Keith Melton holds a Master’s Degree in City Planning from Georgia Tech and a BA in Economics and International Studies from the American University. He previously has served as Director of Planning and Program Development for the Federal Transit Administration (FTA) Region IV Office; as well as VP of Development for both the Atlanta Economic Development Corp. and the DeKalb Chamber of Commerce (Atlanta). His poems have been published in numerous periodicals.
A Glimmer Past Midnight
Epiphany, followed by dream
And the snore of the dog who loves me
His furry, solitary fixation
A rock once asleep, cannot be moved.
But me, not so much. Tossing and turning
A deasil in fitted sheets. Clockwise
In a prison of my own making
The drill down frightening
Repetition, looking askance
Looking to prayer, to offer soliloquies to God
Asking for Peace
Expecting sheep to populate
To count themselves into oblivion
The narcotic of repetition
The good shepherd in the pasture of dream.
(Exercising the demons earlier would be a better strategy)
But who knows
Betting the over/under, win or lose
A path, an inspiration
A glimmer past midnight
In starlight, an epiphany might survive.
The inflection point
Is the Zen of the machine; the gravitas
Maintaining the necessary margins
Everyday worth is something.
Turning out bowls, plates; the familiar items
Before layered clouds.
Make up the time; in a hand me down world
Consider the calculus
Get your GED
Make something out of nothing
Dream instead of scheme
Marked down, time to clear away
The everyday things.
In the corrugated pieces, the chapters
Taped together; starting over, before the sun sets
And the stars come out.
The bargain bin
The hold table, the necessary things.
Always the needy
The time it takes
The meek to inherit the earth
To wait in line; to rummage a life.
I owe this woman something.
A change of address, patience on moving day.
Up so early I wonder
But there is no sleeping late.
The sun is rising, I must not misbehave
I must not dally.
A sentence resonates
Cast out in the vastness of sky
A kind of blank verse catechism
The waking sonnet
A chakra opening
A course correction, teaching, pulsing, pushing
The words into line.
Distance suddenly closer; so many things
In the clouds, the birds, the blurry trees
God is sublime
Dawn, salting the earth.
Brevity in a box of blue, striations
Rippling, faux to the eye His travertine
In a painted sky, a fast elegance
In the void, a flight of cloud to witness
The carpenter’s blood? The scapular of dawn
In riven calculus unstill, the suns
Tribute a throat of rose, a predicate
Blossom to ring His bolt of fire; our fate
Asking how many days to walk the earth?
No answer given, the skies clever truth
Disguised, each cloud’s levity scorn less
Adrift, a degree of solace from the bruise
Of night’s stitching; our fate, a distant ledge
A skyline of dark robes to the bone yard?
Playing hangman with a waitress we order coffee
When starlight in a nose ring
Comes the revelation–
Anything goes this late at night. Offbeat lovers
From the all night bars, beat mechanics
And phone solicitors
Rock-a-billy boys with blue tattoos
And red eyes that look like Mars.
The unfettered mash of the curb, 2 am
A shred of pierced humanity,
A franchise of bad dreams;
A short stack to fix the world.
And like she might need some company
Later, we hail a gypsy cab
Musing of better tips, decent hours
And no she don’t like blues
Before her building, when neon stutters like my heart–
So call me she says, sometime at the diner.
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