The Web Poetry Corner
The Web Poetry Corner
Coeur D'Alene, ID, US
If you have comments or suggestions for Kirk Fisher, you can contact this author at:
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I've heard the last sound,
and it isn't loud and brutish,
like soft cotton sheets on clean feet.
A comfortable whisper.
Each note warm and low,
like a refrigerator hum on a Summer's day.
I've felt the last touch,
and it isn't strong or angry,
like the sound a lover makes.
A gentle caress.
Every finger finds a home,
rests for a moment and softly moves on.
I've savored the last taste,
and it isn't caviar and creme brulee,
but scrambled eggs,
made from rushing hands on a rainy day.
A full mouth.
Salt mines in yellow mountains,
sting like diamonds on my tongue.
I've seen the last sight,
and it isn't rainbows or sunsets,
like mother from under those soft cotton sheets.
A familiar shape.
I pull in my own warm air one more time,
sticky sweet, like cotton candy.
I've taken the last breath,
and it isn't bitter or sharp,
but thick and full,
like freshly washed hair still warm with water.
A clean, soft smell.
The smell of skin.
The smell of Mother.
I am home.
Let no air escape, let no light shine,
let nothing penetrate this shell we have created.
Like the chambered nautilus we shall move unencumbered,
through a clouded sea stained dark by those around us.
At once solitary, yet not alone
we shall travel quietly, and not wake the sleeping giant surrounding us.
We shall see no evil,
as we close our eyes to all but what is within our small confine.
We shall hear no suffering,
lest we become part of something's pain.
We shall speak no ill,
for what beauty speaks in silence.
We shall feel nothing but the space around us.
We shall feel nothing.
There's something familiar in the air,
nothing I can wave away at my hand's request,
but evident in every field my vision sows --
a thin veil covering a bride's beauty,
or perhaps more appropriately,
a softly out of focus lens hiding every earned fault.
This thin, cool, air at once invigorates,
yet underneath the scented aroma
of pine and sweet things,
I can make out the ripe, thick odor,
of something fresh left unfound.
Church bells ring, children run, bundled up, warm,
protected from wisdom by ignorance.
Carols are sung out of tune,
greetings tossed like yesterday's paper by
young men in red, stuffed and anxious,
waiting for the line to end,
while young women in green, pale and hurried,
have other ideas.
It's no mistake this time of the year
comes at this time of the year,
when days are short,
and mornings fly by on their winter journey
to find a more temperate zone.
How I envy morning.
My thoughts, like soft winds breathing lightly across a pool,
ripple, gently stretch and become like giants,
only to disappear again into some blue and green canvas.
Depth, no longer part of the equation,
seems irrelevant, like some stray hair
lost in the confused pattern of a tweed coat.
Words released, retreat from the light of day,
to find refuge in my embarrassed silence,
where they reform like old friends at a revival meeting,
who, together know all the words of every hymn and prayer,
but separated, lose all memory of any meaning they once held.
The water is dark and cold,
and me, my tongue abandoned like some poor soul
who just can't quite reach the rope thrown -
I stop kicking and let each advancing wave hit me.
"Just put your feet down, the water's shallow,
and you're all grown up now," I tell myself.
I try again, but this ocean is huge,
and I, left without a compass, am afraid I am lost.
Oh, gnarled, dry crumb, perched cautiously
atop my shaky fork,
cold and tasteless --
chipped beef on toast, soft white eggs,
a strong cheddar, made stronger with age --
all these and less.
As the topic of the day swings
surprisingly in my direction,
I look for my friendly face
in the reflection of the china cabinet behind mother's chair,
where I am no longer there,
nor may I be tomorrow --
replaced by a rubber ball,
perhaps, a radio, playing showtunes,
through the course of dinner,
for all to enjoy.
Slipping out of your clothes, you briefly glance at your naked reflection,
try to avoid the inevitable, and move slowly towards the shower.
Leaning carefully to keep your balance, you turn the dials
as the door shakes with the weight of a thousand regrets.
The soft mist fills the room, warms the air,
and reminds you of junior high school, the smell of the towels,
the feel of the cool, slippery floor under your feet,
and the innocent self-consciousness of youth.
Though no eyes sneak furtive looks your way,
you slip quickly under the spray, and find yourself immediately comforted
by the water which covers you.
You think, if only water was some magic elixir,
sculpting, carving the excess, bringing shape to my thoughts,
but it's only water.
The glass door is your enemy, the towel hanging on it, your friend,
as you try in vain to show your best side to the bathroom sink.
Grabbing the tiny soap in your hand, slowly covering the soft flesh
with streaks of white, your disgust swells with each circle drawn.
You're like some sick performance artist, making a mockery of the human form,
and you can feel the shame, the humiliation grow with each stroke.
The water cools with the gallons wasted, and the fog lifts
as your eyes meet in the mirror, and drag each other down
to the pasty, white shape underneath.
Surprise turns to revulsion, revulsion to hatred, hatred to wrath.
You clench your fists hard enough to draw light red half moons in your palms
and shake them at the door twice, letting a slight grunt slip from between your teeth.
By now the water is cold, but it doesn't matter as you can think of only
how monstrous you look, naked, angry, wet,
like Ahab's prey trapped in a telephone booth.
You try one last time, in your most coquettish pose,
to slip back into that soft comfortable denial you call home,
but there is no escape from reality this time.
Warm tears combine with the soft spray on your face,
as you shake your head faster and faster.
The walls grow hard and close, and you think to yourself how strange it is that you hear, more than you feel, your head striking the tiles over and over.
There is no pain, so you begin to laugh,
echoing like some demented Siren's song, with every beat of the wall.
You surprise yourself as the tempo grows, and your rhythm section follows,
building towards some sickening crescendo.
Laughing, pounding, you feel suddenly free of every burden,
and even the thick, cracking sound doesn't halt your song.
You dance on, as your field of vision narrows,
the bottom half begins to color itself
in soft red swirls,
whirlpools growing deeper, darker,
and soon you grow very tired,
and lay your massive instrument down.
Falling From Grace
Some familiar face in the mirror, just in front of my own,
steps in and screws with my sensibilities, confuses me,
and intoxicates me into a Bacchanalian stupor.
This is how I look today, this is me on a Tuesday.
I see no change, no lines, only the familiar ones.
This is still my nose, my eyes, my mouth, I own these pieces.
At night I sometimes awaken with the sudden realization I am no longer new,
And for one brief moment, the truth, like a bullet,
enters me and spreads its poison.
I now believe in magic, not some fat man pulling a card out of a rented tuxedo sleeve,
but the magic of youth, the pure unadulterated joy of ignorance.
It was Christmas every day, if only I had known.
It's like a twisted joke that just isn't funny anymore,
and I'm the punchline.
Now, slowly falling from grace,
there is no lifeguard, no net,
and no one at the bottom to pick me up,
and make me all better.