TWO POEMS, by Michael W. Kinnaird

 

COLLECTING SKULLS

i surely did appreciate
the face there in the ashes, towards the end of the evening
there at the bottom of the pipe.

i wish i could preserve this delicate rendition,
in crumbling lace of blue and gray
of everyone's common denominator.

i wish it were a tiny mirror
i could hold up to my narrow mind,
the image sealed in plastic and indefinitely preserved.

but the slightest breath invites collapse
so i reapply the flame;
an ember takes the fire inside
to redden the eyes again.
 
 
 

THE SECRET LIFE OF CAROUSEL HORSES

Forceful leaps, flying manes,
Fierce eyes filled with purpose,
Fantastic lights and living decoration,

A niece or nephew might see past
The frozen slice served up in a circle
For those of us who forget.

We who are older might catch a glimpse
In the faces of simple acceptance,
Reflected there and dancing in the faces of belief.

The horses are straining towards their nightdream adventures,
But they have time to allow believers to climb;
To compound the power,
To learn the oldest language,
To spiral up through imagination
Until they are too far away to wave any more,
And then on to that place, that well-collected country
Known only to carousel horses
Or to explorers no older than five.