| Dark Poetry |
The Gratitude of the Dead
by Robert S. King
Some murdered men rest in pieces.
I am he who rakes this puzzle of flesh into one pile,
trying to fathom the loose fit of violence,
feeling a million cavernous mouths
relieve history of its debts.
What is eating us is seldom bright or beautiful.
So I say the bowels of earth should be full of light,
that I should bury this dead one with glow worms,
their light dripping down from my shovel,
curling up into little halos
around his brilliant peace.
He might even thank me
were his tongue not tied with worms.
The Ghost in the Barn Light
By Robert S. King
The bright animal brings the dawn in,
the sun a yolk in his pail of water.
In its mirror the bent farmer washes his hands,
fist deep in his own image, the seeds
in his pockets ready for burial.
Halfway to his digging,
he passes through my open arms,
through the porous weight of my caring.
I want to warm my hands on his brow, sing,
“Do not crack your head to hatch the soul . . .”
But I am music too light to touch down.
I pass through so many walls
without touching.
The Ghost Observes His Body
By Robert S. King
Rising above it,
it seemed no more
than a dying and tangled root,
something to tie me to earth,
something now lost and only
rubbing around and around
a tree, its face a wilting
lily revolving toward light,
its voice a whimper of flesh
rubbing off on the bark.
The Gravedigger’s Black Apple Beating
By Robert S. King
I am told the seeds that spill
from a black apple
grow up again.
I am told the seeds that ooze
from a black heart
put down roots.
Not to rising sky they anchor,
and what is the value of dirt?
It has no wings unless I fling it.
My shovel is the heavy wing
flying too close to the earth.
Hawks hear it at the end of their dives,
the choking sound it makes
as it pierces the ground.
I am told, I tell myself . . .
Oh, I must fill my ears with one sound:
thin roots popping as the blade moves through.
The Gravedigger’s Night Out
By Robert S. King
Tonight I’ll get high
with the undertakers,
pass around the suds
to wash this dirt from my eyes,
stagger home under stars
and in a golden fall release
my drunk bladder my brain
on a stone,
on a name etched into my sleep.
Morning foams into my mouth,
a memory,
and I am out of the mind’s soap.
Let my tongue be a bar of lye soap.
For a shovelman who bathes in memory
scrubs with dirt.
Let my brain be a sponge
I wring out every morning
when shadows steam up in the sun.
Let me pour whiskey on the sponge
and stand near the fire,
rubbing my fingers together
till they smoke and spark.
by Robert S. King
Some murdered men rest in pieces.
I am he who rakes this puzzle of flesh into one pile,
trying to fathom the loose fit of violence,
feeling a million cavernous mouths
relieve history of its debts.
What is eating us is seldom bright or beautiful.
So I say the bowels of earth should be full of light,
that I should bury this dead one with glow worms,
their light dripping down from my shovel,
curling up into little halos
around his brilliant peace.
He might even thank me
were his tongue not tied with worms.
The Ghost in the Barn Light
By Robert S. King
The bright animal brings the dawn in,
the sun a yolk in his pail of water.
In its mirror the bent farmer washes his hands,
fist deep in his own image, the seeds
in his pockets ready for burial.
Halfway to his digging,
he passes through my open arms,
through the porous weight of my caring.
I want to warm my hands on his brow, sing,
“Do not crack your head to hatch the soul . . .”
But I am music too light to touch down.
I pass through so many walls
without touching.
The Ghost Observes His Body
By Robert S. King
Rising above it,
it seemed no more
than a dying and tangled root,
something to tie me to earth,
something now lost and only
rubbing around and around
a tree, its face a wilting
lily revolving toward light,
its voice a whimper of flesh
rubbing off on the bark.
The Gravedigger’s Black Apple Beating
By Robert S. King
I am told the seeds that spill
from a black apple
grow up again.
I am told the seeds that ooze
from a black heart
put down roots.
Not to rising sky they anchor,
and what is the value of dirt?
It has no wings unless I fling it.
My shovel is the heavy wing
flying too close to the earth.
Hawks hear it at the end of their dives,
the choking sound it makes
as it pierces the ground.
I am told, I tell myself . . .
Oh, I must fill my ears with one sound:
thin roots popping as the blade moves through.
The Gravedigger’s Night Out
By Robert S. King
Tonight I’ll get high
with the undertakers,
pass around the suds
to wash this dirt from my eyes,
stagger home under stars
and in a golden fall release
my drunk bladder my brain
on a stone,
on a name etched into my sleep.
Morning foams into my mouth,
a memory,
and I am out of the mind’s soap.
Let my tongue be a bar of lye soap.
For a shovelman who bathes in memory
scrubs with dirt.
Let my brain be a sponge
I wring out every morning
when shadows steam up in the sun.
Let me pour whiskey on the sponge
and stand near the fire,
rubbing my fingers together
till they smoke and spark.
| To read other short stories, click one of the titles below. |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
| To read Dark Poetry by Stephanie Smith and Constance Long, click here To read Dark Poetry by Kathi Stafford, click here |