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.

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.

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.