R L Kilgore
Apr 18

You, leaf, lying wilted and wasted,
You, blissful child, too soon taken
From a life you hardly tasted.

 What ignoble fate of essence
Unrequested and sorely rewarded,
Clothing your host in springtime’s attire,
Humming in concert to laud the caress
Of summer’s light breath, balmy and warm,
Howling to protest the blustery storm.

But was your voice heard?

Would the same melodious song
Sound just as sweet with one less soul
In a chorus one hundred strong?

Resplendent in your autumn finery,
So ruefully shed. Another will come
In your stead. And to what end?
May Heaven hold a place for you,
My friend.

                               rlkilgore

Comment to  rlkilgore@gmail.com

Apr 7

A distant siren’s faintest cry waifs
In surrogate voice for one about to die.
Is that an ambulance or just the wind?
Wait, there it is again, nearer,
Louder in crescendo piercing wail.

So mundane as to warrant idle notice,
Intrusive and annoying to calloused curiosity.

Flashing lights and lettered windows hide,
Impersonalize the pain that rides inside.
And who cares, a family or friend?
And might that feeling truly be of grief,
Or rather relief, a life soon may end?

Anguish knows its limit with the dead
But honors no such boundary otherwise
For release of those who might survive,
Where tragedy lurks like a latent virus
And waits to rage when least attended.

And so the siren’s plaintive cry pales
To dull and distant whimper, out of mind,
Allowing traffic to continue.

                  rlkilgore