Send up to three poems on the subject of or at least mentioning the words spirit and/or specter, totaling up to 150 lines in length including stanza breaks, in the body of an email message or attached in a Word file to donkingfishercampbell@gmail.com by 11:59 PM PDT on October 20th. No PDF's please. Color and B&W artwork are also desired. Please send in JPG form. No late submissions accepted. Poets and artists published in Four Feathers Press Online Edition: Spirits and Specters will be published online and invited to read at the Saturday Afternoon Poetry Zoom meeting on Saturday, October 21st between 3 and 5 pm PST.

Tuesday, October 24, 2023

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Ghosted


I do not know 

what language the

spirits speak. Their

simple words are not

that easy to

hear. They are mute 

and ghosted in

this haunted house.




In the Deserted House 


In the deserted house

I find my solitude.

From time to time the noise 

from the backyard becomes

a comfort to me. I 

seek out the stars at night

from the deserted house’s

window. I find the noise 

from the backyard. It is 

a small bird that sings in

comforting tones. It lifts

my spirits to the stars. 




The Wind Comes 


The wind comes 

like a welcome stranger.

It whispers my name.

It comes from 

the sea, cool and crisp.

It lifts my spirits.

The stranger comes 

and settles in my room.

It comes through 

the window.  The leaves

in the tree shake.

The wind comes 

and leaves. There is a

mild breeze left behind.

It is the murmur

of the wind’s heart.

Saturday, October 21, 2023

PJ Swift

Spirit of the Moon

With its eternal, cyclical presence, the moon had provided perennial inspiration for countless tales and stories, especially when full and shining brightly over a darkened world. But it is also at these times when this constant companion is most fickle and parsimonious. It hangs in the sky, luminescent yet unreachable, close yet impenetrable. In full view, but mysterious. Enigmatic. Mocking. The moon provides no story, no inspiration, and no excuses. It just hovers as an inescapable reminder that one is stuck to the ground, full of dreams but with no means of transport. Haunting and looming. And then, night by night, the moon is no more. Just a specter and a memory and a promise of an illustrious return. But where are the stories? Will they, too, arise? At last?

Friday, October 20, 2023

gia civerolo

She got off the bus in 1932

 

She got off the bus in 1932

to the smell of yellow

sunshine and the taste of

Hollywood Art Deco dreams

 

She never wants to shine

in the black night sky

She only wants to be a

star sparkling on the stage 

or where everyone will pause

and recognize her name

before stepping on her glitter star

right in front the Pantages Theater

on Hollywood and Vine

 

Even when she was dying 

there was no midwestern hands 

to hold her tight and say good night

She still believed she was going to make it

even when they closed the casket lid

on her just another pretty face

She told them it wasn’t really over

even though like always

no one was listening

 

She shooed all the angels away

They cry night after night 

when they hear her sing

on the stage to an audience

who will never see or hear

all her passion and pain

 

It is only when the auditorium 

Is empty that workers swear 

they hear a female voice singing

No one knows her name

Can you hear her?

Can you hear her please?

 

She still refuses to shine

in the black night sky

She only wants to be a star sparkling 

on the stage or where everyone 

will pause and recognize her name

before stepping on her glitter star

right in front the Pantages Theater

on Hollywood and Vine




spirit love haiku

 

 The spirit beguiled

  

Kissing me all through the night

  

Turning dawn silver

 



love potion #98

 

I feel all alone in bed

lying next to you  

I conjure spirits seducing 

them into sleeping séances

 

Beguiling more to help me 

blend my witch’s brew

“Eye of newt and wool of

bat” swirling elixir around

my tongue

 

Bewitching winds dripping

with images of me for you

to dream

 

I create an altar of apparitions 

along with my 98th attempt 

at a love potion 

 

Why do you still ignore me?

 

I become a changeling in the 

ancient emerald forest

Enchanting fairies

Stealing their pixie dust

Sprinkling it into the sea

of all our possibilities

 

I am the Macbeth’s witches

A coven of one

“Fire burns and caldron bubble”

until the prophecy

becomes perfectly clear

 

Fuck you! 


I am voodooing you out of

my head and out of my bed

I am creating this alchemy

with my beating heart which

will not bleed for you to feast

 

Conjuring this potion to

free me of all our mesmerizing 

made up memories

 

This love poem is now just for me

Happy Halloween!

 

Maria A. Arana

The Darkness Follows


easily your presence strikes at my core

i turn and the only thing staring back at me is my shadow

the bright sun burns through me

and the fear escapes  

but that sensation lingers like a leech

“go away!”

as if a spirit could unglue itself from one

it remains the stain

prevalent leech

to stain ones’ past, present, and future


 


What Might Keep You Up at Night?


is it the bedbugs making their way to your leg

or is it the way he sings off key?

do you laugh at the shadows

or are you afraid it isn’t one?

someone lurks in your kitchen

mistaken as a mouse

but the truth will terrify

a killer is loose

and your home is its domain

when you sleep

when you’re at work

when you nap

you won’t see them

or do you doubt the specter’s realm?

