… are unfinished.

By J. K. McDowell

March 2014

 

I know those cane fields, the solitary oak

Thick with years of suffering that defy the

Even spaced rows of cultivated intentions.

 

She was curved and sharp and not unprepared.

The blade, Damascus steel; the sheath, Meknes artistry.

My eyes and my tongue, careful in their tracing.

 

He never liked the sound – that clink of ice in

A glass of whiskey.  Chilling reminders of

Watered-down spirits and failed hauntings.

 

Passions of the flesh, intimate escapes in

Closeness, desperate to resist this flat existence.

No more hording of doubt, Death is Love’s trump card.

 

What is inspired James K.?  Painting in darkness,

Your self-portrait of shadow, without a mirror.

Too many times Friend, these works are unfinished.

 

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