Monday, November 3, 2014

Dream Sing


If I could speak a thousand languages
which would I choose sing my dreams to you?
Would I use the elegant language of touch,
the dialect of soft caress
perhaps speaking in tongues
what words would my tongue speak?
Warmth
Passion
Love
Desire
Gently following the line of your body
what words would I breathe into your skin?
what words lie waiting to be born?

-Kevin Slick

A Fair Range of Colors


I can see a patch of trees
Outside
Now
That offers a fair range of autumn colors
And that’s okay
I don’t need the most brilliant display of colors I can imagine
Because
I can imagine.
Autumn lives in my imagination as much as on the calendar.
The sight of a few golden leaves on their way down
Riding gravity’s pull with a deep green backdrop
is quite enough
To open the door to every autumn in my mind.
A thousand colors, a million cold mornings and fallen leaves
All alive in my mind
And I can see it clearly
As clearly as anything outside today.

-Kevin Slick

Sandlot


Flat rough field
Flat enough,
Just barely flat enough
To run without too much trouble
Wheeling around the base paths or chasing
Wild hop grounders
That danced with infield rocks.
Flat rough field
Full of heroes
Fifteen or so legends
In fifteen or so minds
Whose sandlot deeds became mythic
With endless re-telling from imaginary broadcasters.
Flat rough field
Sweat covered midmornings
And dusty late afternoons
Sweltering days
Frozen in time
Rippling heat figures and late day shadows
With eyes forever on the ball
Bats dented and splintered swinging through the slow summer air
Powered by late afternoon weary arms
Held by hands still stinging from last inning’s line drive
Late dusty shadows
Called by distant voices to dinner
Scattering
Drifting in lines that are rarely ever straight for home.

February 11


February 11, 1999
Out in the woods there are tangles of leaves and branches.  Leaves and twigs and bits of bark and dried arching vines.  Under the dry, crispy top, the leaves are moldy and deep brown.  Below that, they fade into the dirt.  There is a layer below that crispy surface where leaf and earth meet.  Where the leaf, formerly moving high in the breeze fades, drifts, absorbs, changes, gives itself to the earth.  And the solid ground becomes a wild array of small particles- dirt, mold, decaying matter, the earth opens up to receive the air and the riders of the air. 
The first greens of the season are here- creepers that don’t know February from March, they only know warm and cold.  This sunny early spring day just happened to come in winter.  Up above me a bird is making a scratching whining noise, now breaking into something of a cheeping, clucking sound.  The breeze is rattling the small green plants that have pushed up through the leaf packed surface and it brings enough of a chill to say “winter” but then it grows weary and rests.  The eternal sun is waiting and breathing
“warmth”.
Long fallen branches are fading away.  Crumbling wood that flakes off into the ground and it soon indistinguishable from decaying leaves, moldy, beautiful dirt.  All around these woods dying and birthing, one fading into the next. 
These tangled woods and deep underbrush are so beautiful.
This twisted laurel will always live in my heart.

Blessed Dust


Blessed dust
Blessed street, gravel and lamp post
Blessed noise from the dust in your heart
Blessed is the heart of dust
Clinging to your footsteps
Perfect, fine dust that gathered and waited between the sections of sidewalk
Of home.

Green roads leading home
Time travels into my heart
Blessed dust rattles through the wind
The wind of November
Wind at night
Torn sideways like a fragile corn plant
Formless air in the midday heat
Air that begins to ripple
Convulsing with beauty

Flickering light
Candle
Television
Out on the fields of home
The dance of a thousand grey shadows
On the floor of the forest
The dance of a thousand eyes
Touching the beautiful sky
Touching the beautiful screen

A photographed undeveloped
Spoken
Unspoken
She is blessed
With dust on her hands and feet
Blessed dust that falls gently from her eyes
And welcomes me home.

-Kevin Slick

This Bright Wind


This bright wind,
that’s how it is.
This  quick, cold air
yes,  that’s how it is.
As if that small patch of trees
might grow out of my memories
and fill the world around me,
that’s how it is.
Pennsylvania brown, grey-green
thin winter branches
twisting
wrapping
a universe in their arms
that’s the way
just like that.
And I would be forever
walking quietly through those woods
lightfoot
mysterious walker through the trees
where no one can hear me
as I am invisible
that’s how it is
yes, it’s just that way
as the bright wind weaves itself into
grey cloudy forests deep in the afternoon
as that bright grey wind follows me in the forever afternoon
and I find myself searching for this forever afternoon
in that stillness between day and night
In between time
when I practiced walking
quiet and invisible
listening
forever 

-Kevin Slick

This Afternoon


This afternoon
sunlight crawls through the air
anyway it can,
knowing that winter will hide it’s glow for a season.
Sunlight sinks deep
and I believe I can see trees
pulling the warmth into their bark
and into their branches
as if
to hold it
remembering
all winter long.

-Kevin Slick