 

 

 

they say the end is near…

 

they say the end is near like the bass beating in my heart

they say it will come in waves of bass, circling each other

we should be content to spend these last moments together

instead, we play with our content and the wind brings sorrow

a tear will fall and smear the ground you lay

tomorrow we’ll tear the earth open so it, too could heal

 

Dan Garcia-Black

Spirits 

The pirates of the Caribbean 
Are alive in books, movies, songs (yo ho) and 
Children's imaginations. 
I mean they are alive in 
Spirit 
They seem to be reanimated especially on 
Halloween 
Cute lady pirates and tiny kiddy pirates 
Swarm candy laden neighborhoods 
Searching for sugary booty 
I am on my own search for my favorite spirit 
RUM de dum dum 
But it never fails 
When I open a bottle 
Who shows up to party and to share? 
Captain Morgan and his pal, Sailor Jer 
Ah! That's the spirit.

Caleb Delos-Santos

 What is a Specter?

 

I turned to Google

(the Twenty-first Century’s

collective electric dictionary)

to see what specter means.

I scrolled through a few

explanatory possibilities

until I found one

that interested me.

 

Some tinier websites

(not the Merriam-Webster Dictionary)

describe a specter as:

 

any object of fear.

 

This definition’s specific

yet equally general phrasing

strangely

intrigues me.

 

It makes me think:

Really? Anything

can be a specter

if I find it scary?

 

As a scattered graduate student,

I am mainly afraid

of papers.

 

Once assigned,

they slowly begin to quietly float

beside my mind.

 

While dangling around my thinking,

these papers soon begin to sing eerily.

Their harmonizing eventually

becomes sirening and screeching,

which only increases in frequency

until I finally reach

the life-bringing

deadline.

 

As a new husband,
I am mainly afraid

of children.

 

My future kids,

these amazing,

beautiful,

and new possibilities,

these exciting

hypothetical beings,

parade in my dreams

and simultaneously

loom over my sleep.

 

At night, I often find myself

wide awake, thinking:

 

What kind of father will I be?

Will I repeat the failings

of my ancestry?

Will I keep the history

of their victories?

Will my children

become

my righteous legacy?

 

As a young man,

I am mainly afraid of

myself.

 

Each day,

I think about

this patriarchy

and my position in

inequality.

 

I ponder my informed

risk and ability

to freely kill and conquer

everyone and everything.

 

I worry about my

supposedly innate capability

to become more evil than anything.

 

My dangerous potentiality

hangs over me

daily.

 

Are all of these things

(papers, babies, and me)

truly

specters?

 

Well,

I definitely won’t say

with certainty,

 

but

I know one thing:

 

they certainly

 

scare me.

Thursday, October 19, 2023

Lori Wall-Holloway

Library Mystery


So many choices sit

on a bookshelf full

of titles before me

But which one will give

the explanations

I am searching for

 

Alone in the aisle

at the public library

I peruse back covers

of paperbacks

which leave me with

more questions about

the meaning of the crazy

dreams that consume

my brain while sleeping

 

I reach for a promising

hardcover, when my left

hand suddenly begins

to tremble uncontrollably

 

Shocked, I immediately

pull back in confusion

and look around to see

if anyone saw what happened

before I try to take the book

off the shelf again

 

My hand shakes violently


 

Unsure of what took place

I test whatever is forcefully

holding me back by repeatedly

moving towards the particular

volume, only to be stopped

each time

 

Now to make a choice

Do I push against whatever

is stopping me and grab

the forbidden object or take

something different altogether

 

Baffled over the mystery

I decide to check out

another interpretation

book for answers

 

With the incident impressed

in my memory, I believe

God sent an unseen angel 

to protect and push

a vulnerable me away

from a dark path waiting

to swallow me in misery

after the collapse

of my first marriage

Wednesday, October 18, 2023

Alicia Viguer-Espert

The Visit

 

From the gate I notice flying seagulls,

cascading jasmine leaning on cold stones

of names, dates, and inscriptions.

My eye catches a silhouette in blue,

she returns the look from her twenty years

of distance; still so beautiful!

Nearby, parallel lines of turquoise give solidity to water,

melancholy and bougainvillea trickles from wrought iron balconies,

I walk the path to meet her.

I cannot forgive how her cruel departure broke my step,

collapsed my place in the world,

still, tenderness floods through me remembering

our strolls by the sea, passing sails in front of our window,

sharp cypresses puncturing the lucent sky,

nightingales’ conversations in the Botanical Gardens.

As the sting of memory stabs my side

I drag my feet all the way to the stone carved with her name,

 

 

 

The Door

 

My life moves towards the unpainted

door, cracked by sun, mud splattered

all over its frame, which contrasts

with its still unused polished handle.

 

I yearn to know what’s on the other side,

not to cross it, and much less explore it.

Too early, I tell myself, though bones hurt,

sleep never comes at night when I listen

 

the pump inside my chest growing erratic,

can’t find words lost in the maze of time nor

the radiant faces of loved ones now dimed by

dust from shoulders of ghost in the penumbra.

 

Mental wild storms erase what was mine,

if that’s a thing. The door beckons

insists to be studied, to open a crack,

leave it ajar, acquaint with its shadows.

 

I look around, there’s neither river,

boat, or boatman on site. The valor

of the hero’s quest, and rage at human

indifferent cruelty keeps me engaged.

 

I have not had my fill, thoughts of returning

brings hope and fright, so I peek through

the peephole, sit by the slightly ajar door

considering my options.

 

Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Ghosted I do not know  what language the spirits speak. Their simple words are not that easy to hear. They are mute  and ghosted in this hau...