.
Pond Scum
.
Henry David Thoreau made pencils.
I don’t know who made telephone poles.
I feel like an endangered species
looking for a habitat to survive in.
I was once born again on a dead end
but the details remain fuzzy
though my soul, my heart and my mind
feel pretty good about it.
.
I’ve been sermonizing my salvation
with each step I take.
The sidewalks are like scripture to me
each block unfolding like a new chapter
and the promise of a new beginning
is always at the next intersection
where I might muse about macadam
ponder the potholes
and contemplate the beauty
of concrete curbs and crosswalks.
.
I’m not interested
in the middle of nowhere,
I’m more fond of the edge.
I am hoping this train of thought
leads me down the tracks
to the stream of consciousness
where I might step in twice,
but very lightly
for there are slippery rocks.
.
I was wondering of the place
where form existed before the idea
but it was just a thought
I found in an old book of Greek philosophy
and I got lost in it
although if I keep rubbing words together
eventually I will spark a fire
and burn.
.
Eventually, even the most beautiful
flower will wilt and fall asleep
and if I find it lying mangled in the street
I might use it as a line in this poem.
If life is God’s music
will the chorus end with a round of applause
for a song well sung
or will there just be silence?
Joy
.
An ocean of silence
permeates a dream
in perspectives of wave
like a spastic swell erupting
from a bubbling cauldron
caressed by silvery moonlight
reflective upon the dark waters
of wisdom
.
I am floating within the waves
amidst one sea of many currents
that whips turbulent furies
of white foam upon gales spray
so that I can’t even speak
of sometimes ascending to crest
or brutally plunging to a crash
smashed upon a rocky shore
.
Then arising
in consciousness once more
amidst swarms of jellyfish
sea birds punctuate my phrases
with a deep dive
God help me, I’m alive
but breaking up again
yet, it is only then
that I become free
free to be – just a sea
.
Though my tidal drift
awakens slow
my current spirals
whirlpools to far below
into the inky darkness
among antediluvian caves
where all the lost waves
eventually go
.
Heidi-o
.
sage of the late night college radio
haunting midnight vespers static free
all wise on high fidelity at 91.3
.
you made morning dew for the suffering
stones who stumbled about the lost years
guided only by the faintest melody
.
as yesterdays children danced
in the blue, blue light of midnight
the sacred rituals, rights of passage
.
the words you spoke, songs you played
the writing on the wall in the hall
a sweet litany of wildness
.
beyond the path beaten to your door
where we always found the answer
to be spontaneous, tribal and free
.
for each one of us manifested a shaman
bopping in subliminal drunken dance
to the primal beat and rhythm
.
so sad though, I never really knew you
in the dust and the poem of time
I only used you for this verse
.
for these modern rags I wear
I filled whole notebooks of nothing
just trying to be something more than I took
.
I was a young euphemism of rebellion
looking for a metaphor of God
in a bong load of dependency but not friendship
.
we were just free verse passersby
intersecting in an eternal high
years after they used to call you Heidi-O
.
I only remember you as Elaine
as a gold dolphin and a rolling rock
I don’t remember your major at school
.
or your philosophy on album covers
close to the edge at terrapin station
the metaphysics cut from the rock of truth
enlightening the semantics of our youth
for you were the lost flower who blazed the path
and I thank you for the generosity
.
I thank you for putting up with me
for disposing the flames of conformity
for inspiring the miracles
.
so necessary for my emancipation
that was only then beginning to arrive
.
Carl Kaucher is a poet, photographer, and urban explorer who lives in Temple, Pa. He is the author of two chap books, “Sideways Blues ( Irish mountain and beyond )”and most recently “Postpoemed” His work has appeared in numerous publications and on line. The writing explores his experiences wandering urban spaces near his home and throughout Pennsylvania. Using his photography and writing, Carl has been exploring the overlooked places and documenting the chance occurrences that happen to him and by doing so gives us the opportunity to reflect upon those similar events happening in our lives also. More info can be found at https://www.facebook.com/CarlKaucher/ and on instagram @Carlkaucher.
North of Oxford 