In March of 2009, the poet Rachel McKibbens introduced the poetry community to the concept of the “ghost line”.  McKibbens defines the ghost line as “an inspiring line or image that becomes the unseen first line of a poem”.

The poet Ollie Schminkey provided their readers with a poetry prompt on April 9, 2025.

The prompt is as follows:

Use a line of a lyric from a song you have been listening to as a ghost line.

Here are a few more “ghost line” poems.

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i: rain

These shapes I see in the darkness all conform
to your figure
and your cologne is like petrichor but faint.
I think if I listen to the silence long enough,
I can hear you whisper my name.
(Don’t tell anyone –
they’d think I belong in bedlam.)

But, as I trace raindrops along my windows,
I remember scribbling in my Latin book,
Amantes sunt amuntes –
lovers are lunatics –
and it doesn’t take the taste of rain to know
the truth.

I’ll continue to watch the raindrops trickle down
and chase shadows in the dark,
but I won’t surrender to the madness
because this is love and every silent evening,
I whisper to see if I can hear your echo.

ii: changing seasons

Here we are, chasing these temporary highs
like nightcrawlers leaning close to their radios,
begging for a fix,
but in a sad state of panic,
you told me you thought your blood froze to ice
(and you said you didn’t want to self-destruct
to stay warm).

I offered you a cigarette,
but you shook your head and said,
“I don’t want a solution for my problems –
just someone who can commiserate.”

So, we went outside in autumn
and watched the leaves change colors for a while.
You told me,
“It’s nice to remember that even dying can be
beautiful
for some.”

iii: hiraeth

Every broken bone I never set right
aches on me
as though I have been falling asleep in airports.
I’m never where I want to be
because I swear, I don’t know where I want to be.
Is it homesickness, even if you don’t know
where your home is?

I traveled a thousand miles from here
just to end up back in this wasteland
and I booked a train ride
out of town
because a girl with straw-blonde hair
read from the Rider-Waite tarot deck,
telling me to leave this city behind.

(But everything hurts when I remember
the details.)

I watch it all like it’s a dream.
I pretend it’s not my life,
but that has to stop.

Everything hurts like an unexplained car crash,
but even though I’m a thousand miles away,
I’m the one behind the wheel.
(And is it homesickness,
even if you’re already home?)

Isabelle Palerma