Quetch

`

Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.

Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.

Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.

`

Reviews

[Crowley]

Not only did I feel the desolation that this conjures up in my gut, but also that hopeful regonition that ends up being a shattered image on hot pavement when your thirst is so consuming and you would give anything for a drink. As ehtereal and transucent as the oasis might be....there is still a chance that it is real....great writing and the only time I have seen the word foetid used in a poem...three points for that little gem.

[Mutley]

I love this poem! It is very vivid and realistic and full of metaphors. Forgive me for my lack of constructive criticism, but I am still trying to puzzle out the full meaning of this poem. I like the style and I hope to learn from it. Poems like these remind me I still have much to learn :P

[Red Brick Keshner]

You could be right Kerry. The original title would denote complaint but your suggestion denotes the resultant condition which brought the complaint about in the first place. I will return to this after my duties of the day and ponder upon what you have put forward for consideration. Many thanks to your interaction and valued opinions. Cheers.

[Kerry O'Connor]

I've read many poems about the desert but this is really an exceptional piece, with deep metaphoric resonance. I love the lines:
Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret..

(I'm just wondering if the title should read Quench...?)