The wind has brought its
army of rowdy ghosts to
the windows and doors

of the house, tonight;
“We know you’re in there,” the wind
is saying, pushing

and tugging at things.
“Why won’t you come out and play
like you use to. Come

on, man, is it true
what they’re saying, that you’ve just
taken too many

hard falls, too many
blows to the heart and head and
come up lame (and left

for dead or worse, one
of the barely-living dead)?
You’ve only got your-

self to blame, you know.
But hey, suppose we were to
bring some serious

thunder and lightning
and rain? Would that fire you up,
a little, mother-

fucker? Would that take
some of the sting from your pain?
All we want is a

little of your time
and maybe an offering
(or two) of some of

that wine you’re drinkin’,
there, for all our fallen and
missing brethren that

just never managed
to find the spirit or the
wind to rise again.

Image CreditKhamkéo Vilaysing

Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors.

He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme (co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters.