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I was eleven when I started keeping the poems I wrote. When I was fourteen, poems evolved into songs.
I still like to write poetry, however, and that's why I've included this page.
Currently, my favorite poets are Yusef Komunyakaa, Stephen Crane (Crane's poem "I saw a man
pursuing the horizon" was part of the inspiration for the song "Find My Name"), and Walt Whitman.
Wind
Winds blow on dark nights.
Dead trees wave arms
in battle for the promise
of a calming dawn.
And God is tired of
mortal screams.
Terror and indifference reign
where the bloody rag lies
and the children play.
It doesn't matter if your yard
is mud or grass or concrete,
Cancer grows in the hearts of men.
Life is This
Open wide your eyes
to the matter
by your side.
Enjoy the presence
of your own awkward soul.
Listen closely to the sounds
of the day passing
and God's whisper in your ear.
Life is this.
Freeman Spur
It's a poor town
and that's fine.
An abandoned mine.
Rows and rows of
matching matchbox houses
made distinguishable later
with additions of bedrooms, bathrooms
and window porches.
It's nice to see out.
The mine was stripped
years ago.
Men risking their limbs
and lungs in the deep dark
gave way to children
on motorcycles
smoking cigarettes
in broad daylight.
What made those craters?
Those wonderful ramps?
Was it dug out
or collapsed?
"If we ever had an earthquake
we'd all fall into the mine."
New Madrid fault line.
Rocky graveyard.
Dangerous playground.
It's hard to get out
of the pit.
Once you're born here,
you're raised to stay.
Saturday Mornings
Nameless tunes
through my mind
sing to this day.
Songs of comfort.
Songs of mourning.
Songs of innocence.
Your voice pulled me
gently from sleep.
It carries me still.
Trip Home
Grey skies
and moods
begin this tour.
It's four o'clock.
Home sweet Tennessee.
I drive with dread
and indignation.
Rain reminds me
of the purpose
in my journey. Rain,
sprinkling to a stop
as I cross the state line
Then the greenest green
I've ever seen like a
blanket covering Kentucky.
God, can I stay here?
Surely this is Neverland.
Lost in this mirage
for 92 minutes and 20 seconds.
Welcome to Illinois.
I had forgotten why I'm here.
But the orange sky
fading behind the stone
in the cemetery
tells me that darkness will fall
on us all.
Pigeons
The light turned green.
She paused for a second.
He laid on his horn.
No one here thinks pigeons are beautiful.
I cross the concrete street
onto the concrete sidewalk.
Everywhere shades of gray
groping for the sky,
warming beneath my feet.
Up ahead there is a puddle of red.
I take a long stride across.
And there are birds, birds, birds.
Iridescent colors
of blue, purple, red and black.
Fat and anxious.
Cooing, cooing, cooing.
A pair is feeding on discarded chips
in a crumpled bag
thrown toward the trashcan.
It fell short.
They're all gray from a distance.
No one here thinks pigeons are beautiful.
to come to know
Waterfalls of light
invade my head.
Reaming through what's already there
like current downstream.
Overturning fetus rock.
Drowning inclination.
I resist.
But the realizations woo me.
When it is finished
defiling what I call mine,
I am free.
Revelation cascades carry me -
searching for one who will understand.
But the lights are out of sync.
All are ahead or behind.
None is the same.
The Dandelion Conspiracy
Oh, no! The wind is blowing!
Spreading the virus
like wildfire
destroys everything in its path.
How did this happen?
Who created this?
Questions waste valuable time.
Off with their heads! Don't let them crumble!
They'll find a way out.
Throw them away.
Two days later
you'll be at it again.
Lies are like dandelions.
Dandy liars.
And lies beget lies
beget lies.
Winds carry words.
Winds do not carry intentions.
Keep them all in line
so you remember who to tell
what.
Or they will get away from you.
All materials © Kristin Dare. Contact kristindare [at] comcast.net
www.myspace.com/kristindare
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