Ghost Night

They’re here, the ghosts

come back at midnight,

raving through the streets.

Years ago, an old farmer said

if you held a red rooster

where three roads meet,

you could see them,

grandfathers, great grandfathers,

eighteen generations of family.

A coward, I never dared!

To see their grisly visages,

torn flesh, eyes streaming blood,

I’d faint. I’ll stay at home,

burn ghost money in the courtyard,

pray they’re alright in the underworld,

and ask their silent blessing

on my ordinary life, peaceful

as the full summer moon.