Ghost of a Chance

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Angeline
Angeline
83 Followers

Sometimes you're dormant.
There are seasons
when you don't speak to me.

Once I imagined you
in the back seat of my car,
sitting still, holding up
your jangled spirit
with a narrow tie and lapels
and your hat set slightly askew,
shadowing your crumpled mouth.
You were silent, but your eyes
said you were lost somewhere good,
somewhere I want to be.

You're just a crazy drunken old jazzer,
dead 50-odd years, old enough
to be my long-gone grandpa,
and still you fly to my dreams
more alive than the bluesjay
in this morning's pine.

I want to love you.

I want a wayback machine
to 1943 so I can rescue you
before detention barracks
beat you to an early grave.

But you're gone,
and all I have is that tone,
the sweet ironic swing
that soars straight up
past cloudy blues to heaven,
and the ballads that dip
and weave beautiful hurt
until I cry for somewhere good
I once imagined leaving
your imaginary eyes.

Angeline
Angeline
83 Followers
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  • COMMENTS
11 Comments
Artina HeartflashArtina Heartflashover 11 years ago

Easy to understand and strong of heart. Thank you.

LeBrozLeBrozalmost 16 years ago
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This poem was selected from Lit's archive of over 39,500 poems for inclusion in today's Archival Review.<br>

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Du LacDu Lacabout 19 years ago
Classical Jazz....

This is an excellent example of haunting the reader to see the inner spirit of the author. Emotional reality.. stunning Angeline...

Du Lac

TrollyTrollyabout 19 years ago
Not quite

yet not not quite

sacksackabout 19 years ago
what a stroke of genius!

I especially like the "bluesjay"...a nice touch!

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