October 2024
Sandra Rollins
sjrollins@comcast.net
sjrollins@comcast.net
Bio Note: I started writing poems at the age of six. I recently retired as an IRS Revenue Agent after 33 ½ years. I live in Nashville TN with fiancé Steve and a “teacup” yorkie who believes he is a Doberman. Publications include Mas Tequilas Review, Reckless Writing, and Paterson Literary Review.
Ghost Hair
“Tell me,” the beautiful ghost said, “do people
still waste time on the inconsequential?”
“Hmmmm,” I said, “because I am living, I am not
sure what is inconsequential.” She laughed
and looked deep into my eyes as only ghosts can
and told me the following while plucking
petals from a daisy. “When I was young, I had
beautiful long blonde hair I spent hours brushing
and adorning with ribbons and pearls. Everyone
I met commented on my hair, how glossy, how long,
which temptresses it evoked. When I swam, my hair
languidly trailed after me, luxurious garland
ignited by sunshine. When wind blew through
my tresses, speeches were written, songs were sung,
audiences applauded. And then life happened,
dreams never fulfilled, hopes crushed, goals
never attained.” “Oh,” I said, “so, beautiful hair
is inconsequential?” “Just the opposite,
my dear,” the ghost said. “my hair
was my finest moment.”
Ghosts of a Coliseum
A coliseum is empty, bruised by a sun
that shone all day. With a falling orb
comes white patina of ghosts who lived,
fought and died here. Rows upon rows
of visitor ghosts have come to watch death,
red rivulets like ribbons that neatly tie up
a lifetime of wants, desires, and disappointments.
Outside this silent place mechanical automobiles
circle a roundabout going to one place or another.
Ghosts follow the autos but no passenger sees
hints of mortality littered about streets
and alleyways. Thousands of them, floating,
so quiet, not even trees bend as hordes pass by.
Some follow cars as they make their ways
to homes; once the riders have made it inside
ghosts peer into windows and watch families
as they gather to eat a meal, or prepare for bed.
These uninvited guests eagerly anticipate
hours before dawn when they will play in minds
of dreamers unaware ghosts are real and stand
in their rooms, lie in their beds next to them,
lie on top of some until breathing becomes too hard
for sleeping and they wake, cold sweat, scared,
unable to quite know what has made them so afraid.
Sometimes a Ghost Isn't Amused
A ghost that travels with me is female,
I know that much. It isn’t from her voice
since she doesn’t speak. It is the softness
of her nudge when I have a decision to make
she finds of interest. Most days I feel nothing,
but I know she is there, watching, waiting,
hoping something amusing will happen.
I go to the grocery, pick up a peach,
squeeze just a bit to realize it is not a perfect
ripeness so leave without any purchase.
I head to a hairdresser who trims only my bangs
as I have requested while she tells me
about her latest lover and why, this time,
it’s different. Later, I drop by a pharmacy
to pick up prescriptions and make
an unplanned purchase of Revlon Berry
Haute lipstick. Still, no nudge today.
Back in my car, I steer myself home a back way
I thought would be a scenic change
to an empty house. As I enter,
I turn lights on. I look in the refrigerator
and pull out frozen Salisbury steak and macaroni
I zap in a microwave, set the table for one,
pour a glass of Merlot rather than
a cabernet and eat. Later, dishes done,
I head to the living room, decide
on a TV show and watch until nighttime
weighs heavy and off to bed. I choose
a cotton gown, light, lift sheets, and
slip inside to sleep. Still no nudge.
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