Poetry

Poem: Bulgogi
Author: Harper Kingsley

The sizzle of the meat on the charcoal grill
makes even the coldest of days feel homelike,
dreamy, reminiscent of a childhood spent wandering the hills.
Barefoot and laughing, joyous without worries,
each bite takes me back to that time,
when the world was possible and every hope was mine.
Wrapping bits of meat with fresh lettuce leaves
plucked straight from the garden,
garnishing with garlic and spice.
Sipping barley tea and watching as watermelons are split,
juice running wild, black seeds escaping into the grass,
a delicious end to a wonderful life.

Poem: I Would
Author: Harper Kingsley

Last week on Sunday while the world wept
I dreamed of beautiful sunlit scapes and escapes
of leaving behind the winter melancholy world of now,
returning to the days of yesterday’s summer.
My dog barks in rasping growls, threatening violence
while hiding under covers, waiting to be saved.
He is weak while I am strong, bent where I am broken,
his fur is rough with bristles, sweating when he runs
chasing rabbits and poking into warrens, uncaring of thistles and thorns
while I sit on a bright orange bucket writing poetry never read
dreaming of a fame and fortune I’ll never find.
If I could I would move cross country, following the sun across the sky
or I would buy a house with indoor heating and extra blankets for when I’m cold.
I would never have to try and sleep while my bones shudder and shake,
my teeth chattering hard enough to hurt my jaw
as I squeeze my eyes tight shut to ignore the ache in my toes I’m too young to feel.
Every winter leaves me feeling older,
while summer takes longer and longer to arrive
and when it comes I never want to leave it.
I would let the sun warm my bones as I forget the winter chill
I would stay the same and change only some things all the time.
I would run as far and fast as I could from the things I hate
and the people that scare me.
I would do much if I could, but I only have dreams.

Poem: This Is My Dead Song
Author: Harper Kingsley (Did I write this one? How weird)

There are times when I wonder what love tastes like,
thick and salty like life blood or watery like weak tea
slurped out of saucers like some old-fashioned coffee guru,
sure that I’m a trendsetter and destined to be adored.
I walk through a waking dream of voiceless strangers all clamoring for my attention
faceless masks that I look through and ignore, inconsequential to my task
my living dying dream.
What is real? Do I start where I begin or am I racing toward the end?
Who knows. Who cares.
I live alone amongst crowds of people,
all breathing and sucking down the air I need, polluting it with the halitosis of their doubt in me.
I am a loser born and bred, dreams crushed under other peoples’ boots until I cease to share.
I’ve clammed shut with only the ridges in my shell to show
while I hide in the deepest water I can stand
wondering when I’ll begin to drown.
Lilting melodies of sunshine and hope have long since quelled themselves,
leaving only hopeless durges behind,
ringing out into my lonely silence, bell-like and broken, monoliths to the lost ideas of love.
I sleep alone in shadowed panoply, dreaming of gold while grasping at dust,
sure that no one can see me even in the most packed of rooms.
I fade to motes and echoes as expression washes off my face,
leaving a seamless mask behind.