Sunday, November 29, 2009

Hello My Friend.

This is from back in the summer,
or perhaps spring.
I think it was before I had my heart attack,
or one of them.
It turns out
that, most likely,
I've had others.

I wrote a new poem,
which is posted below.
I hope that you enjoy it.

I used to deer hunt with my father
before he died.
I never killed a deer.
And now, I'm glad
that I didn't.

The Hunter's Fresh Kill

The Hunter’s Fresh Kill

Once a heaving beast
running through the forest
he now lies in pieces
in a large bowl

brought up and over
the side of a pick-up
truck by a feller with
an accent and a col’ beer
in his other hand.

He offers to share
the feast. I accept
the meat, call upon
the creator to bless it.

The meat is washed
cooked and eaten
thereby giving purpose
to the hunter’s kill

and a final prayer
is said for the spirit

still running
through the forest.

(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins

Sunday, November 22, 2009

The Quality of Mercy

“The quality of mercy is not strained
it droppeth like the gentle rain
from heaven upon the place beneath.
. . . It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

— William Shakespeare

Rush me forth
into your heart
hear me

for what I say is the way
even though I stray from the path

I can only admire enlightenment from a distance
from further and farther and further away
like a distant star twinkling in the night
from further than a crawled mile on a gravel
road, palms and knees torn to bleed, moistening
the dry dust beneath. More like to the outer edge
of the milky way.

But here now,
it is time for us to travel.
the torches are all lit

and most will die out
before we reach
the millionth mile.

That place in the night it is unreachable.

But it’s the way we travel, the way we move, that is of most importance.


No matter how well
I seem or how long
it has been between

he’s always there
just beneath the surface
waiting to be released

to lash out
to scream

he is the bad man
and my body and mind
his habitat

No matter how high-minded I think
I’ve become or the level of patients
I achieve, his face always rears again.

He is angry
for being abused
for being born
for having to watch
his aunt die in the same room
with him when he was nine
and for watching his mother
lose her sanity as a result
for watching the late-night fights
the cocain binges and the whiskey
splattered on the wall at 2:00 a.m.
for his mother being beaten
while he helplessly was forced
to stand by, for hearing the smacks
and cries from the darkness of the next room
where he prayed to god to save him.

But god never came.

I—I am madness
with a twist of reason
watching benevolence
like a distant star

he—he is all anger

(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins
  • Promise of Light

  • moon phase info
    My Photo
    Location: Far Side of Sanity

    And the iguanas dance in the desert/a thousand miles away from this place/and this face: stoned immaculate.

    "Let us remember . . . that in the end we go to poetry for one reason, so that we might more fully inhabit our lives and the world in which we live them, and that if we more fully inhabit these things, we might be less apt to destroy both." Christian Wiman, Editor of "POETRY" "Hang on to your hopes my friend; That's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away, simply pretend that you can build them again." ~ Paul Simon

    Powered by Blogger

    "Imagination is more important than knowledge." ~ Albert Einstein