There are poems that never make it anywhere. They don't get thrown away, they don't get burned, they don't make it to heaven or hell. They are bound to me, haunting me, reminding me of my quirky unstable emotional wardrobe.
A bunch of years ago, some friends and I got together and made a book. It's called 'Ghost On The Highway". In a nutshell, it contains a short story about Alice, the one everyone knows about in Wonderland. But it's about her AFTER she got beheaded.
The story was written by my dear friend, Heather Hutsell. It's a pretty interesting tale, and interlaced within that tale from start to finish are random-but-not-so-random poems, sort of like little seizures, or strokes, which were written by me and two others- Ed Walters and Roxanne Nihiline. Each poem, and each chapter, are conceptual 'exits' off of the highway of the tale. And that's basically the only structure, however random, of the book.
I have no idea how many people know about that book, or have bought it, or have read it, or whatever. I don't really care, either. Our goal was to share with our friends something joyous that we all have in common- that being writing. We don't claim to be any good. We just claim to be a bit nuts. You can check it out by clicking here.
Anyway, here's one of my ghost poems. It was one of a few poems I wrote specifically with Hutsell's tale in my mind, but it actually didn't make it into the book. It, like so many others, is a reject, thus making it a ghost poem, haunting my mind.