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Untitled Fragments
by Mark W. Kidd
Whirling sweetheart,
flash of color on the wheel —
violins and fittings,
tailpieces, pegs, chinrests, bridges and bows,
softly: “how like you this?” in summer cotton
tiny wires
crackling braided taut
Honey moons,
her toes curl around the stone,
kick —
the man is stooped,
sore arms full of marigolds
our guests check out,
chaise lounge propped
against eucalyptus:
red gum sap, the tiny cut.
Mark W. Kidd lives at the base of Pine Mountain in East Kentucky, where he pursues broad interests in community media, regional arts, social justice, and the natural and built environments. His poems have appeared in Still, the Clinch Mountain Review, and the Crowd issue of qarrtsiluni.
The Storm
by Mark W. Kidd
Thunder can peal twice, or three times,
or not at all
when the storms come
and sound bounds between some towers and into others.
I turn a corner and hear
the steel rattle of a dying blast.
My legs catch the quickening tempo of the street,
the sure-charged pace that speeds your feet
and leaves bag strap grip-dents in your palms.
Windhovers scatter above,
rushes of wind pushing on the warp and weft
of their high haunt,
mass-flapping of wings.
Cold light on my face and hands.
Crescendo magnetic click echoes—
waves of windows sealing themselves,
pressure dropping
throughout the city,
and those who linger outside with me
witness the thunderheads as they finally
cover the city as far as I can see.
Mark W. Kidd lives in Whitesburg, Kentucky, USA where he pursues creative and professional interests.
qarrtsiluni 