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Kim Talon


Scarlet Faces

It rained scarlet that day
trees unabashed and brazen
as leaves flew helter-skelter
same bold shade as the old five and dime lipstick
we used to dress up winter pale faces in Junior High
tucking plastic tubes into our knee-high socks
to hide it from adult eyes
even as our lips gave our secret away 

The Hush

Silence envelops

Even the clock
who shows off every hour
has wound down
so the familiar
tiiiick tock
is absent

where is the sound of Spring?

Birdsong absent
as if the chirrups of sparrows
were caught by wind
and taken clean away

silence envelops

No sigh of wind
or dream-woof of dog
stretched out
in a skim-milk patch of sun
on a cosy carpet

The cats turn their noses up
on windowsill haunts
and curl upon soft chairs

The Memory Tree  ☊

Tender shadows keep vigil
in the blue-stained dark
as minutes seep into hours

no moon companion
even the birds sleep
wings tucked neatly
waiting for hint of light
to grace a morning sky
before singing the praises
of a day unfolding

in the hush hours
between here and now
lies what was

thoughts drift--
aimless travelers
meandering through recollection forests

in a sudden gust of recall
a memory tree sways
and a memory breaks free
falling in the inky dark
into hands gently cupped

Cloth Dreams

You hold the fabric tenderly
pins glinting in the lamplight
spilling over your shoulder
the needle flashing in and out
tattooing the cloth
fingers-worn making stitches neatly

you prick your fingertip
cursing softly
under your breath
vermilion staining sepia fragility

you're trying to mend cloth dreams
overlooked and neglected
tugged from the antique trunk
in the dim corner of the attic…
trying to hold them fast
against the approach of oblivion
but the cloth dreams
refuse to be pieced back together
tattered, the fabric tears
even with your gentle handling

you sigh
removing the pins
dropping them into the hand-painted bowl
with the wreath of pansies glowing like jewels
in the lamp's warm light

bits of sepia blood-stained cloth
scatter on the floor at your feet
fluttering in the draft from the open window

…

I tiptoe across the room
to kneel  in the remnant-dreams
using a piece of threadbare cloth
to wipe the droplets of blood from your fingertip

I swear that you are weeping
but I hear no sound
and see no tears

Plumed

The borrowed wings
don't fit quite right
feathers trail on the ground
as you twirl in front of the looking glass
nearly tripping when the wings wrap round your legs

gingerly you test the wings
like a heartbeat
...in and out...
...in and out...
your eyes wide-wonder
when the wings obey
your commands

up you go
a clumsy flight
scraping toes across rooftops
feathers snagging on branches of towering trees
breaking free of the wings to journey alone

gaining altitude
you soar through the blue
to places more outlandish than imagination
overwhelmed by the magic
the temptation to stay overpowers
but reluctantly you leave
there is no place like home
no matter the sting of reality
 
the borrowed wings
are returned to their owner
who tucks them back inside the closet...
neither of you speak of your journey

in the quiescent closet
the wings rustle
resettle
wait
Picture

​
​Read Kim Talon's profile. 
Go to page 2 of Kim Talon's poetry..

November Lights

October’s radiant colors weep
into November’s grey oblivion

November is unguarded--
secrets held dear on summer nights
debris furtively swept under starry rugs
November reveals through gossipy winds

A mist of memory remains
caught in the boughs of the crooked pine

The Crafting

These creatures we gentle
tame
so they might abide by rules
created by us,  their captors,
and leave their wanderlust at the gate
have shaped us
as much as we shaped their destiny
as we manipulate genetic codes
unraveling all that someone else created
their version of perfection
tainted
as we celebrate our own cunning

Spectre

You stand at the top of the steps
on the threshold of the shadow room
holding out an imploring hand
begging me to come up
…don't look down…
or back
never look back

I see nothing but a murky silhouette
guarding the shadow room
where broken dreams crumble and die
shattered illusions littering the damp floor

The Curl of Dark

Hours are numbered the same
but the light is uneven
dark curls around day
and holds tight

Sun bows her head
admitting defeat
letting candlelight battle gloom--
and valiant flame-keepers
pierce the darkness
like stars in a night sky

In the Mood

Tucked on the shelf
dusted over and around
ignored
Grandpa says the last time
he heard the old radio play music
he was dating Grandma...
radio perched on the deck rail
singing softly
as they danced cheek to cheek
on the beach in the moonlight
the waves whispering
Grandma's heels
leaving pockmarks in the sand

Undone

All of the words I did not say
things I could have—should have—said
if only I could shape consonants and vowels
but I'm stuck in the silence before language
unable to summon knowledge of speech
swallowing the unspoken
choking on shards of the words I did not say
splinters of remorse and regret

Stutter-Steps

I saw him this morning
the little boy with the limp
and the charming lisp
his black and gold backpack
bumping against thin shoulders
with every stutter-step
is peppered with neon-bright stickers
his obsession with super heroes
is on display

his mother walks beside in measured tread
so as not to eclipse his progress
I know she wishes
to erase his stutter-steps
but possesses no magic wand

he told me once
that his leg hurt the most on humid days
but he said it carelessly
such is his life
and his adjustment to his fate
to always be the boy with the limp

the bus stop at the corner
of Maple and Park
is alive with chattering kids
awaiting the blue camp bus
the mothers stand to the side
shoulders touching
as they swap minutiae

a little girl with blonde curls
and a flower-patched arm cast
approaches the little boy with the limp
the lone injured
in a cluster of over-excited children
who whoop collectively
when the bus lumbers to a stop
with a squeak and a groan

as mothers admonish--
be good
be careful
have fun
the kids are swallowed by the blue bus

the mothers disperse up the now quiet street
like birds taking wing
the mother of the little boy with the limp
heads home
walking in measured tread
as if the boy with the limp
stutter-stepped beside her still

Picture
Go to page 2 of Kim Talon's poetry

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