Oct 4th/2009

In the Woods of Contemplation


Glacial illusions sing about passion
drifting like snowflake eyes
from this place to that,
between knowing and voices
that sound like hollow bells.

Time becomes symmetrical,
eucalyptus and sprawling like
rainbows across my horizon,
galloping into night like
a nocturnal steed.

It feels like perdition dawned a
coat, maudlin and professing grief,
struggling with the years wear.

The language is tangible, displaying a
tenure of stamina, floating in the air
full of muslin repose.

Here among the vines, syllables intersect
and collide with thumping consonants
that feel like thunder.

Here water trickles like mercury smiling
with puffy cheeks, even the punctuation
takes on colour, all the foliage
turns to crimson demanding to be heard.

The sky is full of branches, chattering like
chipmunks in long drawn out sentences,
asking for chestnuts instead of hope.

Everything is becoming nothing
the way a ghost is forgotten, swallowed by hours
of dust and fingerprints
that can no longer trace the chalk
green forest.

Kevin Harling.

October 2/09

Strange Lands

I have been accused by the stars
of trying to colour them anything but true,
they're twinkling dissatisfaction more than obvious.

I have been admonished by the sky for doubting
the grey clouds, whiplashed with a smirky blue
arrogance.

I have been misunderstood by the seas
with cresting waves of
disrespect clanging against my coasts.

I thought about the reasons with a crayon heart,
the tones of vermilion green regret and sorrow
filling every sense and then some.

I struggled to find the banks safety, grabbing onto
tall grasses who turned their backs to me.

I tripped around unbalanced by the air's breath,
cold and razor to my alabaster flesh peeling
and feeling like sponge.

I found shelter under a canopy of trees, listening
to whispering winds searching to blame, grasping on
to collusion like a final curtain.

I argued with myself, debating the space between
what is and should be, pondering why the colours
bled onto the paper like a tangerine.

On the horizon stones standing distant
talked about silence
in muted syllables of derision plotting
to overthrow and rout.

I ran like a kite soaring with doves, flapping my tongue
wings in panic, afraid of the grounds hands reaching for
my ankles to imprison my pens fingers.

I am lost in a wilderness of white and black consonants
gathering my mind in verses like a ghost.

Somebody help me decipher this conundrum, I am sinking
in a quagmire of deceitful envy, defending my positions in
sentences beyond my control.

I asked the moon about the nights cheeks, and when he
responded gently, caressing the twilight with smiles.

I realized everything has a price, what is wagered
is not the cost, but what is lost is the only thing
that can help you find your way.

Kevin Harling.