Bill Kemmett is a brilliant poet. He lives in Port Saint Lucie, Florida and he crafts gems: carefully cut, polished, sparkling, many-faceted gems. He may start the day with his noggin on his pillow, at the beach, or browsing a yard sale, but with the mere flick of his eye he reveals fathoms. His forthcoming book, Black Oil, is a long-awaited volume, and I have the exclusive honor of sharing some of these poems.
From Black Oil by Bill Kemmett. The Dead "C" Press, Boston, 2009.
A WRONG TURN
He was stabbed
in the eye
by a quill
from his feathered
pillow, and that
was just
for starters in case
you think
there is safety in
the tight sleep
of a quiet bedroom.
AT THE BEACH
The person
behind me
monitoring my
behavior turned
out to be just
an empty chair.
KEEPING PROSPECTIVE
*
There's a translation
of my face, one a mother
sees, one my cat sees and
one I file away that is
of myself. Straight lines,
easy to read.
*
A bird sitting in his cage
knows you from others.
He is your bird. He knows
this and feels free to act
out his aggressiveness
without fear of retribution.
*
A recent photo
of myself: one eye a shelled
pistachio nut, the other
an entire galaxy with
a wafer thin fingerprint
on file under my name.
THE MOON
HAS A SKULL
1
A mummified mouse
in a hatbox; fresh
paint on old walls
leaves me breathing
a bad taste.
2
My father mixed
his own colors;
the lead and turpentine
could only be cut with
whiskey; and so it was.
3
A cave's light
pure as the sea-wings
pressed in a vein of
silver dust on a slate
of chalk.
4
And here comes the rain;
the bruised and battered hills
not yet blackened–a sparrow
at the end of a branch
knows enough to be still.
CITRIS X PARADISI
I'm in a state of grace:
the lime tree I planted has
decided to root and defy
the citrus canker that preys
on bad graftings.
My faith will help
find water below clay, and
in turn the angels of my soul
will anoint each cloud–
for years to come
with the sweetest of
the blossoms: terminally dark
emeralds of Persia.
YARD SALE
He hasn't been seen
for months; and now his wife
is selling what he was piece
by piece: the wood handled
golf clubs, a rack of cardigan
sweaters and three cornered
neckties of wasted silk that
once defined the top dog
of a used car-lot. Item by item
tagged and carted away for the
dime on the dollar and the slow
cooker that stewed a thousand
chickens against a lifetime of
fevers and flues.
And the least thing to go:
a parakeet who outlasted
a rain-forest cage and all
shrieking with his favorite
cuss-words in the clear voice
of a younger man who meant every
word of it at the time.