The Poetical Musings of Kevin Harling

A Poets Journey

It would be easy to sit on the perimeter untouched by life, but the sky decrees that the poet immerse himself in the perfume of the clouds.
Nocturnal light cannot shroud the tears of existence, the dead vegetation will not remain buried for long, walls were never constructed to withstand the bittersweet sting of truthful observation.
It is imperative to wade above the knees in the murky atmosphere, extracting with eyes wider than open, revealing every nuance no matter how subtle or subdued, showing its colour regardless of how beautiful or ugly. Every story has a right to be told.
It is necessary that the inhuman becomes human, that when the hands touch the pain, the ink does not belittle the suffering or the joy. It should never be diluted or bleached.
Integrity demands no compromise, it is not the time to shrink or begrudge the responsible duty to which one finds themselves a part of.
It is to such places that a poet is drawn, rendering the significance with tourmaline fingers, savouring the dew and soaking in the petals of life, like a bird of flight that is not afraid to land and stay awhile.


You are the Light

I light a candle to silence my heart
when night becomes a pillow of sorrow
when in the wind I catch your whispers
when the sun heats my soul with you,
but I cannot touch you.

I light a candle to celebrate the days
that you drifted like a feather of air,
soft and tender.

I light a candle today my breath of sea
that nestled deep within my coral flesh
and held my wishes like a precious stone.

I light a candle because you never flickered
you nourished my life with dreams and love.

I light a candle for tomorrow so I dare not
forget, your face of graceful white.

You who adorned my eyes windows with joy,
who held onto my hopes and fed them,
who always said goodbye as if it was hello,
who when it rained subdued it with rainbows.

I light this candle for promises and vows,
for the mourning light that I look for,
for the yearning that never fades.

I look for you in the hallways shadow,
wishing to see ghosts, and when a smile
crosses my brow, I taste your words.

I light a candle for you, for you live
in everyday I endure without you.

You are my light, my candle.



The Poet

I once wallowed between living, assuaged by a love imprudent. I kept an inconsequential leaf of crystallized silica to cleave my eyes to life.
I acquired favour, I was in the store of longing,
I breathed desires most foul waters, the barbarous warfare of disguises and aliases, I lived in a world where the flower was composed of seaweed, the lily,
devoured me like fire in a flaming quiver, and wherever I walked my spirit slipped toward the teeth of the gulf.
This was how my poetry sprang to life, hardly released from the thorns, held aloft and disciplined like isolation, or its most well kept flower secluded in the garden of shamefulness until it was committed to the ground.
And so alone like the brackish water that resides in its furthest reaches, I fled from palm to palm, to every person's station, to daily hatred.
I knew that was how they survived, showing only what was necessary, like fish from the most bizarre depths, and in the unfavourable regions I found death. Death opening windows and ways. Death dragging its cold fingers along the walls.


Today

I went for a walk before the sun had a chance to rise, so I put it in my pocket.
The sky was looking down with worry, cheeks full of puffy clouds, pouting.
I had to chuckle to myself, in a whisper really as I
wanted my secret to remain just that.
I felt the heat in my palm as the sun stretched its
legs, relaxed by the security of my skin.
I debated on how I could have done such a selfish thing, and when reason surfaced, I knew what had to be done.
So I took it out of my pocket, and making a wish, cast it high into the heavens.
As I pondered this morning, I got a chuckle and the sun smiled at me.


Ancient mists speak about destiny whisking the wind to faraway places.
Hills cannot hide from the sky, nor can a man being pulled by his land of calling.
I never chose the path it chose me and once held it would not let go.
Breath white and full of mystery suspends the passage of time, and for the briefest of moments
love held my hand.
It is the only thing worth living or dying for.


A Witness for the Prosecution

Like a larvae I have spun
my web of intriguing thoughts
purple and indifferent to
how the sun felt about
the moon.

I administered guile
with a syringe and injected
oranges with gelatin,
disregarding the instructions
printed in Spanish.

I discovered hope
in brown paper bags
at the grocery store,
of all the places,
they could not hold a lot!

I witnessed loneliness in
a Koi's eyes peering
at the sky from
its glass blue depths,
questioning its
opaque bubbles.

