Ploosh Goes The River Stone

“In the Company of a Ghost”

In the Company of a Ghost

by Kymmo Valenton

In a way, you, my dear friends, are in the company of a ghost.

Why is this, you ask? Or perhaps you don’t ask,

perhaps you don’t care at all. If you’re expecting dripping ghostly green ectoplasm

or a white bed sheet with holes cut out for the eyes,

then you, my dear friends, have the wrong expectations. You are wrong, yet

are still in the company of a ghost. A ghost

holds on long after his time, longing for more time here with his dear friends to feel loving arms

around his neck, arms that are slipping, arms that shouldn’t let go,mustn’t let go, arms that continue

slipping, those arms are gliding off too quickly, too soon, those arms.

Those arms are gone.

Those arms are no longer holding

our dear friend. He cannot let go

because those once loving arms

have let me go.

This is why you, my dear friends,

are in the company of a ghost.

“Would It Have Been Better If I Left While You Were Still Sleeping, Love?”

Would It Have Been Better If I Left While You Were Still Sleeping, Love?

by Kymmo Valenton

The new dawn is breaking

Into our home, into our room

Through our window to take you

Away, to take you away from me again,

To package you up in a suit and tie.

The light is invading our space

Illuminating your scruffy morning face

That I won’t see again for a little while.

I pretend that if I ask you to stay,

to stay for me, to stay with me here,

here where the smoothly flowing cold sea

of sheets between my fingers fail to fill

the spaces the way your warm hands do,

that you’ll ensure me that you won’t be gone

for too long, that we’ll be together again soon,

that everything will be fine, right before you pull

your body away from me and let go of my hand

because I do not, will not let go of my own accord.

Even in my daydream you have to go.

“The Sky Slowly Inhales and Holds Its Deep Breath”

The Sky Slowly Inhales and Holds Its Deep Breath

by Kymmo Valenton

 

Some hollow, metallic sound outside echoes.

A swift swish of wailing wind moans,

slashing quickly through the stormy air.

The wind rises up high,

forcing the town to lower

the flag and put it away,

but for a moment

the world is silent and still.

Perhaps, for a moment,

the blowing wind

on the flagless flag pole rope

stopped clanging the pulley.

 

The buoy outside the old sailor’s bar resounds

like the memory of the newscaster reporting

upcoming gale force winds that will later be joined

by enough torrential downpours to make folks forget

that skies can, in fact, be blue.

 

The clinking of a newly topped off glass beer mug

interrupts the silent focus of the town regulars

from the ominous hollowing sounds outside

and the rise and fall of static from the small television

with a wavering signal.

 

Blast! The weak wooden window latch succumbs,

smacking the already cracked walls, unable to hold

off the first wave of gusty cloudburst. The storm

releases its breath, exhaling a blast of hurricane

through the weak, widening wooden window.

 

The storm again gives birth and the clouds scream

in thunderous blustery agony as the sky is sucked

inside out by the tempestuous force of nature.

“This Chilly Moonless Autumn Night”

This Chilly Moonless Autumn Night

by Kymmo Valenton

 

Your hands feel the cold stone

of this textured tower wall. You look up

and see an arched, hollow window gaping

like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside

than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air

pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn

your hooded head away and take a muddy step

back toward the woods you braved through

in this chilly, moonless autumn night.

As the impending fog before you thickens

the last touch of almost starry night disappears

behind the rolling black clouds.

 

Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn

succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,

leaving what’s left of the thorn bush

without its last memory of sunrise.

“Waltz of the Jolly Roger”

Waltz of the Jolly Roger

by Kymmo Valenton

 

The ceiling of the grand ballroom

Opens as if it were taking in a deep breath.

All of the golden oil painted negative space

And striped Moorish arches allow the chandelier to shine

Blood red.

 

The pirates hang from the ceiling,

Each with his wrists bound to his ankles,

Festooned in the shape of a teardrop

Or a bell or a drop of blood.

The Jolly Roger slowly turns

Without even a slight breeze or breath,

Dangling from a single chord of rope.

 

How jolly Roger used to be before the navy came,

Smiling at the sinking enemy ships set on fire by black powder.

Perhaps he still smiles, even through the darkness,

Even through the gaping, gasping

Cannonball holes you can almost hear moan

On the side of his ship far below the surface of the sea,

And hangs high and proud on his ship’s tallest mast.

 

Perhaps the pirates hang high too, robust and glorious

Like their billowing flag, shameless and naked

With nothing to hide and everything to be proud of, a trophy

Not for a queen and her navy

But for themselves and the successes of their wanderlust.

“Stick A Fork In It”

Stick A Fork In It

by Kymmo Valenton

Rough is the wrong consistency

for this batter

of a day, where hours of flour

leave fingerprints

on the cluttered counter,

where the floor is so littered

that there is nothing

to walk on but eggshells.

Lick the spoon and it glops

down your throat

as you choke

on this battery day.

“Gale”

Gale

by Kymmo Valenton

 

In the middle of a storm, no one ever looks past

The towering water spouts, the deck-pounding

Gale force blasts of wind,

The blinding lightning that precedes the thunder.

No, it’s always about the lunging tsunami waves

That engulf cities and slam ships.

No one cares about hurricanes and no one takes time

To temper typhoons and tempests when the beautiful mess

Goes on below the razor-sharp waves that cut through sails and masts.

The shore never receives the dove with the olive branch

Because the warship was too proud to send it.

No one ever knows how the two seahorses release the kelp that was giving way,

Linking tails one last time before being ripped through the water,

Inhaled by the whirlpool together.

No one ever sees the eyes that look

Like two sunflowers drifting on a calm, blue sea after the storm.

Everybody is too busy reporting on the eye of the storm

If they aren’t dying in it.

“Of Piers”

Of Piers

by Kymmo Valenton

 

Loss is a heart drawn in the sand like a mandala,

 Or bravery built like a sandcastle,

Too close to the edge of the sea when the tide comes

Slowly washing away every last grain,

Every speck of courage

Built up to walk across the boardwalk

To the end of the pier to look her in the eyes

And smile without an awkward, nervous giggle

To ask her to dance.

Her elegant wrist rests on the old, wooden

Pier guard rail that contrasts

With her soft, creamy hazelnut skin.

Her hair is backlit, gloriously

Set on fire, revealing her radiance.

You are not ready yet and all your plans are sure to fail.

The salt in the air is thick in your throat

As you notice how large the ocean is behind her,

And how high up the planks of wood you’re standing on

Rise above the crashing waves.

Loss is yours because you turn away

A few steps from deeper waters.

The wooden boards beneath you creak.