Poet's Platform | 24 Jan 08

Flight of the Falcon
Derelict sky: a single bird flies.

he winged-scavenger glides,
encircles the center of my area.
Nothing else exists, just this:
deserted grayish-dimension
nothing on the wires, nor ground
no sound, just a bird . . . a man
A mist falls on his outstretched wings
on every feather spread on his mighty back
and as the rain thickened, he repelled it
shed it, like a broken-minded man sheds tears
Motionless flight suddenly shifts
The bird’s glassy, black vision
channels down
upon these emerald
shimmers, and a vacuum culls
his eye to mine, calls my substance to the sky
His panorama becomes my own
Yet, I still stand in this gray, cool drizzle
to watch him fly away, alone, forgotten
in search of the crystalline . . . azure . . .
that left him behind

James Eric Watkins
Milton, KY

Dreams

Sleep comes on soft, feathered wings
Its warm embrace quiets my restless mind
My heart is at peace and my soul sings
The songs of the sea and the windI am surrounded by my dreams
They take me on flights of glory
On brave charges, on championship teams
Enhancing my mundane storyAll my petty problems disappear
I am rich beyond belief and loved by all
No calamity do I fear
No challenge too daunting, no barrier too tallI am bound in a youth eternalAttracted to and by the fairer sex
My features chiseled and my body tall
No storms impede or hinder my trekAs the light intrudes on my imaginary worldIts cold features erode my contrived foundations
All my seams are unfurled
There is no permanency to my illusionsI must hurry through my busy day
With its convoluted ways and means
For when darkness falls and the sun is away
I can lay me down and dream.

Charles Lloyd Turner
Hazard, KY

The Note

A crumpled note upon the table sat,
With tears and scarlet blood ‘twas spattered full.
I smoothed its gory, crimson wrinkles down
And read with pain the fateful words thereon: “Dear Friend, for you alone I count as such,
Please mourn me not though I am gone fore’er.
Know that I die at peace with God and man.” I read once more the crumpled note and saw
That blood like ink had formed the words of truth,
Between the lines of lies, false peace, and death: “Do you know what it is to live, not life, But death instead? To laugh when tears are felt? To have no meaning, purpose, truth, or love,
But only hate and void, and emptiness?
Thus know: no peace at all have I in death.
As bitter was my life, so am I now.” All this I read in blood between the lines.
With struggle kept I back the tears; the pain
Ached on and on within my heart and soul.
And now, the house of death behind I left,
And the crumpled note upon the table stayed.Kenton Sena
Hebron, KY

Poet's Platform Column | 24 Jan. 08