Member Poem

Ghosts are, well, these thoughts.
Yes, that’s what I call them.
The things they do in my mind, to my mind for that matter.
Even to my inner circle, you could call them my clan, tribe, hub on a whimsy.
Thoughts can be very much quintessential ghosts,
They are spirits, ephemeral spirits, they might go bump in the night.
It’s true to say they could the very same thing during the day.
Like traffic, these ghostly thoughts can just quite simply and even more complicatedly seem like reckless drivers, solemn drivers, drivers of hyperbole, mystic metaphors as I embark on the wildest quests for character portraits of every imaginable sort.
Ghosts they are my internal go to points of reference.
I scramble in hazardous desperation when I try to reap inklings, reap barely audible moonlight
sounds in cities that taunt the earscape.
The ear scope.
Like daylight dawnings and awnings they openly invite the deep thinking me to recall and reposition these ghosts of my past that have formed into spectacular colour ball shapes.
Moments from the mists.

More often then not when probing depths, harvesting deep meaning within the parameters of townscapes.
I could chart this intriguing inner dialogue in landscapes and cart the GHOSTS that have been triggered or initiated.
As mentioned earlier the colourful essence of the thoughts that ricochet inside this head of mine.
In my quest for myself, my authentic self that needs to be richly articulated, the inner flight I never need a boarding pass for.
All the while the wafer thin prompts, that resonate lucidly, these geometrical gemstone gleaming, robust recesses from a past that pulsates.
I may call them ghosts,
the thoughts, the think ‘em ups on the spot.
They are shards, the splintered pieces, of half recall, half heard.
All the elements in a cordial inner invisible introspection.
Don’t they bear an uncanny resemblance to UFO’S?
I can of course identify and manipulate, sculpt, mold,  toy with the subject of this narrative.
Thoughts as ghosts, ghosts as thoughts, the link an unbreakable, unassailable one.
When  those fingers, that pen, that typewriter itch as they often do for the blinding insight, that attention grabber of a starting line, in verse, in prose, in storytelling.
It’s that moment the aspiring and indeed seasoned pen has this hunger, the appetite, the zeal for that silver stream outpouring, the golden sunset, that fountain on the sun soaked city pavement that spews a most welcome spray.
It’s that to the rescue moment when the ghosts that swing, sway, and swoon, frolic, caper and croon.
The tally mounts.
So do the IOUS.
I brazenly use that hoity-toity term for dramatic effect.
On how many occasions, too many in actual fact have those ghosts in the brain that segue oh so deftly into thought clouds?
They have without the slightest shadow of dangling doubt come up with, provided me with, been that connector in the literary supply chain
known widely as the spoken word.
Maybe because of their would be apparently inside eloquence the unspoken word.
They have the work in progress status of the scintilla of a prompt, the insightful  eye flotilla of a hint.
Dare I say I am so grateful, owe a gigantic debt of gratitude for the latitude, width, breath, scope and sweep these filaments of the cerebral being I call the inner workings of the creative intellect.
Because in fact, in point of fact every thought inside the human mind is that potential character, that cast, plot, devilishly fiendish denouement.
My thoughts who are both ghosts as hybrids not alone do they underpin the piece being written by me the author right now this very essential precious minute indicated by every watch, clock and keeper of time.
But for  those who read what is being typed the thoughts generated on a whim, impulse or after much laboured reflection are perhaps the unsung heroes and heroines,
The above observation has crystalline clarity for me as I see it.
One can bound over obstacles, the stuff of stunts,
image shape and stretch the most abstruse literary quandaries,
attain feats of the fascinating yet unfathomable,
the mysterious, mystic  jumble of intrigue
by appealing to that most eternal lustrous pearl,
the most magnificent dictionary of detailed phraseology in one’s inner vault.
To labour a point though I’m not one ever to consider literary projects as a chore.
Writing is catharsis, it’s an exploratory journey to the self, of the self and other selves.
Again and again I reiterate, emphasise, stress and underline that thought leap onto page like the vibrant actors and actresses they are and should be viewed as such at every stage, on every stage and platform since the beginning of time.
And they always in my estimation have this eternal eternity, infinite infinity.
Let your thoughts be your universe of limitless energies.
Not a ghost of a chance ….. yet a ghost of a chance.
Ghosts as thoughts that have this buzz in your sapience … as is the case of the bee they also can sting and in tandem with that stimulate.
Just for a second whilst you are attempting to bounce new novel, short story, prose cycles off others and in equally good measure one’s self
It might be an astute move betimes to allow that encyclopaedia, that compendium otherwise referred to as the intellect to do your writing projects for you.
That in itself is not in anyway fanciful.
Because your thoughts embedded in past ghosts gorge avariciously on the thoughts they are constantly encountering.
Thoughts are a magnet, spark plug, gear change, charge point, filling station, an assembly of assemblies.
The architecture is endemic to everyone who refuses to do plain and pedestrian things.
Now that is a resource I have and never will take lightly.
This haunted house of a psyche of mine where ghosts who pose as thoughts are a  teaser.
They, the harlequin high jinx that shape the expression, that  variegated expression leading to the wildest wonderful dream unfolding on page.
Whirls, swirls, vortices, gusts, gales of inspiration.
I’m getting carried away.
Now I’ve said my piece.!