Peel Away The Flesh

Here is a poem from my heyday of writing--3 years ago--a time of creative evolution from innocence to experience. Back then I had (and still retain much of) a morbid sense of optimism, irony and puns. It is interesting to look back at these poems, especially because these were written BEFORE I started reading "weird pulp fiction". Take this poem for example:

"Peel Away The Flesh"

Every time I gouge my flesh,
Blood drips from my instruments,
From forks in the road,
My trail leaves weak blood,
Spilt along the wrong path,
Leaving another fork in the road,
It is my infliction that heals,
The soft complacent fruits of flesh,
It flays the skin, leaving me naked,
Bare flesh flapping in the breeze,
Fresh skin caressed by a frigid tease,
Wiping away the blood of the past.

Then there are poems written later--around 2 years ago--like the following:

"Margaret"

Carelessly, I laid you to rest for years,
Forgot you were there treading the waters,
In an old, forgotten, oar-less wood boat,
Floating, waiting for me to arrive, too,
And offer you my hand, like a prince,
On to the shores of our forgotten country,
Instead you sat there in graveyard mists,
Adrift, lost for years in the sombre sea,
Young, preserved like a photo, neglected,
Suddenly turning sepia in my mind,
Until almost lost, I remembered you,
That memorable face, looking at me,
Gray eyes like stone falling hard upon me,
And rescued you, from my memory.

I probably could tell a story for each one of these poems, written at specific events in my life--bouts of emotion or periods of musing.

"Reflection"

somebody shake me up, wake me up, stir me,
from this unconscious stupor of waking,
wading life every day, eyes wide open,
along same calm lake wake, hectoring
foam straddling my listless surface,
flushed on to the shores, all washed up,
skimming the murky Ontario mire below,
out in a trance, staring back at the sun,
swaying to and fro, back and forth, to and fro,
some lost boat floating, mechanically, metal
on top of my liquid skin, gliding along,
with the rhythms of each other, caressing
the lap of my shimmering, boggy waters,
resonating in a lull against that hull sway,
gliding along with the flow of the waves,
like in a daze, hypnotized by the erratic
swish of the image lying atop me, ripples
staring blankly back at me, this reflection.

If you care to read more, just plug my name: Vahey, David into www.poetry.com.