For in My Eyes

For in My Eyes
By: Kevin Meeks 

For in my eyes you've gone away
and now I'm forced to walk alone
yet in my heart love does stay.

I rise to walk another day
along this path that's overgrown
for in my eyes you've gone away.

I watch the clouds that turn so grey
and think of what I should've known,
yet in my heart my love does stay.

I wait on time to come what may
as I'm a rag doll tossed and thrown,
for in my eyes you've gone away.

You were once my sunny day
my warmth for you my heart has shown,
yet in my heart my love does stay.

You choose to walk back to the bay
to leave me hollow and unknown.
For in my eyes you've gone away
yet in my heart my love does stay.

A Thousand And One

A thousand and one sounds like a great tale. It is in fact, its the classic Arabic epic. Although in this case its page views not classic literature. Yes you read correctly. I'm happy to have broken this threshold recently. Here is a poem and some miniatures pictures in honor of the event.

A Thousand and One
By: Kevin Meeks

Seeking to find the legendary lamp,
under the skies blazing lamp.
The riddled door is barred and shut,
to seal within the golden lamp.
The route beneath the desert hidden
to all but the seeker of the lamp.
Wrapped in class with scimitars
the guardians of the mystic lamp.
The three wishes all men seek
which lie within the bowels of this lamp.
Tales have been sung of this treasure
the golden cavern of the lamp.
Greed attracts men, once they hear
to rub the plain golden lamp.
Wanting everything is a fault
as only three wishes lie in this lamp.
Beyond that no more can be sought
of what's imbued in this lamp.
Genies are in mythic tales told
and reward those who find the lamp.
Pushing men to madness and drink
searching for this magical lamp.
Three wishes you'll get and one is spent,
two more are within this lamp.
You try again to get your wish
leaving one more within the lamp.
The last one you spend frivolously
as you remain holding the empty lamp.
You learn the truth of Ali's lamp
of the three wishes inside the lamp.

Here are some miniatures which I have to get around to painting one of these days. They are Arabic in theme which would work very well for pulp era gaming, as well as any steampunk adventure set in the wilds of the orient. The first is a figure with a fez (those are cool) and a scimitar. the second figure has a hat like a mongol, and of course a larger sword. In the second photo there is a wizard, could be used as a vizier (in a fictional sense of the title). There is a slightly smaller 25-ish mm figure advancing with a spear and a turban style hat. And last but not least we have a bearded man in a turban brandishing what looks like a shotgun. These all need to be stripped of paint, re-primed, and then painted.

Enjoy,
Kevin

"The Feasting" and "Groundhog's Day"

The Feasting

By: Kevin Meeks

Just off the space rail to Newtown, Mars,

dusk glints softly off the glaciers.

And the ears of the two martian babes

flick with interest.

They have traveled long from the mountains

to guide the explorer and me.

We leap over the metal wall into the cafeteria

where they have been cooking all day, alone.

Their lips twitch, hardly hiding their teeth

which are sharp.

They nod contemplative as fat friars. They like us outsiders.

There is no admiration like theirs.

Uneasy once more,

they begin consuming the tough meat of dinner on the table.

I would like to taste this meal also,

for they have left none for me

and my companion.

They are gray and blue,

their hair is short and fuzzy on the top,

and motion moves me to gaze towards the rear.

That is when they attacked and I was hit.

Suddenly I realize

That they were not feeding us, but

we are food.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Groundhog's Day

By: Kevin Meeks

She looks around with concert eyes

into the sleeping riot.

Beneath the iridescent traffic vest

her world tunes into quiet.

Dusty vehicles shift into gear

turning out-dated rotors.

Thirteen months becomes a year

in this daylight spending time.

Phil rose up and then died,

Oh! what a groundhog's day it was.

The crowds doffed their hats and sighed,

beating their breasts as they vowed.

Across the pond the old blokes still met.

Fellow writer, the group of Kolbiters,

the Bird and Baby quartet.

They paid no attention to this day.

What of the Fahrenheit protocol?

Does she know what it means?

Spending another dime night in Omaha

as the geese pack their carpet-bags.

The overcoat of groundhog pelt

keeps her tiny frame warm.

As she shuffles into the tuna-melt

and turns off her brain with her charm.

The Elms

The Elms

By: Kevin Meeks

Blazing, neutral, razor-sharp

cupcakes line the aisles.

The turnip-lined boxes

are playing classic Jazz.

The air is permeated with

a cacophony of rhythmic beats.

Not a single note is distinguishable

out of the desert complex.

Wingless halos come out of hiding

beneath the Jell-O pillow.

The plants in the waiting room

hunger for human brains.

They are trapped within

the iron-shackles of their stands.

Trying to gain self-consciousness,

but failing in the attempt.

While the denizens listen

to the nasal voice of reason.

Have I Gone Lawn

In the midst of submitting my poetry to various literary journals. I've had one accept my work so far. Now at least I'll have something to add to my bio when submitting to other journals. I have a poem which is forthcoming in the #6 issue of Gone Lawn, a journal of prose poetry. I'll post a link to it when it is live on December 1. I'm off to go submit more poetry and finish stories.

Cold Storm

Ashen sky darker still

clouds gather behind the mill.

Trees begin to shiver,

frost crusts on the river

Gossamer.

Sheathed in Snow.

Quiver,

as the winter winds blow.

Branches bending under frost,

bowing to this icy wind.

Leaves circulate as if tossed,

waiting until spring to mend.

Barren trees sit and wait,

until the winter ends of late.

When emerald will clothe every bower,

and the trees again do flower.

