Four Poems

by CK Tower

"Graduating to Wet Stones" - "Succession" - "Elementare" - "Phases"

CK Tower is a 26 year old poet/writer from Lansing Michigan. She has had works published
in the United States and Canada, as well as on the WWW, seen in such
journals as "Afterthoughts," "Recursive Angel," "The Washington Square Review," and "Horse Play."

She is currently attending LCC, where she is pursuing a degree in literature. She is president
of the college's creative writing club, and an editor for their yearly poetry/short fiction anthology.

Graduating To Wet Stones

"I had to learn why I would rather die than love..."
-Anne Sexton

I will be twenty-six in July. But you,
barely twenty-one, will still be young
for another year or two. We sit and watch
the water stroke over sand, a restless petting.
Small stones tossed from their ocean boudoir,
ride the foam, nestle in irregular piles; lie still
and washed.

I keep recalling the last time you were here and I
was not. No summer thrills, but plenty of shocks;
they politely called it therapy. I could almost smell
the brine on the silky cardboard breeze you'd sent me.
When they said I might never share that pacific harmony
with you again I, being a shade more stubborn
than weak, pushed back the death dreams.

I can tell you what they will never know: how the mind
can cling to one single moment, how that liquid image
like some impulsive wave, can lift and carry you
through a maze of voodoo chemistry, and more. Their cures,
the drugs, that alter my crooked psyche will never make a moment
as clear, as these wet, simple stones, freeing themselves.


Death will be aghast and so will
nature, when creation rises again
to make answer to the judge.

-Thomas of Celano

These humid seconds, rush past, leave me with
no sense of their origin; more restless
requests for creation. In moments when
nothing emerges as palpable, I
wonder how it was all done. Were images of
Man swimming inside the dream follies of

some creator? Were fragments plumbed like rough
orbs from the pink, gapping mouths of oysters;
discontentment our mother? Did she, like
Logos, set loose a river, persuade breath
out of still matter? Now I find myself

her inheritor, awash in the same
dim inquietude, as was she, before
freeing the stars to illuminate. But
where is it, that rational, that blazing
reason? Without, I am left holding these
dank minutes, blank seconds without any

vision. These simple tools, passed down to
me on tilted synapses, rough outlines
wanting form, what can I author that's not
been concieved inside the mind of such a
skilled artisan? For now, I can only
hold this gritty sand and imagine pearls.

wanting form, what can I author that's not
been conceived inside the mind of such a
skilled artisan? For now, I can only
hold this gritty sand and imagine pearls.

Read the rest of CK's poems

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