Kevin L. Kennel
The rattle of yellow leaves reminds me of clapping hands
As the wind reddens my ears with embarrassment over those hollow hours
Spent lost in a forest among low knife tipped branches.
I kneel in an empty November field and stare
Through the cold soil where I write my prayers hoping it will replace the echoes of old
My brain pulses with heat as I remove my coat so the memories don’t melt
And everyday has become a fumble in the dark.
How did I know when you slept that night you would awaken on Heaven’s dance floor?
You probably already heard Mildred’s melody of love mixing with our laughter when I
           fed you those canned oranges
As the juice dripped from your chin onto that clinical cot.
Your closed eyes and open mouth lead to a silent snore
Before the hope of one last Christmas vanished and I realized what antics of wounded
           meat we are.
I sigh and wonder if you’ll save a spot for me when I let you go.
It’s my last request since control is a difficult illusion to ignore and snow begins to fall.
Will it bury my prayers or are the flakes a mode of comfort?
An answer to guide me home before love’s dim light vanishes from the temple you built.    
But it’s hard to feel the cold and carry on until my sham becomes truth in this blink of

©2012 This work is the property of the author.


Posted on September 26, 2012, in Kevin L. Kennel, POETRY and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Kevin presents a persona of a wounded soul off center in the pursuit of its own revolving and recovering history while sorely addicted to a confessional if narcissistic fatalism with each line of the poem in coming attractions of more parables of its own apparent defeat at the chance of fate.

  2. Oh, I really like this: “and I realized what antics of wounded meat we are”

  3. Hello and thank you for the comments everyone and I am glad you like the poem. I wrote it in 2007 for my late grandfather who passed away in December of 2006.

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