Poems From Last Weekend

Numbing the Hand

Warm hands, warm heart
Cold hands, warm heart
Numb hands, numb heart.

The hand that feeds
Is numb to your desires.
The desires of the heart
Are not felt in the outer extremities.

A rose with thorns
Leaves no sting on numb hands.
The companionship of held hands
Numbed.

Numb hands, numb heart.

 

Love Is Something So Divine

Love is something so divine
That it overlooks these numb hands of mine.
No ice melt water or slushy churn
Can halt me from the unflinching burn
Of that passionate halo – Love.

 

In Dreams You Appeared

In dreams you appeared
In flammable seaweed
Walking to shore with a cigarette in hand.

You light your cigarette
Setting yourself and all the shoreline on fire.

You represent the oil spill of my life
Contaminating my essence
Destroying the love that is divine.

Hibernating

The mud on my boots has hardened and the laces are crusty,

the lugs have dulled and the soles worn in.

My pack smells like campfire and dirt.

My pants are patched and stained.

My bottles have seen better days, they smell like chlorine tablets and I like ‘em that way.

I try and concentrate on my work but my gaze turns to the windows and wanders.

The leaves have all fallen from the trees here and the sun hangs low on the horizon.

Soon the skies will turn darker and flakes of snow will begin to fall,

And I’ll yearn for longer days and sundrenched trails.

So for now I’ll close my eyes and let my soul ramble on in my dreams, anxiously waiting

for a swift spring thaw.

The Strange Presence of a Man

Every morning he awakes in a strange home, he showers in a strange bathroom, he brushes his teeth and shaves the face of a strange person, there is something recognizable about the guy staring back at him through the mirror, as though he’d known him a long time ago. He makes his coffee and eats his breakfast and goes to work. He spends 8 to 10 hours a day working at the same place he has for the last 16 years. When the business day is over, he gets into the same car he’s driven for years and travels a strange route to the strange home he goes to sleep in every night.

When he remembers things, when he smells certain things that spark echoes of experiences past, the feelings attached to those echoes, seem different, they seem almost false, like they belong to someone else. As he gets out of his car and walks to the strange mail box to get his mail, his shadow keeps step, but it is only reminiscent of his self, even his shadow seems strange. When he lies down at night, in his huge strange bed, as he closes his strange eyes he begins to dream, in which he is always standing at the helm of a small ship, like a long sailboat. He stands gripping the cold teak wheel in his hands that never feel strange in his dreams. Looking out over the bow of his craft, he can’t see through the thick fog, as he glances side to side now and again he catches glimpses of shoreline both port and starboard but never fore and aft.

In his dreams he never questions where he is going, he just keeps moving, and the fog collects on his cheeks and rolls down his neck in clean, translucent droplets before soaking into his shirt collar. The only sound being that of the otherwise still, quiet water as it washes along the hull of his boat and forms a settling wake off the stern. There is an air of patient excitement for what lies ahead in the cool, bright, enveloping whiteness, and as he turns to look back there is an unsettling notion of darkness that stains the fog left behind. There is no strangeness here on this vessel; there is no pain, no sadness, and no loneliness. There is just present time, an existential existence, a sentiment of being present for the sake of it.

And so he dreams, and when he wakes, he opens his strange eyes, sits up and stands at the window and looks out at the strange tree in the backyard. There is no boat, no vessel to quietly drift upon, and as strange noises slowly collect in his ears, so does pain and loneliness and fear followed by desire, and hope and a sense of wonder and desperation.

Hills

The long day slides downward over empty rooms
where I rest, finally, feeling my bones
shake looser inside my flesh,
feeling my heart,
small and tight as you left it.

I’ve traveled the long trail
out from the interior
to these sunburned hills,
brown below an unforgiving blue.

These hills,
where once our boots crushed the wild sage
to scent the air,
where once our white dreams flew,
pale cities, pale menageries
vaporous and gleaming in aurora.

Copyright Kay Winter

Don’t Cry for Me

I have lived my life well, and I have seen the beauty in this world expressed in the lives and the eyes of my children.

I have seen my share of sunrises, the colors exploding across the horizon, painting the sky vibrant and hopeful.

I have seen also the sunsets, how wonderful, quiet and serene they have been.

Please don’t cry for me, but celebrate all that we have had, the smiles and the hugs, the quiet times reflecting each other’s place in our lives.

Know I am in a lovely place. Also know that my heart and my soul still wander through each of your lives, flowing through your thoughts and dreams of me. I will never leave you, I am part of you. And I will forever be present in the love you share for each other.