The Fog

The Fog

Tongues of cold wet fog
Lick lecherously at my cheek, my ears
Dampening the flesh of my arms with
Its invitation to join
Dark morning’s silent, creeping festivities.

Ghostly fingers pluck
At sleeve and cuff
Beckoning with chill promises
Dark mysteries
Muffled secrets

Misty veil - shroud
Dog’s howl
Owl’s screech
Rabbit’s scream
From what evil cause these signs

What viceral thrill to feel
A child’s imagined creatures
Bright terror, and tharn rigidity
What loss to put away
Childhood’s demons.

Ken Goree


For future reference, I put the explanations of what inspired me to write a certain poem after the poem for a reason. I want you read it first, let it live in your imagination and give it the life that your experiences. Think of a poem as baking soda. One person's experiences may be like water, while the next person's experiences are like vinegar. You start with the same thing, but with radically different results. Ms Water's mixture turns into a solution that has the emotional equivalent thickens gravies (mental comfort food). Mr. Vinegar gets an emotional volcano.

My inspiration for this poem arrived this last fall. As usual, I arrived early to school. On my walk to my classroom I look east across the playground, and a while later toward the sunrise. On some clear mornings I can see Mt. Rainier to the south, the sun painting its edge bright copper. On this particular morning, there was just enough light in the world to see a slowly creeping, swirling mist across the blacktop, and patchy grass field. There was complete silence, until I heard far off, the barking of a dog. Here it comes, here is why I really wrote the poem ... I got a chill down my spine. Suddenly I missed being a kid. I miss, and try to regain the ability to feel that bright, sharp fear that only. To take a naturally benign situation and infuse it with imagination so powerful that we imagined a blackness so dark it could clutch us tight, and as we are dragged into the pit, we know, we just know that when we tried to scream no sound would come out.

The beautiful thing about this childhood fear and panic is, as tangible as it is to us when we are young, when the lights come on we're safe, and realize there never was any real danger; we won't be stolen away to a nightmare land forever.

I did write a last line, but that would have put a dark message in this poem for me, instead of it being a lament the loss of safe, childhood fears and a celebration of the imagination.

Okay, now I'm leaving to go snowshoeing!