Kevin's Watch

OK, I am on some sort of thing here where I am writing poetry. It will come of no good, but I have to get it out of my head and my system, and I can't create a new thread every time, so I will put them in here.

Here is the first three:

Driving home

They took a building out today
at that intersection where
the apartments used to be;
so when I was driving home
the sun seared through
the empty spot that was left
and woke me from the grey,
and a tear eased the burn away.

I stopped just in time,
because the light was red.
Confused, I looked around;
had I gone too far?
Did I pass the hosptital?
or the bank?
Did I pay the toll?
Did I miss all that?
It took a minute to figure out
where I was on the route to home.

I often do this,
grey out on the drive home.
nothing changes, so I wander;
I look at the streets of this intersection
and realize I have never been down them.
I do not take those streets,
because I know the way home;
Home is not that way, but forward.

It's like breathing, and you know
how we all forget sometimes
that we breathe?
and we all drive home.
Its a cycle we don't know we are in.
Breathing is life, but it is also automatic;
we feel we have no choice in the matter.

The light is changing.
The way home lies ahead.
but I hold my breath,
and turn instead:
West, into the sun.


The Mallards by the Boathouse

I came upon them as I was drifting
from the dark slip out into the dawn.
I saw them in their quiet paddling congregation,
full of soft noises and contented fellowship.

With dripping oar held still above misting water
I admired their tranquility for a long moment.
with a pull of the motor, I blasphemed their worship;
they rose, scandalized: honking and wailing,
expressing their indignation
with the eloquence of flight.


The burn pile

Every year I do this
when the summer heat is gone,
when the leaves have fallen,
and the year is winding down,
and the cold wind keeps them off the lake
and in by the hearth.
out here by the lake,
I burn

I drag the fallen limbs
down to the pit by the lake:
all of the detritus of summer,
leaves that were green,
and now brown;
all of the boxes from christmas,
the oar I broke, a rake handle;
pieces of lumber I used for the dock,
I burn these things;
I am cleaning up.
every year I do this.

By the lake, I burn
when everyone else is inside.
I watch the pile consumed
I am warmed by the fire and memories
I do not feel alone
my face flushes at the warmth,
and my hopes of next season
lift with the embers
glowing towards the heavens.
I watch them go up, hopeful.
Every year I do this

After,
the pile is consumed.
its just ashes and memories.
they smoulder there
by the Lake.
I go back to the house
up the hill; as I climb
warmth is leached away by the cold.
and she says with some disdain
when I open the door,
'you smell of smoke.'

Golden Transformation

I am not a morning person.
But often I struggle up this high path,
In the crisp dark before the day,
to breathlessly await the wash of ochre rays
that plunge the valley below into morning.

I sit on my usual rock, waiting, brooding.
for I know the sunrise, and all its lies;
dazzling promises of rebirth and hope
Seemingly banish the darkness below.
I shield my eyes from the glare.

I once found a gem in that valley,
whose aching beauty stoked my soul;
In whose light I flourished and awakened.
I feel the Valley yearning toward the light as I once did
while the illusion of love and light and hope persisted.

I lost it.
Not as a boy misplaces a trifle,
or drops it along some path
when other distractions called;
But certain loss, absolute:
I knew that when it was gone,
I would never hold it again.

So I watch the sunrise as I often do,
And realize again it cannot suffice,
Can never explain or replace or restore hope;
It only reminds and taunts and reawakens loss.

I rise, hating the golden transformation,
and retrace my steps back down the mountain;
Back to the old life, where I move among the living
and wait for the dark to return.


Fever dreams

What fever'd dreams has she awoke?
what tortured love have I bespoke?
Ebon Mane'd and eyes of frost,
she spake at me, my soul was lost.

she took me to her chamber-lair,
with silken bonds she kept me there.
in carnal bliss did we abide;
for hours or years I can't decide.

she free'd me then, an empty shell,
kissed me thrice and bade me well;
loosed my bonds and walked away.
where she's gone, I cannot say.

