Ghosting

Who doesn't love a gerund?  And we all loved Baxter. His working life was spent  ghosting  books for famous people who couldn't write to save theirs, who had the nerve but not the talent or the time to set things down in words. I'm not going to bore you with a list of his (often uncredited) successes. They meant little more to him than they'd mean to you and I've never read a single one, but Baxter was fun.

We were saddened and shocked when he suddenly went to join the host of ghost writers in the sky, but were not surprised that he had left behind his own epitaph:

                 Per vitam inspiravit, in morte vivit. (He ghosted through life, he lives on in death.) 

With Halloween spookily receding and firework night fast approaching, this week-end felt like an appropriate occasion to remember Baxter's spirit again. 

for ghost writers in the sky

I do so in my latest poem below, a simple, seasonal piece fired in the imagination but based mostly on real events:

Fireworks for Baxter
We taped three huge rockets together
with conspiratorial smiles and gaffer
(for all men are boys under the skin)
and headed for the nearest open space,

a park nestled in a curve of  the river,
the perfect amphitheatre. A lucky find,
one hollow bollard in which to point
our tribute skyward at November stars.

We lit three touch-papers and waited
an agonising age before that monster
roared up and away, drowning out
our manic shouts of 'For you Baxter!'

The river sparkled, air crackled, dogs
howled, car alarms wailed in unison.
We legged it as police sirens closed in
to find who’d blown a hole in heaven.

                 

Because today's blog is almost criminally short, a shadow of my usual forays, I thought I should throw in a musical bonus for good measure. I leave you with Dennis Linde (who wrote hits for the likes of Elvis Presley) with this rendition of Ghost Riders In The Sky from his 1978 LP 'Under The Eye'.

Happy trails and thanks as ever for reading my stuff, S ;-)