Holy Ghosts by Christopher Woods

I would spot them in the sky

Above me,

Sitting on wires or in trees,

Sometimes swooping so close

I could almost touch them.

When not beating us,

The nuns taught us

About Catholic mysteries.

My favorite was the Holy Ghost,

A special kind of white dove

That made me think of vampires

Until I realized I could go to hell

For such a thought.

These were the young years of belief

In unfounded and unexplained mysteries.

Awake into late night, arms outstretched,

I awaited my personal stigmata.

I hoped for some kind of martyrdom

To make my life worthwhile.

But the Holy Ghost lured me most.

Each white dove personified it.

I wondered which dove was the one.

If a dove came near enough,

I would call out to it,

Ask it to identify itself as the one.

I was relentless in my questioning.

Years passed. I grew up,

Learned how improper it was

To yell questions at any sky

And whatever flew across it,

Learned how mysteries

Were nothing more than superstition

Passed down, and down again.

These days the white doves fly

Without my help or questions.

The void yawns wider.

Newer mysteries have come to play.

I don’t look up much anymore.

About the author:

Christopher Woods has published a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a book of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. Other photographs of his are in an online gallery that he shares with his wife Linda, at THE TEXANA REVIEW. He lives in Houston and in Chappell Hill, Texas.