The Poetry of Kevin Carr
May Kudzu Monthly Poetry Feature

A Candle in the Window

A candle in a window
Shaping shadows in the night
Illuminating wonders
At the lonely edge of sight
A beacon for an angel
Lost and looking for a light

A candle burning lower
Seeming very small and slight
Dancing softly in a draft
Almost trembling with fright
Slowly dying on a sill
Clearly giving up the fight

A candle in a window
Just a flicker in the night
Angel notices at last
Finding solace at the sight
And evermore a candle
Is restored again to light

Won 2nd place in 2002 SOWG poetry contest

My Old Pink Flip-Flops

This aging thing kills me
I'll say it straight out
it's not what I'd dreamed of
without any doubt

My back gives me trouble
the knees give me hell
good food gives me gas
but I don't always tell

Can't read without glasses
or see my whole feet
my diet needs fiber
to make it complete

My shoulders won't lift
as they used to before
my hands lost their grip
and my ankles are sore

My head is less covered
with hair than it was
and now these earholes
are sprouting some fuzz

Adults treat me equal
the kids call me Pops
but I hate most of all
when my old pink flip-flops

(2002)

Twilight Dance

Ghosts of the mill are legion
in memories lost to vision
where flakes of old paint lie
with splintered sticks of wood,
covering many treasures
under brick-dust and rusted nails
layered well in broken glass
and pieces of slatted walls.

While wheels and gears and doors
ride off into twilight shades
in the beds of growling trucks
on trails that once served wagons,
when they came so long ago
to a swift place on this river
where a working mill was built
grinding grist for generations.

After decades a day would come
of endings and duties done
the mill became home to spirits
and secrets for children to find,
til a time when trucks arrived
full of men with tools to remove
these final remains of a mill
from the riverbank at last.

As trees stand silent at dusk
a vision in fading light
shines brief at edge of the wood
as a ghost freedom-dance begins,
released from remembering walls
mythagos do twirl and leap
returning to ancient homes;
wooded hills and water running.

(2001)

Driving

Some days when I'm driving
to a close or distant place
for some important meeting,
my thoughts are interrupted
by an impulse to go on.

Never turn around,
just drive and stop for gas
and food,
or now and then to sleep.

Leave behind the loneliness
of sleeping in my bed
and the need for two tv's,
for less bitter lonely days
living life behind a wheel.

Just drive and stop for gas
and food,
or now and then to sleep.

Then my hip starts buzzing
with a pager's call to wake
for important information,
or reminders not to hurry
home to sleeping house again.

Just drive and stop for gas
and food,
or now and then to sleep.

(2001)

May 16

Happy Birthday Grandma!
I've remembered once again.

All those times that I forgot
until after it was passed
when the cards upon the counter
finally slapped me on the head
and we'd laugh at my attempts
pretending that it was on purpose.

Then we sat and spoke of life,
and remembered and predicted
and we laughed until we cried.

Then we hugged and sat again
looking out the lakeside window
at the moonlight on the water.

Then we'd smile and pour a cup
and we'd light a cigarette,
and the sparkle in your eyes
dimmed the flamelight of the Bic.

We would always be surprised
when the light of dawn awakened,
and would giggle in our guilt
as we stole away to bed
to our spouses unsurprised
as they rose to break a fast.

Happy Birthday Grandma!
How I wish we could again
drink the coffee of the night
laugh in quiet after sadness,
reminisce on possibilities.

Happy Birthday Grandma!

(1999)

Act 17
(late)

The lady stopped to say
"it's late,"
and then she turned to
wander off.

I looked around
to nod a thanks,
and a stranger
nodded back.

We wondered what
the story was.

But who,
with confidence,
could say?

Then I realize,
it's late.

