Tag: poem

A Day at the Pool

Chris KhatschLeave a comment

Sun in my eye
as I try
to catch a happy toddler,
my son,
jumping into the cold water
I’m in.
He doesn’t know how to swim, but
he loves the water.
He jumps into the pool bravely
once, twice, thrice,
and many more times.

Sun on my shoulders
as I stand behind him.
My shadow becomes the shade
he plays in
for a while.
The rays of the hot summer sun
sting my shoulders.
I feel the burn,
but
I don’t mind it.

I look up, and my eyes meet
his mother’s eyes,
my wife,
my lovely, lovely wife.
She’s over there
on a chaise longue by the pool.
I smile, and I nod,
which means she can sunbathe
for a little while longer,
just a little while longer,
until our son starts looking for her.

I close my eyes for a second and
try to register our day at the pool
in my mind.
I want this to be
a memory I come back to.

I take a sip of warm beer.
I’m happy.

A Real Philosopher

Chris KhatschLeave a comment

I’m a campfire waiting
for the right wind to
grow
into a wildfire.

I’m a real philosopher,
a true lover of wisdom,
worthy of hemlock,
and deserving the hate of
certified philosophers
whose minds are as tamed as
cattle.

In their caves, they remain
studying shadows,
fearing shadows,
obeying shadows.

Now, I come,
and the sun sets into the sea,
and the night kills all shadows,
even the shadow
that always strode beside me.

The light of the moon makes
a silhouette out of me.

I become the shadow they
study, fear, and obey.

I’m an Assemblage

Chris Khatsch5 Comments

I’m an assemblage of
stereotypes, of
false beliefs, ideologies,
and memes.

Lines and lines of
code are carved
on the walls of
my mind.

The codes keep rewriting themselves,
but the traces of
the first lines of
code
never fully fade.

For a long time, my goal was
to rid myself of
everything that isn’t me
to see what remained.

The plan was to rebuild from
scratch, from
nothingness, or from
whatever remained when
everything that isn’t me was removed from
me.

I understand now
that,
when everything that isn’t me is removed,
what remains isn’t me.
What remains is traces,
the residues of what was.