Vagrant Wind by Bruce Campbell Walters (R.I.P.)

VAGRANT WINDS

 

Vagrant Wind by Bruce Campbell Walters

(From Assisted Living Retirement Home)

Also this phenomenon I note:

When I write letters whose recipients

after several intervals of several months

answer and do not discourse on items I have raised,

or speak to questions that I ask,

but each–uniquely poised at central point

of each one’s world–relates to me he saw a cloud,

or comments on a vagrant wind along the grass

where he resides.

 

Suddenly He’s Gone

There’s little I can say to Marshall now.

Suddenly he’s gone, I don’t know where.

Whether all he was is buried in the grave

Or if the truth and core of him survive

On some other plane and in another life

All I know is this: I miss him.

I miss you Marshall.

I remember you

And I miss you.

 

Poetry of Bruce Campbell walters

For the Man and Children She Left Behind

Ghost Man and Children

For the Man and the Children She Left Behind

By Theresa Jodray for Bruce Campbell Walters by Theresa Jodray

She walks through the world just passing time
A spirit longing for the man and children she left behind
Watching over all the people she knew
Sometimes she’s been sad and sometimes blue
Sharing in their walk throughout this life
Watching all their trials with strife
She whispers softly in their ears trying to help them
She hopes they will hear
Watching her own children grow big and tall
When they left her body they were so small
Just a ghost of a woman from a different time
With a heart full of love for those left behind
She watches them closely as they sleep
Wondering will they know her when again they meet
She’s seen their mistakes, if they only knew
She’s always been with them when her life was through
So she walks through the world just passing time
A spirit longing for the man and children she left behind.

For the man and the children Charlotte left behind

THERESA
Theresa F. Jodray

 

For the Man and the Children Charlotte Left Behind

By Theresa F. Jodray

 

She walks through the world just passing time
A spirit longing for the man and children she left behind
Watching over all the people she knew
Sometimes she’s been sad and sometimes blue
Sharing in their walk throughout this life
Watching all their trials with strife
She whispers softly in their ears trying to help them
She hopes they will hear
Watching her own children grow big and tall
When they left her body they were so small
Just a ghost of a woman from a different time
With a heart full of love for those left behind
She watches them closely as they sleep
Wondering will they know her when again they meet
She’s seen their mistakes, if they only knew
She’s always been with them when her life was through
So she walks through the world just passing time
A spirit longing for the man and children she left behind.

 

Theresa F. Koch (formerly Theresa F. Jodray) is the psychic who found Charlotte’s unmarked grave in the cemetery, the cross having been removed due to new maintenance policy. The grave is still unmarked, and efforts are being made to raise funds for an appropriate marker.

To My Beloved Charlotte

 

CHARLOTTE

To My Beloved Charlotte

by Bruce Campbell Walters

 

Fifty years have passed, and three years more,
And post-war Phoenix where we lived
Has fashioned from its crucible the desert sand
Marvels greater than Babylon.
Of every person we then knew,
Only I continue in this world
To mark the anniversary each year
Of your too sudden death.
Shall Nostalgia therefore forbid,
As I’m in transit through some morning half-awake
Between a night bereft of you
And day also cursed,
My hand in love to lightly stroke
The reach of bed
Where in the former times You were?
Shall God demur if in the lonely hour
My thoughts regress to Phoenix lost
And how your presence graced it?

 

Little David Smiled

 

GREENWOOD
Phoenix Greenwood Memorial Cemetery in 1940’s

 

 

Little David Smiled

by Bruce Campbell Walters


The priestly words the priest intoned,
Computing nothing to my ears,
For they were tendered null by stimuli
My eyes were forced to see,
Beginning with my mother's face
So tranquil so long,
Transformed into a face of grief,
Flooded with her tears,
As we somehow stood before
A wide expanse of tended grass
Upholding on its breast
Crosses white in perfect rows,
Each one above a grave.
And, as gratuity from Hell
An open grave, too near, too near,
Eager for to hold the dear
And unflawed form of Charlotte
Sans breath of life and flow of blood,
Yet lovely in her youth.
In every dismal hour that night
The skies exuded rain,
And in the very dark of them
Her lonely spirit rose
And, through the path of love we shared,
Each to the other known,
Found her way back home.
Spirits have no way to speak
And lack substantial form,
But, as the leaves of Autumn dance
When Autumn breezes flow,
Papers trembled in my hand
When her presence passed my chair
Revealing that she was there.
And little David smiled.
He woke not from the peace of sleep.
But little David smiled.

My Good Book

I seek to borrow the only good book
With a perfect beginning, perfect end,
And I shall rest it in its perfect nook,
Where nothing further is left to defend:
Therein I shall find my perfect meaning,

All too long have I been loath to pretend
To be somebody I knew I was not,
Sneaking around the corners like a crook,
Striving to steal somebody else’s plot,
While my unwanted garden was wanting.

After the good book’s end, what have I got?
Heaven, without another book to read.
The end of history will comfort me;
Yet another book would just make me bleed:
There must be a good end to this trifling.

Thus one book and only one book I need,
Something very simple to begin with:
Nothing in the beginning is my creed.
And after Nothing you will find my myth:
Take or leave it, that is my being.

If it ends in Paradise with a fifth,
After some grand fortune has been well spent,
Or otherwise concludes, true to its pith,
Then safely to me has my book been lent:
I shall return it to its perfect nook.