Poetry: My Eyes


By Dan Watt

Author of the e-books Ruby Queen and Sylvia on Kobo.com; and e-books Lucy and the Snivel Chair and Learning the Garden of the Body on Amazon.com


My Eyes


I come to the bed of flowers

Through the lichen I peer at rustic boards

Between the fluttering butterflies a filmy window appears


I move closer to make the stream of plants less dense

A stone knob pokes my thigh

I knock into the noise of friendly creatures

My hand pulls back sheathed in dew


He hobbles out

All the holes in his face camouflaged in gray hairs

“Here to learn,” I say with a wink


We walk past the aspens and beech

Around the boulders with bristly green hairs

Under a temple of bent boughs all goes dark

A warm hand grabs my wrist and leads me to beams of light

Unhindered by the canopy of Redwood towers


His finger moves to his lips in a silent Shhh

A bear roams near

Muscles rippling with each quiet step it sniffs along a berry bush

“Can you see him?” Says his soothing accent

“Yes” wide-eyed I reply

“Watch him step” he says while I taste his cider breath

“Can you feel his foot touching the forest floor?

“Can you feel his nostrils flair with each breath?”

I could not

But as I turn to say so

His eyes change and I know he does


Upon his return shadows grow to cover the place

I follow him to a small clearing in sight of his hidden house

He makes flames with a click of flint as he gazes straight ahead


In the flicker of orange his face and hands glow sanguinely

“Your hands are paws

“You stand on all four

“A tail swishes at your rear

“What does each step feel like?” he asks me

I rest my elbows upon my knees and slap my hands together

“I don’t know” I ruefully admit


His chin raises and drifts down

He squints into–somewhere

“I could teach you,” he says with dark eyes

“How much?” I exhale

“Your soul” he hisses
“Not to me” he continues before I can guffaw

“To power”

My eyes glitter

“And,” he says as a twig fallen from his raised hand burns

“With power must come pain”

Under bushy eyebrows he stares into me

“Still?” he asks

I look from side-to-side and shrug “Yes”


“See that owl in the branch under the moon?” he asks without looking up

I do

“Look into the eyes—“

“Will I control him?” I interrupt

“No.  He is himself.  But you can become his brethren”

I tilt my head to one side and gaze

“Feel your eyes shape like his

“Feel your ears point and flutter…


Of that night I remember the wind under my belly

As if I were sliding on a polished floor

And his voice calling me back

Before I became what I am not




Dan Watt March ã 2000


(From:  I know what I have said, but I do not know what you have heard)


I’ll let poetry rest for a while…

And turn from depth to darkness

Next week!

The Beginning of the horror comedy:  The Von Bucati Mansion

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