The Ghosts of Wilson, KS

At the Opera House, the spectral shadows march 
militantly through the sunken Sokal gymnasium,
chanting “a strong mind in a strong body”,
while dining in smoky air, from a ghostly kitchen.

Above the basement, on the second floor,
Blind Boone tickles the mystic ivories,
summoning the eldritch  tornado, 
while the shadowy dancers on the third floor 
ballroom flit and skim across the hardwood floors,
a chilling inch above the sawdust.
They are wraiths to a worldly audience,
ephemeral in history, transparently 
strolling through the burnt-out shell of the Opera house; 

At night sleeping with the ghosts at the Midland Railroad Hotel,
I  hear echoes of whispery voices in the carriage 
of the Butterfield Overland Express, 
the tinny reverberations of the player piano,
and the phantasmal banjo of the medicine show.

But I awake to the whistle and grumbles 
of the Union Pacific Railroad outside my window.
The train no longer stops for anyone, 
not even me, a sojourner amidst
the phantoms, manes and lemures,
crowding the train tracks and the sidewalks 
in front of the Wilson Czech Opera House.

The Saline River

Graphite nails scratch the blue slate skies  - the wild cedar grows.
Limestone posts ghost the Smoky Hills- burnt  white by sun.
The river brown, sluggish- like mud swallows nesting.
In sunburnt bison pastures - herefords dot the smoky hills.
Dead cottonwoods choke the dirty brown of the Saline River.
The creeks are dry twigs - spilling drought into the land.

Baseball in Thunderstorm

Sun setting to the west where dark blankets lie upon the land.
Wind turbines reflecting like white spotlights, bubbling up,
then flattening out in the darkling sky
like a white ball slamming into brown leather.
The American flag stiff and straight
as the front moves through the baseball field.
Wind gusts throws red dirt into our eyes, coats our throats,
and explodes the stadium lights in left field.
The ball gets lost in a scramble of dirt, players,
and umpires, between shortstop and second base.
When it settles with a fist thrown down, and a slam of rain,
Players run for yellow buses, and parents to dusty pickup trucks.

God’s Handmaiden

The hand, warm and calloused
gently grasped my small fingers,
stroking them in a gentle beat 
to the sounds of the pastor's voice
sending love 
coursing through my body.

Those hands could dig a hole 
in the garden, pick the mulberries
and pears, take the apricots
and make jam. 
Sitting with her snapping beans
looking out the picture window 
at the trumpet vine blooming orange
along the porch posts.
 
Later I’d eat the green beans with bacon
and have a dish of ice cream with strawberries.
Her still voice whispers prayers 
between the line dried sheets 
and the basket quilt, snuggling me asleep.

A Baseball Lunch

Thursday, 
5:30pm,
meeting daddy for lunch,
where I’ll tell him about the baseball game in Lucas.

I’ll ask,

“Did you play on that field?”  

I’ll explain my confusion about errors
and did they have a 10 run rule?

“Tell me again about the time Satchel Page played in Sylvan Grove. 

 Did you get to see him play?”

I brought you my flowers to show from my work. 
The ham and cheese sandwich, 
bought at the home convenience store is soggy.

“I don’t think you would like it”.

“ I’d leave the flowers for you
 but I’m afraid the wind would blow them away.”

Plastic fields of flowers.
Polished granite stones stand strong.
Spring wheat sways in wind.

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Barbara A Meier( Pseudonym) is a writer living in Lincoln, KS. She has been published in The Poeming Pigeon, Pure Slush, Metonym, Young Ravens Literary Review, and The Bangor Literary Journal.

She has three chapbooks published: “Wildfire LAL 6”, from Ghost City Press, “Getting Through Gold Beach”, from Writing Knights Press, and  “Sylvan Grove”, from The Poetry Box. She loves all things ancient.  She works in a second-grade classroom and in her free time she likes to drive the dirt roads around Lincoln.

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