Patrick L Kalahar Poems

There is a man sitting in a room
Writing with a black pen on white paper
The room is drowning in books
The man sits on the only chair
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Aimlessly I walk
through the town's empty streets
weeds defy the pavement
in cracks and fissures
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Early spring rains have overwhelmed the fields
Barren grounds—still frozen—have become
Shallow seas in my imagination
The sunset, with its myriad hues
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Death looks down on the walled city
where the rich sleep in little white houses
and the poor sleep in ovens. Small boxes
with iron doors which will bake a master
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It was an old Indiana road, but one
we had not travelled before.
On a summer-like day
even before the spring, the sky
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The pale sun (its watery light filtering
Through albino clouds)objecting to
Planetary transgressions,
Rains salt tears, waterspouted from an angry sea
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The terrible screeching of parakeets
Beaks scraping on bars
The sad flutter of clipped wings
That pound the stale air
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Your characters dance & leap across the page
Loudly proclaiming their personal independence of the paper
Like all great souls you could not be confined.
The known earth was not large enough for you
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Birds fill the freshly leafed trees.
Leaves and feathers vibrate
in unison with the wind.
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I look at Old Master drawings
So mathematical, so precise
So defined, so carefully delineated
Creating a visual vocabulary
...