sunbathing

sunbathing

the wave-weathered rock stands

unwavering at the edge of the world

solemnly awaiting the end of things

as we conceive them, waiting for this time

in the not-so distant future;

the island of stone stands alone

as a school of fish flops over

the water and into the saline air

 

a platform rises far above the smog and mist,

the voices of men at work siphoning

oil from the depths of earthly chasms

hard hands pulling chains and heaving

heavy machinery as the red sun dances forth

from beneath the horizon,

and everyone is oblivious to the cries

of the green-haired sea maiden

her slippery tail caught

in the gears of a spinning contraption,

her arms sparring with the oncoming combers

as her limp body begins to dream of soft sands

and the promise of warmth

on distant continents.

la farce humaine

la farce humaine

a blue face surfaces from under high sands

glassy eyes agape in the derisive sunlight,

oblivious to our scurrying schedules

alarms ringing, briefcases shut tight

to meet the day with its residual siege

upon the psyche’s decaying battlements

lips which make no torpid speech

no existential accouterments,

arising in the minds of every age’s sages.

the specimen’s hair remains uncombed

down to the bruised and bloated cheeks.

oh how swell that tie would have looked

if paired with a blithesome face;

his countenance so unamiable

rendering the swankiest fashions an utter waste,

passersby ignore him; their pity inadmissible.

they buy new clothes, appliances, books they’ll never read

filled with countless injunctions they cannot heed.

 

the unwritten – a poem by Kenneth West

Please check out my latest poem on Amethyst Review, a journal that publishes writing that engages with the sacred. While you’re there you can give them a follow and read the other talented writers who are published in the website.

Amethyst Review

the unwritten

a monk sits alone in a cellar
on the sixth floor of a castle.
it is the end of the world,
and he writes by the light
of a fish’s phosphorescent scales.
what will he tell of the world
which has just ended? his back
aches beneath the weight
of the undescribed. so much will be
unsaid in the treasured annals
of the dead, but still he says
what must be said. he writes
of flowers and their evanescent splendor,
the pale pink of petals in spring light.
the ballpoint glides from edge to edge
of the crumpled paper as he tells
of the moon in its fluid phases,
of cake with thick whipped frosting,
people passing each other on their commute
through crumbling streets, and he muses
in wonder at how so much sustained the wreckage,
looking out the broken window, a shard of glass falling
far…

View original post 28 more words