Ken's Poetry

Faces

Faces come so easily,
float in sculpted clouds,
lurk in the lines of winter woods,
in the folds of crushed cloth,
and random scribbles on the page
are filled with faces struggling
for recognition from my pen.
When I look at jagged crags
or oily patterns in a lake,
shadows underneath a tree,
a face always stares back,
a glowering chameleon face
with mouth agape or crescent nose
round staring eye or bearded jaw
jagged teeth or furrowed brow,
as though some creature stalks my mind
glaring through the things I see.