Sunday, October 24, 2010

the forsaken



the forsaken


the bloodhounds moan and snarl
the searchlights cut ragged rips in the fabric of night
and somewhere behind all this chaos
i hear your voice calling my name
as you wind your way
through the forest and the underbrush
through the swamp past the rocky ridges
and through every word i have ever written
all in the hope of finding me

i can hear you coming
i can hear the hoof beats of the horses
and the cursing of the men you have hired
to find me in this jumble of thoughts
and even when the trail goes cold
you remain undaunted
and whisper to your closest companion
that you must find me
find me here or find me there
dead or alive
it does not matter

along the way
in the villages and the towns
people have said to you
"Let it go ... he is lost and gone"
and i suppose
you grimace with disdain
never giving up the search
until after all the years of searching
and through all the minutes of hoping
you still feel alone and abandoned
believing that what was once so complete
i could and would complete again

Copyright © Kennedy James, 2010. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

a lament for middle c



a lament for middle c

you once sat at the piano
and played soft melodies
and i listened carefully
to your fingers
pressing your love
into my life
even as i realised
that the piano was badly
out of tune

when we were young
and green and ran wild
we travelled across the country
on a journey to nowhere
because you said
you had not been
there before
and i remember wondering
if nowhere was
the very place
i hoped i was leaving

for the longest time
we hung our dreams
across the nights
like stars pegged
to a clothes line
and when those dreams
dried to crisp disappointments
and there was
nothing left to do
we married
and made accidental babies

Copyright © Kennedy James, 2010. All rights reserved.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

they sweep by ...



they sweep by ...

they sweep by in the wind
like swirls of dusty pollen
catching hold in the earth
along seashores
and prairie roads
in the crags of grey rock
and by collapsed fence posts
it is a miracle that they survive to grow
and a mystery how soon
they are gone
these future flowers
with oh so small hands
holding dreams like wooden spoons
in empty tin bowls

Copyright © Kennedy James, 2010. All rights reserved.





© Kennedy James. All rights reserved.
All material in this site is copyrighted under International Copyright Law. Reproduction of original content, in any form and in whole or in part, save for fair use exemption, is prohibited by the author of this site without expressed, written permission.