It seems I will never escape the nightmares that have plagued my sleep for many, many years. I have a great deal of poems that have never made the leap to a forum in which they could be read by others, probably a book or two of them, at least. But picking up one of these "stray" pieces of paper today, I am reminded of the constant battle that I am forced to live with, to sleep with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Burn Mark
I’ve never used
this old desk – as a man.
I sat here, but not here
talking on the telephone – as a child.
This burn mark
it’s from dad’s cigarette
Merit I think it was.
I touch it, move
my finger over it
back and forth
the width of it.
And somehow
by touching it, I am
closer to him
to that time.
Nightmares.
Nightmares: every night
last time dad was older
we were running toward
each other, shooting our guns.
He has been gone for thirteen years.
But when, when will I find peace?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
lately I can’t seem to find the poems.
I’ll write three pages of warm-up poetics
and end up writing a haiku that no one will ever read.
I don’t know where they’ve gone.
I’ve become every song. "Ground control to Major Tom."
I am the poetry. I am poetry. I have become the poetry.
It stands from my every pore, worships the haze of light
that surrounds the night and the moon on a hazy hot evening in June.
Where have all the poems gone.
Have they passed away.
Have I said all there is
to say.
Voices drift afar
far the friendships they once were.
But why?
Focus. Where are the poems.
Where have all the poems gone.
Where do they sleep.
Do they creep
between the cracks
beneath my feet
or drift far into the heavens
like smoke twists into outer space
separates and dissipates, communicates
a language unknown but universal
to the stars.
Where have all the poems gone.
Have they passed away
given way to Marx’s herd mentality
thinking patterns underneath
an empty night sky?
microscopic drop
awakens anticipation
only to stay dry
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Burn Mark
I’ve never used
this old desk – as a man.
I sat here, but not here
talking on the telephone – as a child.
This burn mark
it’s from dad’s cigarette
Merit I think it was.
I touch it, move
my finger over it
back and forth
the width of it.
And somehow
by touching it, I am
closer to him
to that time.
Nightmares.
Nightmares: every night
last time dad was older
we were running toward
each other, shooting our guns.
He has been gone for thirteen years.
But when, when will I find peace?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
lately I can’t seem to find the poems.
I’ll write three pages of warm-up poetics
and end up writing a haiku that no one will ever read.
I don’t know where they’ve gone.
I’ve become every song. "Ground control to Major Tom."
I am the poetry. I am poetry. I have become the poetry.
It stands from my every pore, worships the haze of light
that surrounds the night and the moon on a hazy hot evening in June.
Where have all the poems gone.
Have they passed away.
Have I said all there is
to say.
Voices drift afar
far the friendships they once were.
But why?
Focus. Where are the poems.
Where have all the poems gone.
Where do they sleep.
Do they creep
between the cracks
beneath my feet
or drift far into the heavens
like smoke twists into outer space
separates and dissipates, communicates
a language unknown but universal
to the stars.
Where have all the poems gone.
Have they passed away
given way to Marx’s herd mentality
thinking patterns underneath
an empty night sky?
microscopic drop
awakens anticipation
only to stay dry
Labels: Where have all the poems gone?
posted by Sir James Eric Watkins at 11:42 PM
3 comments
