Kevin Olsen: Poet

“Impromptu Sadness”
12/14/2007

I have a friend lost
In an unending tape-reel.
The “thwap, thwap” you hear
Is the sound of mistakes
Slamming her real
Into powdered shards of feel.

The damage done, multiplied
By repetition, stole
From her any vision of a rest.
Sleep; peace around the heart.
Instead burned deep with holes
Letting darkness rot her soul.

My love extension cannot
Communicate across the chasm
She’s erected into her world.
Like a mummy, tanned against
Time and shift, she stands
Whilst I partake inside her spasm.

“A Scene Not Acted”
11/9/2007

Today I dreamed a scene never actor
Played. The cast was less than miniature,
For only you and I, demur,
In intimate bounds were sure.
We opened our tender
Sacks and shared our words
Like we never
Had. We were
Ever
Pure.
***
Wake.
I hate
It when breaks
The moment space
And all time stood braced
To loose the final lace
That bound our lips from the taste
I lived till now to drink. I paced
The room and wondered if this my play
Might find another actor in my place.
Perhaps your love will never shine on my face.

“For Get to Never Mind the Close”
11/9/2007

For
Get the
Day we were
Close. Close the door
Of the past. Pass me
By like an urchine cur
And talk of my words never
Mind the moment you stripped the sheath.
Please forget the wound, the red tender
Bestowed. If loss, if love, if life cannot
In form of gift be given to earn your
Love what then is death between old friends?
The fates attest I tried. The book
Becomes my leather witness.
So what if this becomes
The end? You hated the
Beginning. For
Get the close.
We weren’t
Close.

“Spontaneous”
11/6/2007
Written in less than 5 minutes with no edits . . . just because.

My pleather, blue armchair awaits my thinking back.
The desk before me bears the kind of scuffs that only a forearm can make.
The keyboard hesitates on the edge of anticipation
For my fingers to tap-dance their letters. My computer screen stares, blank,
Without the slightest gesture of muse or inspiration.
I prepare. I breath. I consider and then cease consideration.
If I’m to write a “spontaneous” creation,
Born from nothing (and most likely returning the same direction)
Then perhaps I should let my fingers dance.
So they do. My armchair creaks like Morse Code
As I scuff the desk with metered fervor and look the monitor
Straight in it’s flattened face and scream “You cannot keep the flow
Of words from ceasing!” I write without a point.
To wit, without a clue. But in the end I’m sure my keyboard
Will smile, and my pleather blue will creak soothingly.
My desk will rest it’s scuffed skin and grin because I showed
It the affection of a writer. And perhaps even my monitor
Will crack a flat-screened smile knowing it had a small
Part in that spontaneous work of art. Of course, you may
Not see the meaning of this rant, but my furniture does . . .
In fact it feels totally, completely loved.

“For You”         
11/5/07

Find
Me. Know
I’m here to
Know you. To show,
You like a lady,
What the others fail to
Grasp. I’m here for you, not self.
And if you wish to open “you,”
I will gently take your pieces and
Bring you to the secret, brilliant mountain.