POETRY KITe ANTHOLOGY

CAROUSELS

There is a painting of a carousel where
one by one the horses become real,
jump off, and run away.

I once knew an old man
who'd had many different children
with many different wives
and he said the horses in the painting
reminded him of his children,
running out of his life.

I have a daughter who's seventeen.
Her and my days of carousels
are long gone and she, too,
is sprinting out of my life.

And now I know how it feels.

Monument Station

When I come to Monument Station
the up escalator is howling and shrieking
like several dozen souls in torment
but the down escalator is silent.
The down escalator is silent
because the down escalator
is not really an escalator at all.
The down escalator is a set of concrete steps
with shiny iron treads all set neatly
in a polished steel escalator-casing
complete with motionless black handrail.
Every few steps of the hundred steps
I pass a small raised notice saying
PLEASE STAND ON THE RIGHT.
I obediently walk down on the left
politely mindful of the ghosts of luggage
hanging from ghostly shoulders of commuters
or perhaps standing at the ghostly feet
of all those ghosts of tourists
who have come to this escalator
and stood on the right
and stood here forever:
the ghostly monuments
of Monument Station.

MOVING ON

I have given up writing for the
small magazines
I want to make it BIG

I have taken my belongings to the
Bay Meadow's Race Track
and directed my mail be forwarded
to Radio Shack

In between the daily double
and the $5 Exacta
you will find me sitting alone
in the grandstands
next to the news vendor
with no hands
my eyes searching for the
woman of my dreams
spread out across the rail
my seed spilled on the grass
waiting to haul ass
if my car doesn't run out of gas
and the Pope is willing
to grant me absolution after
Sunday Mass

I am a collector...

I don't bother collecting
ordinary everyday things like;
stamps, coins, books, memorabilia
or other material things.

I collect experiences,
not everyday experiences like;
shopping, missing the bus
or even making love.

None of these appeal to me
I collect real experiences like;
being out in the depth of night
during a thunderstorm...

experiencing
a flash of lightning
changing the landscape
into a black and white negative.

I like new unusual experiences
to add to my collection like;
looking over your shoulder
as you are reading this...

_____________

Les Merton is the editor of Poetry Cornwall
www.poetrycornwall.freervers.com

I Have Fallen in Love with the Forth Bridge

Strapping girders,
lusty arches:
the span of my ambition,
shore to shore
you link me with the old bones,
the new ways,
the true trains that take me
down the path of all my loves.
You lift up your wide arms
to take in the tide,
roll with the shaking wind
that whistles in the rushes
of the wild banks.
You thrill me with your size,
your strong embrace;
you roar with achievement,
you make me proud:
I could hug you.
Let me take the Queensferry train,
slide through you to freedom.
The pipes play
and the kilts sway
to greet us.
You are the opening,
the gap we streak through
to the woolly wilds
of Auld Reekie
and Bonnie Old Dundee;
to the sea of workers' blood,
the red rust of the past that clings
and hugs the bones of dead engineers.
In the Albert Hotel,
tucked up, I hear you moan in the darkness.
Naked,
I pull back the curtains
and see you floodlit
in all your entrancing glory.
Shine on, shine
you crazy bridge.
You have my devotion,
you have my deepest darkest love.
I would climb you stripped;
I would feel you breathe in the Firth wind.
I give you my heart and soul,
I am frail against your depth.
You will outlive me,
do not mock me,
you are superb.
You are my outstretched lovely;
I will breathe through you,
long for you,
die for you.
Rock me,
go Forth
and inspire me.

A letter home to Ganymede (1)

it’s strange
these clicks and wires of language
communicate without a mental touch
their feelings held in fingertips
reveal a lightning that transmits
through haze of trickery

down wired poles across
their skin of land
life whispers words and meaning
scratched with blackened rod
read with eyes to dim to see the
universe in terms
other than their own

they have just
scratchings on a paper
to small you may think
to carry thoughts
just words to carry mood
yet what they do with them
what they do with them

this thing called poetry


website - www.poetrykit.org

POETRY KITe ANTHOLOGY is an area for representitive poems from invited guests. Publication here is by invitation only.

This is an area of Poetry Kit where I will publish poetry written by some of my favorite poets and will include some of my own. I will try to make this area as interesting and as varied as possible. It will include poems from some very famous poets as well as some who you may not yet have heard of. You can leave comments on any of the poems or send your comments to info@poetrykit.org.