Nighthawk.
Primal ritual cries of reveille
from innumerable cricket tribes,
during the wake of nocturnal
nigrescence, beckon the
Children of Nyx from
crepuscular seclusion.
A momentary hiatus in the
mesmerizing rubbing of wings
divulges the faint slitherings
and slinkings of creepy-crawlers
and creatures of night, in
exodus from nature’s underworld.
And keeping watch over the
order of things in no man’s land
is a vigilant nighthawk,
whose stark eyes piercing
through the darkness stir
horripilation amongst the meek.
Rhythm and Tears.
The rhythmic atonalities
of steely, staccato tears
pelt graying pigmentation
almost senseless.
But the romance of flesh
frozen emotionless by
half-dried ablutions is
the poetry of endings
muting into beginnings.
Nocturnal Journey.
In the twenty-fifth hour,
as sleeplessness concedes
to Jungian twilight,
the inviolate ticking
of the bedside clock
betrays consciousness
with sinister rhythm.
It is a requiem of
abandonment, whereby
unprotected souls are
magically ushered to
the threshold of time’s end.
Clock hands melt into
surreal images of groping,
disembodied appendages which
pull me down into the
infernal swirling oblivion.
I seem to fall forever;
plummeting past floating
sandstone ruins, through
prehistoric jungles and
at last into a vast galaxy
of translucent emerald shards.
The heartbeats of innumerable
still-terrified predecessors
urge me to scream before
striking bottom, and I
awaken in a panic: grasping
for the luminous dial
of my unwitting timepiece.
(By Adam Donaldson Powell, from Collected Poems and Stories, Cyberwit.net, Copyright 2005)
Time travel, oil on canvas.
time travel.
my journey begins
on wings of poetry.
time travel at night.
(Photos and paintings by Adam Donaldson Powell)
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