobe flashed.
Night came alive with the sight.
Morphing limbs soon entered room.
Shape changed like focusing light

Creature formed pseudo human
Features strange daliesque surprise
Frozen haste dragged to the face
Captured by no known eyes

That's the last thing remembered
Until I woke up in this cage
Airplane'd note send into wind
God help help any who find this page

 

[HarryHill]

PandoraG, I offer you effort.

Virtual Meal

Holding dishes within our grasp;
stew and bubble,
here at last.
Plating awareness with extra thyme;
heat and stir,
now you're mine.

Land in a bowl where nothing's lost;
share utensils,
mix and toss.
Burn and sear, cook for me;
boil yourself in
the never see!

Hide behind all you feel;
full potential for a Hallowed meal....

Hold on to dishes within our grasp;
stewing and bubbling,
we're here at last.
Plate awareness with extra time;
heating and stirring,
now you're mine.

Landing in a bowl where all is lost;
shared utensils,
mixed and tossed.
Burned and seared, cooked for me;
choosing the stove of
the never see!

Hide behind all you feel;
you are perfect for this Hallowed meal....

..
..
I like this one ....Ballad? Who the hell cares

 

[demure101]

I'm not quite sure if this will be the right way to add something, but I'll try...
Desejo put me on to the idea to change a previous post into a ballad. here goes...

A night on the moors


As I went out one autumn night
my dogs and torch at call
I chanced in all the bleak terrain
on the bleakest spot of all.

A cold wind muttered in the gorse
grey geese were on the wing
and when I was halfway my walk
I saw this hellish thing.

Some pale grey ghost shed light upon
a spreading field so red
that crept my way in solemn sway
and filled my heart with dread.

't Was here mad Jeanie took her life
when she'd been treated mean -
she fled in horror to the moors
to wield a knife so keen.

Red lifeblood spurted on the soil
sweet breath was stopped right then
mad Jeanie she was seen no more
within the realm of men.

When from the market John returned
he found his sweetheart gone
and never a word poor Johnny heard
that he could act upon.

He tore his hair, and rant and rave
he did, to no avail -
he lost ten stones, was skin and bones,
and haggard, worn, and pale.

One day he roamed out on the moors
to go two hours, no more -
it was two days ere he came back,
yet paler than before.

He had gone dumb and cold and numb
but gestured wild and strong
the villagers they went to look
but hurried back ere long...

A phantom came to them and wailed
and wrung its ghostly hands
and they had fled in utter dread
before its shrill demands.

They said poor John had done her wrong
He must have used her ill -
It hadn't been her John but it was I
who took my fill.

The stupid woman couldn't see
That it was just a game...
She shrieked like a stuck pig and fought
And then she cursed my name.

And now she's here - and I am here
't Was I that got her goat...
I fear I will return no more -
her hands are at my throat -

 

[twelveoone]

Pig
bydemure101©

Lost on the sullen moors one rainy night
when on the air wild autumn wailed, my torch
and dog for comfort, I came down the hill
and chanced upon the bleakest place of all -
a circle in the bitter bracken, scorched
where once red blood had spouted from a wound,
the lonely spot where on a morning clear
mad Jeanie cut her wrists, not to be found
till one week later when her sweet young John
went fast across, in fearful mood, and vowed
that he'd be back ere nightfall. It was not
until the sun was high above the fields
that he came limping back, a frightened stare
in bulging eyes, and stammering of things
he'd seen that night. The village went to look
and found her where he'd said he'd been, and word
soon spread that he had done her wrong; the ghost
must have been waiting for him there. Since then
the scene, so full of noises, knows its mark:
a faint grey flame, a beacon in the dark
and as I saw it I turned back and ran -
it was no earthly person there that went
straight for my throat; nor was she wronged by John.
When that young fool was out one market day
I found her in, and had my will of her,
and she could just not take it in good jest
but tore her hair and raved of guilt and dread
and what would Johnny think - the bloody fool -
and took a knife and rushed out of the house.
I stood and saw her vanish down the moors
but to be found again with Johnny's aid -
I'll no more go there till her ghost is laid.

tis a wicked game ye play, not entirely amusing, perhaps a stint over a new poems, eh?