Tearing Down – dverse #OpenLinkNight ~ Week 59

Posted on | August 28, 2012 | 8 Comments

tearing down

 

There was an elevator here once
It was here longer than I’ve been around
it was big enough to be a landmark of sorts
they put grain in it, of course, I don’t know what kind.

It was funny how they took it down
caterpillars with crab claws
instead of buckets, pulling it down in
big pieces, then tearing them apart
like carnivorous ants, saving the metal
it made me think of finding coins in an old couch.

They scrunched the metal up into cubes
giant dice covered with runes
that only told of the end of things
not much future around here any more.

The docks haven’t been used for decades
but they haven’t been torn down either
no metal to salvage I suppose
the ships still came when I was a boy
up the river at high tide, to be left
high and dry when the water went out.

But the swallows still twist above the dyke fields
gorging on insects with wild choreography
and even though it is a new bridge, the grackles
still rise from it, a sentient cloud greeting the dawn
the cows remain unwary of the butcher’s blade
and the fox still stays safely away.

The ravens chortle at me when I pass the corn
whispering dark crow humor into the tasseled ears
then flying ahead to make omens in my sky
and I wonder if there is a machine for me
to pick apart my bones and pickle my flesh
and see if there is anything left to salvage.

25/08/12

copyright 2012 – Bauke Kamstra

#openlinknight – week 59 – http://wp.me/p1GTyJ-13G

Please comment.

 

Moon Man – for Neil Armstrong

Posted on | August 27, 2012 | 10 Comments

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I look at the moon
that old man
who winks at me
having been there
longer than
history
and I think of the man
who set his foot
in that quiet place
now gone deeper
into mystery
than the moon ever was.

27/08/12

copyright 2012 – Bauke Kamstra

Please comment.

 

Box Empire

Posted on | August 26, 2012 | 4 Comments

 

It is all about the streets
here where all the poets live
and sundry other beasts
primed to survive
but not wise.

The Romans knew this
they built an empire on roads
they made themselves for
before that there was only
the rivers and the sea.

It is a different empire now
an empire of boxes
boxes to live in and
boxes to ride around in
boxes to keep the sound in
when running around
with no where to go.

But the streets are still here
outside every purposeless window
lost to the boxes watched
inside the boxes.

There are still a few
who walk the streets
the poets and the poor
the vendors of dreams
made of powders and flesh
and those with no dreams left.

I still dream
I dream of a street
that so far eludes me
a street that does not lead to a box
but a place called home.

 

17/08/12

copyright 2012 – Bauke Kamstra

 

Please comment.

 

Pillow Man

Posted on | August 20, 2012 | 3 Comments

You will go to bed tonight and hug your pillow
and you will drift slowly and silently into sleep
quietly your sleep will turn into a dream
a dream perhaps of me, a dream of
a scent that is familiar, of words that you love
a dream of a look you once had that ignited
a small flame within you, a dream of many
who have been in your dreams before, who
you have seen across rooms, plazas, who
have touched you in a certain way.

Slowly that pillow that you clutch will change
as a pupae becomes a butterfly,
it will change from that soft cocoon,
and it will become a man
not just any man, but the best of any man
you have ever known, the best of any man
you have ever imagined, the body of a god
the heart that beats strong, that embraces
and protects, the touch so gentle, yet firm
with no trace of hesitation or regret
the fresh heady scent
of wood, leather and soap
the taste of strawberries, but something more
something spicy with a bit of heat in it.

His strong arms will surround you
so strong, that if you were a child
he would throw you up laughing
and never fail to catch you
and yet as gentle as a breeze
as his long, clever fingers, caress
and tease the knots of care and worry
a healing of scars made by tears
of cries that have echoed for years.

Within that deep entanglement
the body’s warm oils will flow
and every part of you that needs a touch
will be touched by hand or eye or mouth
just when that touch is needed most
and O the kisses, firm and sweet
you will think he has ten mouths
and an educated tongue.

When at last you are replete
far off you hear a song so sweet
subside to silence wide and deep
and with those arms still warm
you settle back down into sleep
until the slow dawn slowly wakes you
with a sigh the dream escapes you
you open your eyes to your pillow
and see the red rose he left you.

Please comment.

copyright 2012 – Bauke Kamstra

 

The House of Sleep

Posted on | July 18, 2012 | No Comments

What is the source?

Is it a great flaming sun
fueled by passion’s heat
the fusion of life and mystery

Bound by the gravity of its words
the poets all orbit the source
their faces perpetually turned
to its lambent flame.

But this is the poet’s realm
where truth and metaphor mix
this sun a metaphor for truth.

For every poet who
imagines the source
there is another metaphor born.

Where truth and beauty conjoin
there lies the poet’s realm
every metaphor a path
that leads to its door.

How many poets stop at that door?
turn away, content.

Those who dare the door
come to the House of Sleep.

The sky is dark with raven wings
for here the rooks rule sky
the House clings to the earth beneath
you know it is the center
where forces meet
the House tells you
if you listen.

It is a castle without battlements
yet inside it is larger still
no one knows
all its ways.

Life did not begin here
but all spirits pass
living and unliving
in this place of dreams
and the dreamers roam
caught between one glimpse
and the next.

Here in the House of Sleep
are the doors that open
for a poet’s breath
that none other may pass.

More doors there are than these
doors to all the worlds
whether the dreamers be there or not
and doors to all places past
and the places that may be
for what is forbidden to mortal men
dreamers and poets may pass free.

This is the poet’s hearth
this House of Sleep
and if it, too, be a metaphor
know that it is truth as well
and be prepared
to come here when next you sleep
if you are a poet
and if you dare.

 

 

Please tell me about your visit to the House of Sleep!

 

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