Chaperon of Winter

Tendrils of azure hair,
ice splintering, stretching wings.
Frozen in time, now awakening
from the prison of ice now freeing.
Tears of ice, the first tears cried
like those of the procession when she died.
Awakening as a girl, a woman, a maiden
stretching her wings as a raven.
Rising to the frozen sky
she will keep it winter, all will cry.

The Phoenix

Phoenix bird, burning bright,
stretching wings of brilliant light.

Watching your flame I often wonder
why you fly with peals of thunder.

Majestically your feathers glow,
but no man can know,

what first lit your flame,
heated feather glow the same.

As men seek to pluck them out,
you don't cry, but shout.

How can a bird, noble and true,
after death be always new?

Loving itself until the end,
about which many poets penned.

The cycle of death, and life
you are both husband and wife.

Heroes try and cut you down,
depriving you of your rightful crown.

For some time they did succeed,
causing your wings to break and bleed.

If you reignite yourself,
through burning, back to health.

Scorching your wings of brilliant red,
lifting again your majestic head.

Flames at dusk fill the sky,
wise men look up and cry.

The protector of those who wander at night,
always at dusk takes comforting flight.

For travelers lost he lights the way
so they wander in light like day.

Keeper of the eternal fire,
fly ever on, and do not tire.

When oppressed by winter's hand,
it does not change his eternal plan.

Majestic scarlet, echos of blood
wings unleashing the winds of flood.

Rippling muscles shine in the light,
as you take your victory flight.

Enemies below strewn, and slain.
Layers of death on the battle plain.

Aftermath, majestic and true,
your victory flight, flew.

Trailing behind are embers,
in the night the flame glitters.

For if the Phoenix does not live,
what love to earth can he give.

Smaug

Fire rakes the skies
from the dragon's maw.
On wings of death he flies
no one knows his flaw.

Armored above and below
he flies with vengeance hot.
The weakness a small bird knows,
but know this, the dragon does not.

An arrow flew, straight and true
embedding to its black hilt.
The great wyrm this arrow slew,
the balance of power did tilt.

Flight of the Phoenix

Fly
phoenix
away to
skyward glory,
consuming fire
flying across the sky.
Followed by dying embers
consume again to be reborn
another morn you will live to see
as the smoky death which brings life to thee.

Timelord

Time flows in a pulsating spiral of color

as it's waves carry the Doctor.

Throughout space and time is his domain,

the flat and stretching chronology plane.

Crackling buzzing sounds pierce the air

as a light breeze ruffles his hair.

Reaching in his coat, taking the sonic device

to defend against the unknown and fight.

Traveling through the fabric of time,

he twists along the unknown line.

Yesterday

Yesterday the importance
of telling you something
was the only thing on my mind.

It was important
because I knew you
wanted to listen.

What we talked about
reminded me of sweet
apple pie and hot tea.

If we didn't speak
then our eyes would
complete our sentences.

As I was walking
listening to the rain
a single drop
caught my eyelash
and fell.
The trees around me
shimmered so,
with a warmth that
comes from depth of feeling.

I sat down to write a poem once.
I didn't know what it would be.
I shouldn't try to use words more than once,
but failed at that miserably.
So here I sit to write some verse,
not knowing how it will end.
Will it come out, as if rehearsed?
Or as the overflow of inspiration?
Despite my efforts trying not to write,
a poem has emerged. It has life.

Vague River

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk.

The sidewalks are cleaning up spattered water droplets.

I hang my arm out of the window and wave.

The autumn wind pricks my bare hand.

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk

I notice a hat being walked by a man across the street.

I wave at him on the inside, contemplating the silliness.

The skies groan as they awake from a restless night.

A salesman walks door to door selling rejections.

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk

An inkwell spills over with forgotten words,

upon an empty desk, in a derelict room.

I sit in a café eating a doughnut

to improve my memory.

The yellow-striped kitty urges me to finish my mocha.

I relax in the chair and smile.

The maítre d’ glides over to me to refill my

coffee, even though I don’t want any more.

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk

The man on a park bench stares into his mind.

The chessboard before him stands filled,

he is trying to beat himself.

Does he always win, or lose?

Children walk down the street holding

crinkly balloons of silver bovines.

Peanut shells litter the sidewalk beneath their feet.

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk

The best dressed people in town, walk down the street

wearing plastic flowers bought at a 5 & 10 store.

I want to laugh at them, until I realize

I’m wearing a wilted boutonniere.

I pause ask them where they got the plastic flowers.

They don’ reply but repeat the word

“Fashion”

over and over, their eyes a milky cast

walking past me oblivious to my question.

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk

I am amused as I see a dog chasing

a bag, its handles carried by the wind.

The scent of warm jelly is wafting from a window

where nothing is baking.

The street lamps mark off the distance as I

travel across town.

The big man who prints the newspaper isn’t interested

in my life because it’s not sensational.

I pause and dwell on the irony of the mundane,

which the big man assumes is sensational.

He should get out more.

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk

The sky is purpling overhead.

I still haven’t found my half twenty-third cardboard burger.

The essence of the word YELLOW

spreads down the street in electricity.

Twittering trails of frantic people spill out of the doors.

The cars bulge to capacity with their conversations.

I travel homeward, words rattling the ear buds,

Asphyxia carnivals blackberry moonrain milk.

At the Café

As I sit at the warm café,

the one that’s down beside the sea,

and wait for the coming day.

I feel the heat in the grey

cup, that I purchased for a fee,

as I sit at the warm café.

I see others who would stray

into this room for hot coffee,

and wait for the coming day.

On the tables their cups would lay,

waiters picked them up absently,

as I sit at the warm café.

The clouds outside are shades of grey

which will unleash the torrential sea

and wait for the coming day.

On my table there’s a wilted bouquet

the scents as varied as potpourri,

as I sit at the warm café

and wait for the coming day.