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Poetry by Joseph McCullough 

Joseph is an author, a teacher and photographer.



© 2006 Joseph McCullough





The Knife Throwing Artists

How dart-sharp their eyes are to hone in on such
miniscule targets as
points of light do before they even start to travel
across the darkness

with the suspense of the object traveling through
space with an end

never reaching where the beginning stops but waits in
love is the same way as it flies off without notice
and becomes a story
following a plot that is blind as a lost whale though
still in the ocean.

They had spent their childhoods as mysterious children
all the while young people have to imagine life as
changing dreams

but something kept them separated from their peers
like a continent

they lived on had not yet been discovered but they
were living there;
the landscape was a challenge not to destroy but
maintain its beauty by replacing whatever is used to
the fullest with a nearest perfection

humans could replicate with an association to the
planet of their lives
while accepting the values that nature instilled on
them as its laws,

and for the people who broke them their spirits
suffered its agonies;
the universe and the mind of a soul are the same as
they were created
simultaneously but emotions of life are the difference
between them.

They practiced their throws with and toward the center
of the winds

to measure distances and judge the variables of
crosscurrent effects
so when they had to strike moving subjects of their
intention nothing
would sway the action of the thought from reaching its

death does not come at the height of pain but only
when a body does
not feel aware of it anymore and settles for a climax
of its own birth.

Of course if you were thinking this treatise on a
philosophical entity
was about the performers in a circus it is about the
woman strapped
to a spun wheel earning a livelihood by putting her
life in jeopardy,

her biological clockwise spin depending on the aim of
a wisen gypsy
with a patch over his left eye from being stabbed by a
poisoned sun

but that is a theme poets dare not write if they ever
need a publisher.











All work is property of Joseph McCullough.




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