(1997)

Blank Page

You picked the pencil up
for unremembered reason
losing focus as you stare
at blurring lines on paper
slowly drifting in and out
of Walter Mitty daydreams
complete with quiet humor
or some wild imagination
and coherent storylines
that slip silently away
with memory of purpose
to try and cover pages
under reason and emotion
combined with elegance

(1998)

Word Picture

A man walks
   and stops

A man sees
   old shoes
   on pavement

A man strides
   early evening
   toward distant
   shadow trees

A man steps
   on grass
   gazing from
   deep places
   in thought

A man enters
   leafy shade
   staring inward
   and wonders
   what missing
   things are

A night stretches
   ever deep
   draws emotion
   from wells
   dead calm
   oil smooth
   iron cold

A man touches
   gnarled wood
   sagging branches
   humid soft
   waving heavy
   sodden weight

A man wades
   grasping weeds
   tangled feet
   slow advance
   intense quiet

A man sits
   watching weary
   halting movement
   feeling still

A man looks
   out under
   gray gloom

A man rises
   and walks

(1996)

The Waiting Room

On plastic chairs we sit and wait
with smiles pasted on, as bait.
Talk of nothing much that matters
covers thoughts of corporate ladders.

One and all, we take our chance
to show the man a selling dance.
My product is the best, we say
please sign it here, and buy today.

Of those, he says, we have no lack
so go away, and don't come back.
The dance is over, now with gloom
we shuffle through that waiting room.

(1991)

Backroads

Dreams of freedom
haunt my mind,
to be again
with my own kind

Heart yearns for
an open road,
the brotherhood
that strangers showed

Wind pulls hard
on jacket sleeve,
makes me long
for time to leave

Highway stretches
out so long,
a slow refrain
of some old song

I've felt as weed
upon a lawn,
a memory
of culture gone

(1988)

White on Blue

Puffball clouds adorn
blue sky,
in patches ever dancing
on the winds,
to distant wet reunions
of the fog,
as a passing or anticipated
thunder storm in life,
then abandon sky
eventually to blue,
without the sense
of having been a warning,
or an echo
of a fury that has passed.

(2002)

September 11, 2001

against a pale sky of blue
beyond the smoking tower twin
tilted wings of graceful white
a quietly destructive arc
engraves itself in history
terminates in fire and blood
blossoming of smoke and dust

quilt of black across the sky
foreboding lies upon the day
city draws a breath of fear
holding-watching-waiting-tense

rain of death upon the street
towers-two exhale and fall
bellows on the coals of hate
sorrow smolders into flame
grief and anger fuse to one
a nation weeps at what has been
a world weeps for what shall be

freedom's price is paid again
in life and loss of innocence
but liberty will persevere
fertile blood has fed the tree

(2001)

Autumn Winds of Home

Hear the sorrow of the wind
and the whispers in the trees
as the southern-flying geese
honk a passage in the night
over browning Autumn fields
framing town and tree and water

Feel the sighing of the wind
on a cold November eve
under clear-as-crystal sky
with the stars of icy blue
winking down to say goodnight
through the lightly frosted glass

Hear the promise in the wind
as it speaks with elder words
or in dance of colored leaves
leaving branches starkly grey
standing mute in testament
to the seasons of the wood

Autumn waves turn bitter cold
chilling froth upon the sand
bidding loons a last goodbye
as their lonely echoes fade
from the beauty of the land
on the silence of the wind

(2001)

When Clocks Retreat

It's over now
that page is turned
reach deep for calm
and walk the wire
stretched overtight
to bridge the tic
and span the toc
in twilit dreams
of starlit peaks.
Remember late
to walk instead
in daybreak hour
and be addressed
on lighted streets
of inner thought
that lie ahead
when clocks retreat
and fear is less
believable.

(2001)

Ages

On a private Autumn evening
in a land of wood and water
emotions of a memory awaken.

In vain attempt to weep aloud
as elder years of youth recede
a chuckle of delight is resonating.

The load is lighter than we thought
as self-appointed burdens go
in dawning of the early middle-ages.

When joy matures to quiet smile
as infant days of age approach
the mourning of a childhood is ended.

On an evening shared in Autumn
in a land of lake and forest
memories of emotion will awaken.

