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Best Poems Written by Kevin Watmough

Below are the all-time best Kevin Watmough poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

Heavens Breaking Us Down

Imagine a dream to real to see.
A mind cast victim to the world that be.
Memories breaking, from the sky they leap.
Content with blindness through the world they seek.

Oh heavenly thought, you break us down,
giving us space of which we willfully drowned.
A fate of fact, a fact of fate, a fate that fades,
until all we have is the heavens that remain.

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

Slow Fall Through Quicksand

Woke up this morning with blood on my hands.
Blood as red as the fire that burns these lands.
And its not the thought of what created these wounds,
but the thought that my fall will not end soon.

Like a shriveled rose, lost to the wind,
is my body to decompose and then become pinned.
For the ones that are mourning, bury me slowly.
While saying goodbyes, in their dark, truthful beauty.

So there is beauty in my slow fall through quicksand.
Not all the world has burned, and that i find grand.
For this morning i woke with blood on my hands,
only to wash away the flames and start again.

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

Old Man

An unsociable, ill bred, unrefined man.
And his captious, callous, long-suffering, old spirit.
Cadaverous and frail amidst the morning walk of thier land.
Wheezing from the years of cylinder embers burnt in hand.

His quivering digits, gesturing openly to his coat pocket.
As he stops to gaze and take in, the wide open grand.
He pulls out a letter, kept in form by a dark green signet.
And now slowly he begins to unroll the leaflet.

Replaced by the paper now, are the open fields. 
His hazel brown eyes, entranced by the letter held so dear.
Its now captured him, as a poem hes revealed,
and his face remarks a wound unhealed.

Brother, have i done wrong?
Am i supposed to feel strong?
Your pendulum stopped by my own hands.
Brother have i done wrong?
Am i supposed to feel strong?
For now im alone, to wonder these lands.
Brother, have i done wrong?

The brightness of the grand now lyes on the mans eyes.
Clouded, blurry, teard up sky, a floating feeling of lost goodbyes.
Now tendered from emotion, there he stood.
To live in the day his brother died.

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Drifting Man

Beyond the shore where the skies so deep,
lies a man who floats on the tears we weep.
Drifting along the current we make,
for always in our memory his soul we'll keep.

And as far as he travels, would he manage to meet,
a soul to join with in his eternal sleep.
Drifting along waiting to wake,
for toward the heavens he continues to leap.

It's a spectacular vision souls passing through light,
in the darkest of places among the stars of night.
Drifting along this ever flowing lake,
Drifting along until he wakes.

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

Cosmogenesis

A whole civilization of explorers, embarking on the night sky.
Spirits to sit amongst the glowworms and fireflies.
Watching the movement of the heavens as they lye.
For a dark rift to the mother of creations caught there eye.

Earth goddess, cosmic mother, snake woman, mother of new age.
Enchanting minds to a galactic center, for times of birth, times of change.
Cosmo-grams in stone marking the sights as their arranged.
Alignments to the exits and entrances to our last great stage.

The binding of the years to a sky so wondurously vast.
Grows closer and closer as the years they have past.
First sun amidst the glowworms and fireflies,
align with great mother to greet mankind.

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The Storm

Visual imagery passes, in translucent azure.
A redolent toxin, straight from the waters of this earth.
Rhythmic, yet silent, in the burden it bares.
For the brilliant flushed blue we see in the air.

Soft sculptures engraved for only seconds.
Weakening, strengthening, breaking off in sections.
Bright twinkling flashes, tearing the sky in two.
Crashing melodies through and through.

Whistling sporadicly in pitch and tone.
Imagery moving to dark sculptured cones.
Thrashing, swirling, grasping the land.
Mother nature held us in her destructive hand.

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

A Delusional Life

I'm a witness to the destruction of my own mind.
Far before this land, far before my time.
And as fast as i run this thought has me captured.
For of this world for others, i have not endeavored.

My body's a lost vessel for it has not touched reality,
since the dying days of my convoluted sanity.
And all around me spiritual natures unfold in time,
like flowers that seed and grow in the mind.

Yet in this world where i reside,
the flowers never grow, nor do they die.
And though reality will not echo my name in history.
In my mind i'm an explorer of the stars,
and i die when my mind meets my eyes.

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

Dreamer

Minds locked up and howling for the sound of thunder. 
Oh what sorrows come to us amidst our nights of wonder. 
A blur in the day of a life so familiar, 
so striking so loud, so intrinsically peculiar.

Shifting, aggressive silhouettes, amongst the nightly creature. 
Of which shows our face, but never cares to enlighten us deeper. 
And the question of these nights so dire, 
Comes from the heart the mind, the body of desire.

For in the truthful light of our existence, we’ve thought of the dreamer. 
A passion of withdrawal from oneself, from us, from a creator. 
For life was never meant to be any stranger, 
then the midnight howls, of a dreamer.

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Smile

I watch and i see a true smile,
a sincere happiness I've not seen in a while.
Shes looking away to another life,
for in her fall towards the earth she feels alright.
And i ask my self what has her captured.
Is it the free thought of a falling bird,
or the thought that for these few seconds the world is hers.
As landscapes beautifully intertwined with color, 
have been conquered, by her eyes, 
which then branch out and show beauty to her mind.
And whether or not this victory will fade with time. 
Is a question i cant answer, at least an answer i wont find.
All i know is the glowing beauty of a smile i saw means shes just fine.

Details | Kevin Watmough Poem

A Writers Exit

Sighed to the reflection of my wondering spirit.
Another day gone by, another cycle of quiet.
Thoughts sprawling around searching for profit.
Colliding, expanding, combining, Ive got it in a minute.

Everything is extinguished, but my pen is still lit.
The ink holds my memories, and i shall make my exit.
The artistry flows but it all seems quite private.
I strike to my woes to hope they would forfeit.

The story of him, the story of her, the story of it, the story you heard.
The habitual thoughts of which i'm tired, I've reached my limit.
And again I sigh to the reflection of my wondering spirit.
For alas the exit i had is now too extinguished