Reflections in a Barrel
The sky is gray like a drowned man in the morgue – ugly
color.
And the field is grotesque as if imagined by a small child,
as if drawn with crayons.
I love the humanity.
But I hate myself. (Just a little bit.)
Which one does not believe in evolution? Raise your hand!
The dolphins try to communicate with us and then they don’t.
If you gut me with a rusty knife only words will spill on
the ground, words tangled like intestines.
My old lantern works only during the day, the colors I see
are the true colors of this world, rich of memories.
Sensing that all things are far away from me, as always,
I head to the woods that will echo not with my cries,
but with all the words that I will not utter and I will drink
drops of bloods for your sake, just to see you breathe again;
a hint of horror sweeps the road as darkness advances and
the dust grows quiet, afraid of what’s approaching.
A star, shining in a puddle of mud, fills the moment -
the second - in this place where they ate all the clocks.
The roaring of time, pinched between my fingers, when
in the distance the rooster fights back the last gasps of the night
and my heart still tick-tocks to show that there’s still place for me,
to move inside this web of words, connected with all the others,
surrounding me right now as honor guards, whispering to
each other, listening to my ragged breathing, with their blank
faces looking up and their eyes reflect the grey color of the sky.
color.
And the field is grotesque as if imagined by a small child,
as if drawn with crayons.
I love the humanity.
But I hate myself. (Just a little bit.)
Which one does not believe in evolution? Raise your hand!
The dolphins try to communicate with us and then they don’t.
If you gut me with a rusty knife only words will spill on
the ground, words tangled like intestines.
My old lantern works only during the day, the colors I see
are the true colors of this world, rich of memories.
Sensing that all things are far away from me, as always,
I head to the woods that will echo not with my cries,
but with all the words that I will not utter and I will drink
drops of bloods for your sake, just to see you breathe again;
a hint of horror sweeps the road as darkness advances and
the dust grows quiet, afraid of what’s approaching.
A star, shining in a puddle of mud, fills the moment -
the second - in this place where they ate all the clocks.
The roaring of time, pinched between my fingers, when
in the distance the rooster fights back the last gasps of the night
and my heart still tick-tocks to show that there’s still place for me,
to move inside this web of words, connected with all the others,
surrounding me right now as honor guards, whispering to
each other, listening to my ragged breathing, with their blank
faces looking up and their eyes reflect the grey color of the sky.
In the African Woodlands
The bang of the shotgun
is so powerful
that it can lift the soul of an elephant
to the sky…
is so powerful
that it can lift the soul of an elephant
to the sky…
Peycho Kanev is the author of 12 poetry collections and three chapbooks, published in the USA and Europe. His poems have appeared in many literary magazines, such as: Rattle, Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Front Porch Review, Hawaii Review, Barrow Street, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others. His new book of poetry titled A Fake Memoir was published in 2022 by Cyberwit press.