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reigning drum beats
by Kyle Anne Kishflip flap
dont talk back
to the minister
who exorcises
the flim flam
in my head
until i can
hear my beating
pulse berating
me for not listening
to everything i spoke
earlier, when
the pineapples
were ripe
and juice
ran down
my chin
like a drooling
st. bernard.
soft spoken words
are much too late
and will not take
the chill from
my bones since
cowardice
has move
in and settled
with unspeakable
grace at the core
of whatever substance
i have left in me.
i cant say, good-bye
to the flashbacks
which plague me
whenever they feel
the need to come
out and play.
push pull
and bare
the bull
rushing me
as each breath
i take turns
into rasping
sounds from
a drum drumming
from long past
centuries where
i carried the torch
into the cave.
my war paint wore
off in the tidal
waves of time
and i dont
have the tolerance
or where-with-all
to start over
so i crush myself
through the bones
of time and listen
to my beating pulse. 09/13/2007 Posted on 09/13/2007
Copyright © 2025 Kyle Anne Kish
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Katerina T Nix on 09/13/07 at 07:02 AM I love the lack of punctuation. It makes the poem move like a fast heart beat. Excellent imagery. Well done and thanks for sharing this one, Kyle Anne. -Kat oxo |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 09/15/07 at 11:04 PM Well. I feel as if I'm inside this. How you wrote this, you must've been inside the wounds, them being outside for the moment. Incredibly written, my friend. |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 09/19/07 at 05:28 PM I just now "got" the wordart, too...
poke-along jill ;) |
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