I saw rain delivered
by the postman
deviating from his
usual route, oblivious
to the way the water
was speaking.

I found peace in a
discarded trumpet in
a dumpster just
off Main St. and I
wondered what it was
like to make no sound.

I have witnessed love
in a myriad of colours
and shapes that looked
more like bandages,
and yet when properly
administered the sores
eventually healed.



What If

Zirconium skies swim in the clouds hope
asking unsuspecting questions
about how angels
talk,
foraging for answers
in the breaths exhaled
by whales.
Pods of people scurry about
in the rain exchanging
gossip like umbrellas,
architecture stands silent
looking on the way ghosts do.
Days meld into each other
like a loons song melts into the lake,
rippling like a cold chill
that warms the bone.
What if all of this was true,
what if armadillos sold
real estate on the savannas
smoking fat Cuban cigars.
What if the psalms were
actually recipes
for making stardust
and religion was actually
something made of plastic
recycled from myths.
What if water was actually
dried paper that was dehydrated
waiting for the touch
of something wet.
What if time was
going backwards
on a trampoline,
like a clown
who had forgotten
to put on his makeup,
lost and bewildered
by all the lights.
What if...


Once

I once held the plight
of a mockingbird
in my palms,
saw its face
bruised by kiwis
that looked
maroon.

I once cradled a crocodile
in my bosom of blue
twisting all his shame
with my tongue,
the words covered
by the sky's moss
light green.

I once gathered bees
in a jar full of spleens
and the tangerine yellow
seeped out of the lid
and the buzzing
went silent within.

I once tasted a frogs regret
all croaked and sullen
like pulling pollen
from a dark lake,
and the fish stood
idly by chattering
with gills.

I once saw the moon laugh
at the night
spooning adjectives
and snickering.

I wondered what was so
funny.

Once I spoke Hebrew
to a cluck of dolphins
and got no response,
should I have been
surprised?



Handcuff my eyes still blue and speaking calm
let the clock go mute and the water whisper silent
wind of my mind listen to solitude sky and when
everything seems perfect rest in the beauty of
sand....


I took the eyes out of the blue door yesterday
and opened another closet of dust, its settling
behind me in the corner like a mussel dream, I
am deciphering my next move, so please give me
a minute....



A Heart After a Long, Drawn Out Ending

Sides, we both took sides opposite one another,
setting up shop in corners, on the periphery, as
if closer was something that only happened on
shelves, where the dust is allowed to settle.

How could we expect a different outcome? Set up
like the sun for failure at the outset. Choosing
allies like cheap commercials, so quick to oppose
any sort of compromise, loosing our way in the
fields behind fences.

It was draining trying to keep up with the Jones,
in their picture perfect castle with the uni-block
driveway and California shutters made of pearls.
As if what the outside looked like made any real
difference, a competition of sticker prices and
Suv's made by Mercedes.

It was long and drawn out, the ways we waged war,
behind phone sets that had no cords. In secret,
plotting to out due each other at the BBQ with the
best cut of meat.

That's the way the heart feels,
winded and charbroiled,
totally out of breath and not sure
of anything anymore.



Melancholy

Words fall from the ceiling like stucco snowflakes
the red ochre miracles that were more like footprints
coming from your mouth.

Elephants are more quiet walking in high heels than
the drivel you spit out over supper.

Opinions that taste like rust served between two stale
slices of bread are swallowed reluctantly,
while you go on and on about the laundry left in the dryer.

Why doesn't the sound of your lips drown in its own innuendo,
weighed down by the anchored stones you throw around like kites.
I long for melancholy, how it sits waiting to be asked questions,
how it never demands anything.

Random Thoughts


Is it really Penguins dressed in candy cane
pajamas sitting having cafe au lait around the
Christmas tree in June?
No it can't be... HeHeHe


Take my hand and we will walk the water like
the wind, carefree and taking solace in the white
words we only need whisper, hello my friend
days of blissful smiling sea. Take my hand....


Sky aquamarine conch from here I see your face
smiling like today hours spent wondering
through glass pearl eyes longing to be free
fly away little bird....



All written by Kevin Harling