THE WATCHMAN OF THE CAVE

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  • Fantasy

    THE WATCHMAN OF THE CAVE

    I lodged with L and friends in a rocky place unknown to me. It was a cave. The cave had a large lake in the center. The lake led to a waterway leading out the back. In the lake a boat was waiting. L left with the others to cross the lake beyond the other opening to the cave, by boat: to go to a magic village, a place of festivities, that few people knew about.

    We set up a tent in the rocky earth. This was to be my guardhouse. The others left in their boat. I remained, agreeing to be the watchman at our portal to the secret festive village. A man appeared at the entrance to the cave. He had a badge. He asked for my wallet, ID and credit card. I was worried, but he asserted his prerogative as a law man. He was, it turns out, investigating a murder.

    He soon went away with my identification and cards. He was killed in his investigation, so my identity was lost. What was he killed by? I don’t know. I was never informed.

    The cave I was staying in, and the lake within it, which grew wide and to vast proportions, was inhabited by a certain beast. A descendent of flying dinosaurs, or perhaps flesh-eating dragons. My fear at every moment was palpable.

    L would return with friends at one point, then depart again to the festivities. While they were back I had no shame talking about my horrendous fear. And when it happened that people were killed outside my cave, L and her “friends” agreed to take me with them on the boat, due to the dangers I was facing, without anything to identify me should I be killed or lost. I took the boat with them though the back of the cave, across the cove to the festive village. But the village was “sold out” – it was too crowded, and I had no tickets. The friends agreed to sneak me in.

    At the village we disembarked directly into the lower floor of a restaurant. It was an elaborate old house with many floors and hallways, and a lot of fine woodwork in dark teaks and mahagonies. I felt the presence of something in that house – that restaurant. Something was in there, yet I knew I was safe.

    When we embarked on the boat again to depart the village, and returned to the cave, I felt good knowing that at least we were all together. For the moment my fear of going back to the tent at the mouth of the cave was calmed.



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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    JoeMartin’s Poems (15)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    A STATEMENT 3
    CLASSIFIED 0
    SLUT ROOSTER 2
    ROSE LIGHT 0
    COLD LAUGHING MAN 0
    UNDERSTANDING 1
    TIRING DOWN IN TIME 1
    THE WATCHMAN OF THE CAVE 0
    THE EYE 0
    REAL ESTATE 0
    PROTEA 1
    OPEN HEART 1
    LOVE GETS LOST 1
    FALLING GLASS 2
    BAD FATE 0