(1999)

Windows

Looking out my window picture
slipping on a peal of time
See an ancient standing timber
Gather lightly resting snow
patient shoulders wearing winter

Hid behind obscuring hedges
silent, bashful dwellings rest
peeking modest over fences
coyly shaded window-eyes
are reflecting crystal moonlight

Trees and village watch each other
border blurred in slurry flow
of ice in currents thickening
bridged across by arching stone
nodding, yet uneasy neighbors

Vision fades in yellow shadows
pushing back the images
hear the distant humming highway
jerk me back to present tense
turn away from pictured window

(1997)

Meeting

Eyes wear a glaze, as your interest flags
pretending to shine as a meeting drags.
You'll try to extract some data to use
while daydreaming of the post-meeting booze.

Shuffle some papers and twiddle your thumbs
prepare an agenda for when the end comes.
Pick all the lint off your shirt and pants
wondering who waters the meeting-room plants.

Try to refocus on front of the room
before some Junior-Suit lowers the boom.
Coffee and doughnuts to fill up the holes
burned in your stomach by bored-room roles.

Your sinuses close from a neighbor's scent
ears are still ringing from somebody's vent.
Forehead meets table and rattles the cups
You jerk back your head as laughter erupts.

Ahh the joys, and the fun of a meeting
Are as your career, mere moments fleeting.

(1997)

Act 25
(rain)

"...and the rain falls,
to soak away the stains
left of futile days,
when music of the night
touches stillness soft
beneath awakened thoughts,
and fluid patter monotones
echo of the archetypes
sentient in a soul,
as distant rolling rhythms
when drums inside a dream
are gentle in the dark.
As the rain falls..."

(1995)

Whisper

On the eve of yesterday
awakened damp and trembling
I call but no response returns.

Shadow-grey, the silence reigns
rise to close a window shade
return then to a clammy bed.

Shake the dream again, to sleep.

At early hour yesterday
in the looming of the dawn
chills create a faltered breath.

Shudder now, and listen soft
lonely echoes morning-cold
waning in fluorescent dark.

Shake the dream again, to wake.

(1995)

Summer Evening Images
(Minnesota)

Haunting cry of loon
at twilight.

Muskrat kits frolic
in shallows.

Moonlit waves dancing
lightly ashore.

Fireflies glowing
drift gently past.

Velvet black trees touch
Milky Way.

Windows glow yellow
from darkness.

Last time of the day
door closes.

Home.

(1993)

North Shore Symphony

The orchestral rocks
play water music
of bubbles leaping to fall
in twisting melodies

Joining harmonics
with inrushing wind
bowing violin-branches
as forest choir sways

Lead voices glide in
on white feather wings
lonely and soaring cries
a haunted reverie

Bringing the rhythms
percussive small feet
rustle in whisper-brushes
cymbals of dying leaves

Superior sounds
explode to the sky
in rolls of breaker drums
or wistful foghorn sighs

North Shore Symphony
plays on emotions
calling us back forever
Echoing through our souls

(1991)

Legacy

I have looked across the void,
and looking back was me.
Which of us is I? We asked.
Son of my father?
Child of my culture?
Might I not be both?
Maybe neither one?
Am I something different?
My questions have no answer;
we replied.
The borders are our home,
my life is at the edge.

(1988)

Mr. Carr says that he is father, grandfather, husband, son, peddler, poet, and phoole. He lives and works in Minnesota, traveling all of the northern part of Minnesota, from St. Paul to Canada, peddling equipment to food serving businesses and institutions.

He was born in 1958 in Eureka, South Dakota, and, at the age of two, convinced his parents to move to Battle Lake, Minnesota, a place that he says still feels more like home to him than any other.

In the late seventies, after a quarter of college and a couple of years working many different jobs, he was hired by artist Peter Teekamp and began his career in selling commisioned goods, which has done ever since with, he says, a few desperate breaks in which he tried to find something - anything - else that he could do to earn a living.

Although he's lived in the northen midwest all of his life, his mother and maternal relatives are from southeastern Oklahoma, and he claims that some of that place is inside of him, too.