Triptych: The Watchman's Tower
I. The Watcher
Who watches the Watcher,
sitting in the Watchman's Tower,
huddled over crib notes
etched into his skin—
a fingerful means trouble,
a palm's worth spells doom—
adding up the tally
with a glowing, gleeful grin?
I, said the Fly,
mounted on the wall behind,
a barb through each ankle,
twin needles to hold its wings.
II. The No Ones
Down below, the No Ones dwell
in crusted catacombs,
their bellies aching for deliverance
from their dark and dusty tomb.
The time has come—a chosen one.
They gather while the Watcher sleeps
to chant The Song of Reckoning.
A rumble cracks the catacomb,
a flutter of wings escapes unseen.
While down below,
the chosen one
lies belly up,
a circle of blood and afterbirth
soaks into the floor.
III. The Harbinger
In hunger born,
its wings still blessed
with the blood of the divine,
the Harbinger flies
once, then twice,
encircling the Watchman's Tower.
A third time and it's done.
Huddled, the Watcher fails to notice
the Fly, no longer pinned behind,
has grown a beak and feathered wings
and talons sharp as skin is soft
with a message for the blind.
The Village Pond
The villagers gathered
on Winter's eve
at the village pond.
Axes hefted in their hands
they formed a circle,
they sang their hymns,
they called forth initiates
to be the first
to penetrate
the virgin crystal mantle
beneath their feet.
A winter stillness
stung the air.
Some hung their heads
and mumbled prayers
between chapped lips,
then three times fell
the axes down
in a joyous burst
that spread the warmth
upon the ice,
down between
each fissured crack,
down to feed
the silent frozen one
beneath.
Winter came
the following day.
But as the havoc spread
across the land,
the villagers
slept in peace.
They'll have all winter
to decide
who will be
the chosen ones
to initiate
the pond with life
come the eve of Spring.
to the dogs
with feet deformed
we tiptoe
carrying trays of slaughtered meat
ignore the smell
it is just our skins
crumpled loose about our ankles
the meat is for
the canines
who bear a close resemblance
we hurry as they
nip our heels
their eyes upon dessert
woman in a hutch
held inside the rabbitry
she huddles close against the wire
each month they harvest hair and eggs
and leave her naked in the cold
at night she hears the singing
of the basket-weaver's song
and dreams of chocolate covered strangers
drowning in excelsior beds
one day she finds the cage left open
and fights against the muscle cramps
she leaps to freedom her neckline tearing
upon the ragged wire latch
they hear her squeals of agony
and come running in their Sunday best
to paint the eggs with pastel colors
and practice with their carving knives
Inebriates
Inebriates swim the tide pool shallows
alone in soft-shelled yellow skins.
With briny eyes like blood-dabbed baubles,
they wait for the high tide liquid swell.
In pairs, they ride the waves that swallow
to writhe above the stones below,
forgetful of the tide that tumbles,
killing quick the thickening spine.
Back into the low tide hollows,
floating sick with gills of green,
alone their skins return to yellow,
their eyes upon the tide above.
"Triptych: The Watchman's Tower" was
originally published in Cenotaph, 1997
"The Village Pond" was originally published in Cenotaph, 1999
"to the dogs" was originally published in Dreams and Nightmares, 1998
"woman in the hutch" was originally published in Dreams and
Nightmares, 1999
"Inebriates" was originally published in Fantasque, 1999
Kurt Newton - All rights on the poems have long since reverted back to me. In fact,
only Dreams and Nightmares is still publishing.
As you can see, I've been a published poet for quite some time. My
poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies over the past
twenty-five years, including Weird Tales, Space and Time, Eye to the
Telescope and Spectral Realms.
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