At the quietest of moments
In the quietest of times,
Words glide around silently
Trying to make rhymes.
They move in large patterns
At the push of the wind,
And some are quite fragile
And others thick-skinned.
But they fear for nothing,
Neither break-up or stretch,
For words pulled to pieces
Can create a new sketch,
Where a new scene or wordplay
Can simply drift into thought
Where netted but happy
New poetry is caught.
So don't try to untangle
Or read between lines,
For these words aren't mine;
They belong to the rhymes.

Ghosties

You never hear the ghostie man,
You never hear him coming;
You never hear the ghostie man,
You never hear him running.

Though flat of foot he may be,
But never one thing touches;
No leaf is stirred, no branch bends
As on and on he rushes.

You never hear the ghostie man,
You never hear him coming;
You never hear the ghostie man,
You never hear him running.

He hurries on through the dark,
No blades so much as tremble,
As o'er the green, past the oak
He and his friends assemble.

You never hear the ghostie men,
You never hear them coming;
You never hear the ghostie men,
You never hear them running.

Across the road, past the inn
They move in cold moonlight,
Never slowing, ever running,
These creatures of the night.

You never hear the ghostie men,
You never hear them coming;
You never hear the ghostie men,
You never hear them running.