Haunted Aura Callings

“I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it”
Marianne Moore


Lately, I haven’t been able to focus much on writing so I would write a sentence or 2 then I toss it some where between my documents hoping I would continue my thought some other time. More often I would be driving then an idea just pops up my mind like a lighted bulb as we see in cartoons and I would be helplessly trying to control the wheel and trying to find something to scribble and doodle my words on, which is most probably my phone’s notes and little docs.







When the night falls and you lay down to sleep, a part of you sighs as you try not to pay attention. Silently you convince yourself that you are alone, you repeat the logic over and over again in your mind and slowly you find some peace in your solitude.



The logic is sound, for you know nothing other, you use nothing other than that which life has provided to you thus far. But something, something which you prefer not to listen to, which you try to hide from yourself beckons to stir. But alas, for it has been too long that your yearnings fell short, too often after endlessly hoping you felt disappointment and the nights alone became familiar friends.



But again, no matter how certain you become that you must heed your callings alone, that you must suffer your pains alone, that you must endure treasons as a lone warrior, with no one to shade you, no one to wet your lips to quelch your thirst, something beckons inside you to remain tender, to know that what you desire is desired through a truth that it exists. That it exists for you. For You exist.

And your existence is all the proof you need.








Past auras float onto me and I shudder

For I know them, I was there, there for so long



Traces of where I used to be, what I used to feel, what my life was full of

But they are hardly mere



They are ghosts of a deprived past

And from these walls they appear




Haunted beings they seep unto me

And suddenly I am taken back to the places



I used to be Imagination could not have created them

They are here, embedded through time



And as they take me, I must permit myself to be taken

Stepping into all the pieces of cracked mirrors




For despite the nausea, despite their ghastly reflections

I must walk through this hell, these smoky fires



Inhaling the lessons they serve to deliver

Facing the truths by which they are enslaved



For treacherous though they seem to be

They are blessed gifts that have been waiting for me



And as I listen, watching them unfold

Into the wind they leave, until completely dissolved




No longer scarred memories, trapped in these walls,

Freed from my conscience, their messages remain with resolve



Filling me with knowledge, endowing my will to grow tall

Past demons slain, no more danger can befall.

















~A spoken word is a moment. A written word is eternal~






Moe R.