Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Three Poems by Zach Fechter

Already Too Late

He is impatient
It is already too late

A red room
A man sits on a white rough chair
Eyes closed
In the red

Purple silence
A woman stands and stares
Beyond your head

A jazz room under the city
Dark light and faint smoke
Warm and snug
Under the harsh cold cement

A deep singing down and low
A world class thrower
Is taken below in a struggle
And his arm is cut off

He stares into the distance
Over a frozen lake
Into whipping winds

An old goddess stands in red
Vacant stare in front of a red wall
Smoke drifting from her lips
As she gazes beyond your eyes

She is trying to quit heroin
And it is so hard
So she holds tight to the carpet
And stares at the thermostat for hours

An old silver statue
Crying in the golden sunset
Arms at the ready
Staring into the crashing red sun

When she was pregnant
He would not leave her side
Slow motion cutting motion
Across his face as he looks deep into you

Everyone is falling in the rain
Back first into the mud holes
Everyone with their own
And their one

The Glow of the Night

Turning and again turning
Through the light
We break the pane
But the pain shines through

Surely life will be good then
When I have
When I am
When I see
When I breathe
When we are prey to God

And I see bodies falling from the trees
And I see trees falling from the skies
Who would drive it home tonight?
The pain surrounds me tonight

Oh men of the Earth
Oh women of the soil
I see clouds forming into a break
Through the sky
I've got . . .

Naught but a tremble in my finger
And in a world full of people
There's always some meant to be sad
You may see a room in black and white
You may see a valley in blue and purple
So we just go to the tropics
And fall into the reggae and rum and cool wind

Sad though
I've never seen such a thing
So we must
Cut down the dead ones

Head Down

There is a festival
Where all the thin people
Sit with their heads to the ground
And the great sound washes over them
And they are happy
And their arms are draped over
Guitars and drums
And their arms are swathed
Over each other
And they are silent
And yet the sound comes
And their eyes flutter
And they cannot help but smile
From under their hair

Zach Fechter lives and writes in Wilton, Connecticut.  He has been published in Poetry Quarterly Magazine and Kind of a Hurricane Press.  He is a graduate of Roanoke College in Salem, Virginia.

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