I'm not about to shoot some ghost(Happened last week)

a poem by Rita Joyce Singh, India

Now, he had reached that way and way out look out post,
Few roads,dense jungle journey, impenetrable almost.
Sometimes rain,ravines, peaks of clouded heights,
Sometimes snipers, sometimes snakes give you a fright.

His old room was taken so he moved a block across,
A much better place and that too at a stone's toss.
His men warned him,"Sir, that block is haunted,
"Ah!, I see! That is why it is so, so unwanted."

"Geyser, well furnished. Why? Someone's loss is my gain."
For he pooh-poohed hocus pocus,thought it was insane.
After the'all safe reporting'he received at the last light,
Tired, he thought it best to flake out for the night.

Switched off, after he checked the safety pin upon his gun,
Early dawn and sunrise area so he set the alarm at one.
A good will,chirpy guy but didn't much care for prayers,
Didn't much care for 'Twilight Zone',spells or soothsayers.

A six footer, he struggled, snuggling up in that bed,
"These army beds!" Too short for him - toes up to the head.
"Let me stretch out diagonal,and fit in." Sleepily, he mused,
Midnight,awoke, to sense his feet and legs solidly fused.

He couldn't move at all,infact, to even adjust his feet.
In that dark, something clamped him,a cold icy sleet,
Being so well trained to alertness in sleep or wake,
His mind itched for the gun but fingers wouldn't shake.

That icy feeling bore down with the hardest pressure.
"What in heck!Foot to head ...am I having some seizure!"
He heard his hearbeat loud,his adrenalin quick pumped.
Taught combat to break vice-grip,he could easily have jumped.

But, he just couldn't move no, not one inch, one bit,
Quickly, uncluttered his mind to focus on realising it.
Something had intentions, something, beyond his ken,
Procedures replayed, use ears,calm down and count till ten.

Commonsense recalled old wives'talks, if spirit are near,
They binge and grow strong upon the energy of fear.
He calmed himself, if an enemy, being calm is to be brave,
His strong will, willing whatever it was to behave.

Slowly the cold weight, still present weighed less and less,
War of wills,then he was free,a door banged confirming his guess.
A guard dog barked, persistent, ending in a whimpering howl,
This was it,"aha!"He grinned in the dark, "A spirit on the prowl."

Seven whole minutes he was held in that cold,cold grip,
For once he prayed, during, but words had begun to trip.
His Hail Mary got mixed up with'Lead us not to the test',
The Apostle's Creed aborted halfway scared off or at rest.

When I phoned him to find out more,he said," Mom ..CAN IT!"
It happened,so,maybe I was tired, travel and unpacking my kit,
"I have a job to do, guard the living, to clear the coast."
Just for your believing, I'm not about to shoot some ghost.

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