Friday, September 18, 2009

Searching the Skin for Answers

Thus Far

Everything that is
is and the same time
is not.

Like the wind that fills
my breath
with the sound of conch,
I feel the axle of earth
grind like a millstone.

I cannot fathom Heaven,
neither can I touch Eros
for the dawn and dusk
bleong to doves.

I hera the sound of topsoil,
the nondescript summer winds,
the undulating jib of water,
my hopes take refuge there.

I cannot grieve liberty
nor shall I confess to the moon
for my memory is full of excuses
to not speak, immobile and mute.

Who wrote the script of air,
where sleep deprived swans enchant?

I see mauve relaxing its colourless green
removing its apron and consecrating the
ground with her nocturnal mouth.

I am a descendant of futile prayers
whispering immutable lamentations
that fall upon the deaf ears of the escarpment.

I cannot taste the earth's flesh
for the bllod of self separates us.

Everything that is
is and at the same time
is not.

I am merely a man, searching for himself.

Kevin Harling


Words full of vertigo
crawl from the
bridge of my
and as
thoughts wind
and spill
like the
of falling,
vertigo green panic
unglues the sky
clouds scrammble
for cover
the colour is sheer
blue murder and,
I remember being
afraid to whisper
in the dark,
I hid under my bed
shaking the wait.
Vertigo tears fell
on the panelled floor
of pine in pools.
It was vertigo words
that lashed out my way,
words full of vertigo
and I lost my balance.

Kevin Harling


Uncommon steel lilies
floated in the sky
revealing nothing
but stale wind,

that sounded
peculiar like
breaths made
up of aluminum.
I could touch

the marble interiors
of my thoughts
being whisked
to some faraway
vagrant and responding
to atoms as if they

Here among the venom
all vanity is displaced
like water
shedding its transparent
blue face,
here ruin is a fabric
that transforms the
making it fit
for human habitation.

Tissue comes to mind
delicate and interwoven
like arteries
of white blood cells
and skin.

time dwindles
like a pin,
hours turn
into leaves
of crimson and gold
footsteps of ink
fade with the tides
ebb and flow.

Kevin Harling

1 comment:

  1. There is a beauty in Kevin Harling's poetry that touches the soul like stepping into the ocean for the first time in years. It fills you. Lovely. - Holland Michelle