Ghosts

Sometimes, my thoughts feel like ghosts.

Like leftover pieces from decisions made, failed or abandoned.
Ghosts that whiff and waft about with barely formed substance.
They grab at my curiosity for the barest moment, then fleet into an ether of nowhere.

Sometimes, these brief apparitions linger long enough to grow arms and legs and walk about in my head. They leave traces of themselves with questions,
like what does this mean,
why is this the case,
why don’t they like me?

Some even linger long enough to be helpful –
must do
must get
must pay, 

So, am I a spectral mom?
Pushing out barely distinct forms?
If so, I must be a distant one,
a harried and unhelpful one. I follow their movements, then I get distracted, depriving them of the attention needed to form a body.

Other times, I’m a bouncer mom at a particularly rowdy party, or maybe a mom enforcer.
But that takes effort…

Corralling these unsubstantiated forms means paying attention.
It’s easier to write down the ones begging for consideration,
asking to be noticed.

I say easier, but really it has taken the work of ages

To see that not all these ghosts need to be seen

Some need to be ushered out on their way immediately,
others carefully examined.
Some are fun and flirty,
others, bogged down with real or imagined rage.
Some decide they’re going to stick around despite your best efforts to chase them away.
Others sit quietly in the corner where you’ve forgotten them
even though they are crucial to a decision that needs to be made.

There are the fun ones though,
like the ghost of the comedian I could have been
or a wise thoughtful sage

The ghost of superstar songster
or that person who can’t stop humming

There’s the ghost who sits with me all day
the one who wants to be called a weirdo.

I like the fun ones.
they let me giggle with myself and laugh as I sing nonsensical songs.

They mess up food recipes deliberately just to see what it would taste like

They’ve discovered that coconut and sparkling water mixed is an evil thing.

They gather words like magpies, attracted to the bling.

The fun ones are so random that I don’t share them.
Sometimes,

I save them, dress them and make them pretty
before venturing them out to see if anyone takes notice.
Will they laugh or just think, you weirdo. I’ll take both.

But mostly, they are just random ghosts
with anatomical fantasies that run a wide river through them.

No one said this would be my life,
not always,

But sometimes

Not sometimes

But always.

Sometimes,

the ghosts are quiet,

like toddlers in front of the telly

and I wander about,

lost,

without their prodding.