BACK-ROOM GHOSTS

by Joanna M. Weston

my office crowds at night
with ghosts urgent
to manipulate the keyboard
with skeletal fingers

these back-room hermits
lift newspapers   old files
hack the computer
to add misted faces
among business columns

their voices murmur
from old cell-phones
interrupt YouTube videos
leaving phantasmal signatures
on my personalized display

HIS REPUTATION (terza rima)

by Joanna M. Weston

the fleeting sight of a tiger’s back
slipped through my peripheral vision  
a sneaking smudge of yellow and black

a mere whisk of tail’s sedition
leading me further still to explore
ferocity’s ancient tradition

whether it is true he will gore
any human who comes into sight
with deeply bellowed rousing roar

or perhaps retreat without a fight
having been already amply fed
preferring to sleep through the night

hunkered down in an accustomed bed
within reach of deer recently dead

GONE MISSING

by Joanna M. Weston

I lost what I was looking for
whatever it was
shoe    light switch
bridle    life-jacket

if I could peer
round that building
over that hedge
I’d find     hang onto
if I knew what it was

flat tire     scarf
tree where we picnicked
anchor    cry of actors

oh the frustration
of catching that glimpse
as it flicks out of sight
        a rattling echo
        of something or other

THIS WINTER WITCH

by Joanna M. Weston
                                     
wide grey cloak quivers
        in a stiff wind
slow feet bring solidity
to the lake
while her sharp nose leers
from the eaves
and the window becomes a portrait
painted by her breath

every time the door opens
a boney toe touches the heater
and a cold voice
shrouds my face

COPPER ISLAND

by Joanna M. Weston

a rim of colour
tips the lake
with faint sparks

orange and scarlet
embers set
about the far island
opposite my tent

I lie quiescent
as earth greenly dark
waits the burst

of morning
that will light
bonfires

OFF THE MOUND

by Joanna M. Weston

that fastball
brings in a circus catch
by the utility player
out the hot corner

the closer is in
and all sides roar
as we’re looking
at a moon-shot
on this rubber game
and I’m cheering
right out the batter’s box

RAIN

by Joanna M. Weston

she stirs old things in memory
hangs them like a calendar
to be seen and turned daily –
that kiss exchanged at dusk
  moon-rise over the lake
     his diagnosis shared

these curled hands
retain the trembling past