What fever'd dreams has she awoke?
what tortured love have I bespoke?
I dreamt her on some distant shore;
from here I'll love her, e'er more.

Nice! I really like "The Burn Pile"!

Thanks so much for reading. its lonely here

We're a quiet bunch, but we do check in from time to time! I like the Burn Pile as well.

more moved to top

Wow! I *love* that!!!!!!

God! I love that!

amazing. your work is amazing iQ!!

i had no idea there were so many wonderful poets here at the Watch.

you, Avatar, and Seareach are all BETTER THAN FAMOUS PEOPLE!!

thanks so much for posting your work!! please post more, more, more !

Lucimay wrote:you, Avatar, and Seareach are all BETTER THAN FAMOUS PEOPLE!!

...of course, you forgot to mention yourself!!!!

wudden worth mentioning.

What? You're one of the best poets I've read.

--A

thanks all for your comments

untitled

I am not a morning person,
But often I struggle up this high path
In the cold dark before the day
to await the ochre rays that wash
the valley below into morning.

I know the sunrise,
And all that it implies;
With its promise of rebirth and hope.
But that is not what it means to me.

I once found a gem in that valley
Whose beauty mere words could not describe;
only metaphor and simile could approach
the aching beauty of the light born within.

And sunrise is the only simile
That barely suffices to explain
The hope and rebirth it gave to me
While I held it.

I lost it.
not as a boy misplaces a trifle,
Or drops it along some path
when other distractions called,
But certain loss, absolute:
I knew that when it was gone
I would never hold it again.

I watch the sunrise as I often do,
And realized again it doesn’t suffice,
Can never explain or replace or restore;
It only reminds and reawakens loss.
Again I wonder if I have the strength
To go home again today.

I hate poetry. Whether it be Tolkien or Donaldson, I'm glad when they are done. And I recognize that neither are fantastic poets. They themselves would probably admit it. Didn't Donaldson say he's more a lyricist than a poet? Didn't Tolkien make fun of his poetry by having characters in the LOTR either deride Bilbo's poetry, or feel ashamed to share it (Sam in Lothlorien)?

With that said, I like the first poem better than all the rest. I don't know how to read poety in terms of meter or structure . . . but that one had some cool insights. I like when writers turn our attention to things we don't normally notice, even though those things make up the foundation of our being (like breathing). I like how that image is connected to realizing you're not paying attention to your route--which then makes you realize your route . . . and change it. That's some deep stuff, there.

The other poems didn't affect me at all. But, as I said, that's probably my fault because I hate poetry. Just getting me to read it is an achievement. As I've said elsewhere, I think you're a fine writer.

bump by request

I too thought that "Fever Dreams" was one of the better ones. That is not to say the others are not good, as they very much so are, just that this one "did" something for me.
I am a big fan of poetry even though I am not very good at it, I do very appreciate those that are, and you are one of them.

Quite amazing Questor, really amazing!

thanks alsem and Graehstone!!

Good stuff, iQuestor!

I have updated my untitled poem and given it a name:

Golden Transformation

I am not a morning person.
But often I struggle up this high path,
In the crisp dark before the day,
to breathlessly await the wash of ochre rays
that plunge the valley below into morning.

I sit on my usual rock, waiting, brooding.
for I know the sunrise, and all its lies;
dazzling promises of rebirth and hope
Seemingly banish the darkness below.
I shield my eyes from the glare.

I once found a gem in that valley,
whose aching beauty stoked my soul;
In whose light I flourished and awakened.
I feel the Valley yearning toward the light as I once did
while the illusion of love and light and hope persisted.

I lost it.
Not as a boy misplaces a trifle,
or drops it along some path
when other distractions called;
But certain loss, absolute:
I knew that when it was gone,
I would never hold it again.

So I watch the sunrise as I often do,
And realize again it cannot suffice,
Can never explain or replace or restore hope;
It only reminds and taunts and reawakens loss.

I rise, hating the golden transformation,
and retrace my steps back down the mountain;
Back to the old life, where I move among the living
and wait for the dark to return.

Hate to say this IQ but I preferred the original