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The Thin looking Ghost

123456789One night I met a ghost.

He was looking for a friendly host. 

I said,’ You are looking very thin,

you had better come on in.’ 

‘Would you like a piece of toast?’ 

He replied, ‘I’d rather have a Sunday roast’ 

So there we sat, trying to get him fat, 

a three hundred-year-old ghost called Nat. 

We had a beer and he came over queer, 

and he quickly began to disappear. 

So that was the end of Nat; 

who never did get fat!

By Simon Icke, 

Footnote: I don’t believe in ghost but my father once said I bet our Simon will never write a poem about ghosts as he doesn’t believe in them. So after he had gone to bed I wrote this amusing little poem just for my dad. It made him smile when he read it. So this is dedicated to his memory: George R. Icke 1914-2000. Who was born in Salford & lived most of his life in Little Hulton, Salford)


The ghost of you


I saw a ghost

Walking through the woods

Was it you, or

Was it my imagination

Just wanting to,

To see your face

Illuminate the sky,

Whilst I try

To stop

My tears cascading

Like a waterfall



Down my face,

I embrace

Your memory,

I follow your footsteps

In the dark wet woods

In the deep of the night, 

My heart races

I sharpen my pace

I feed my hunger 

My urge,

To see your face,

I follow the memory

I follow the ghost

I’m all alone

With the memory

Of you

Gillian Sims






That part of me that I’d forgotten

At least in the public eye

Returned for a visit tonight

I’d wished it wouldn’t …

Thought it was safely tucked away


We all have a piece

Of our lives


Just around the corner


How we choose to remember

Is a key to fulfilling

The purpose of recognizing

The human condition


See the reality

And walk away

If we are quietly reminded

Somehow we remain there

Replaying the highlights

We no longer wish to see


Life happens

We have moments

To choose our direction

We desire to grow


Pardon my evasive

Response to your visit

I’ve just worked too hard

To return to your state of mind


I do look to truth to guide my way

For honesty, my life breathes today

Thom Amundsen – 2013

The sleepwalker

Like a ghost

Your face is white

You walk silently

Through the night,

You sleep walk

From room to room

Clinging to the hope

It will be daylight soon,

Your Victorian silhouette

Flickers across the wall

You tiptoe down the stairs

Then stop and hug the crimson hall.

You open your eyes

In front of the mirror

You don’t like

The person uncovered,

When asleep

You could bury

All of your memories to keep

By Gillian Sims

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