GHOSTS
Where do the dead go?
The dead that are not corpses, cosmetically renewed
and boxed, their faces familiar and serene.
Or brought to an essence, pale ashes in elegant canisters.
I ask for the other dead
those ghosts that wander unshriven among our sleep,
haunting the borderlands of our lives.
The dead dreams, The failed loves.
The quests, undertaken with full courage
and paid for in blood
that never found a dragon, a Grail, a noble ordeal
and the Hero’s sacred journey home.
Instead, the wrong fork was somehow taken, or the road
wandered aimlessly, finally narrowing to a tangled gully
and the Hero was lost, in the gray and prosaic rain,
hungry, weary, to finally stop somewhere, anywhere
glad of bread, a fire, a little companionship.
Where is their graveyard?
Were they mourned? Did we hold a wake,
bear flowers, eulogize their bright efforts
their brave hopes
and commemorate their loss with honor?
A poem?
An imperishable stone to mark their passing?
Did we give them back to the Earth
to nourish saplings yet to flower, the unborn ones?
Or were they left to wander
in some unseen Bardo, unreleased, ungrieved.
Did we turn our backs on them unknowing,
their voices calling, whispering impotently
behind us
shadowing our steps?
Lauren Raine is an artist and occasional writer, best known for her Masks of the Goddess collection. She was resident artist at Henry Luce Center for the Arts at Wesley Theological in Washington, D.C. in 2009, and currently lives in Tucson, Arizona. Her work can be seen at: http://www.laurenraine.com.
feminismandreligion.com 
“Were they mourned? Did we hold a wake,
bear flowers, eulogize their bright efforts
their brave hopes
and commemorate their loss with honor?”
What a beautiful poem. I find it difficult to forgive myself for my brave hopes that went unfulfilled. Maybe a wake is a good idea. Otherwise these spirits of the past continue to haunt us–bringing forth shame.
LikeLike
Thanks for your kind words. Yes, I also feel that it’s important to honor, even cherish, the “children” we have created with our hearts and minds that never had a chance to grow up. They are kind of like orphans I think……..
LikeLike
I lit a candle today for my younger self and her brave (and innocent, not foolish) hopes. xxx
LikeLike
What a strong picture and poem. Thank you Lauren.
LikeLike
Thanks to you and blessed Samhain!
LikeLike
I have to spent a lot of energy tamping these ghosts down, but they always seem to revive. They are resilient and persistent.
Thank you for sharing your poem and image of Florence’s Hands.Very powerful.
LikeLike
Thank you, Lauren, for this poem. What does one do with one’s “regrets?”
“The dead dreams, The failed loves.
The quests, undertaken with full courage
and paid for in blood
that never found a dragon, a Grail, a noble ordeal
and the Hero’s sacred journey home.”
Seems to me that today in many circles of society, one’s regrets are not honored. How often do we hear, “It is what it is?” How can one argue with that? However, the subtext of the phrase disallows giving proper attention to our efforts that culminate in disaster–or even “mere” disappointment. Rituals (as the poem suggests) can be effective tools to create harmony among the disparate parts of ourselves.
LikeLike
I agree….rituals honor in a concrete way what has passed and was, and I think are especially important today, when everything is moving so very fast that we don’t take time to “listen to the impotent voices” of our ghosts……
LikeLike
What a beautiful poem. It puts me in mind not only of my own “ghosts” but those of women past whose “ghosts” we still carry, whether our mothers and grandmothers, farther ancestors, or just women of the past in general whose lost dreams and tragedies we still carry with us, sometimes for better when they motivate us to make the most of our time here on earth or for worse when they get in the way, sometimes without our even knowing it. The photograph is also stunning.
LikeLike
thank you! So true! The photo is actually of my mother’s hands.
LikeLike
I just finished reading Dancing Goddesses about the willies,souls of girls who died too young. They live in pools of water and rivers and come out to fertilize the fields. It feels connected.
LikeLike
beautiful !
LikeLike