WARD KELLEY

Consoles Us Dying Ones

from histories of souls


Death does not come humble, it arises
like a lion, unsettles the air like a condor,
springs from the oceans as purposeful
as a dolphin cutting the horizon.

You should not lay in fear, you, the receptor
of this final expression of the breathing;
Death does not come forward to humble you,
it arises, an animal, to transfer you on and on.

Humble is not the stance to take 
in front of this creature of hope,
and it is only a lack of understanding
that keeps you from mounting the back

of this graceful, forgiving, beast.

copyright 2003 WARD KELLEY

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WARD KELLEY

Tygers, Sickles and Crack

from histories of souls


The destination, you know, is forever unseen,
suspected, intuited, but never squeezed,
even though thousands of religions
steel-trapped probable answers
such as incense, snakes or oft described graces . . .
opiates, some say, for whole populations,
while others contend the true laudanum
can be discerned while illuminating
tygers and xanadu:
we're all composing types of prayer,
and if words were a form of drugs,
then surely poetry is crack cocaine itself . . .
yet where is the source of such 
an exact exhilaration
if not the final certitude?
Unseen, but perhaps we can 
glimpse it in rearview mirrors
as poets make drive-bys at the truth,
scratching away with bones and cogs . . .
never quite squeezing off the headshot,
but wounding it for certain.

copyright 2003 WARD KELLEY

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