R L Kilgore

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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.


Comment to  rlkilgore@gmail.com

Apr 7
A Siren’s Plea
icon1 Ron | icon2 death, immortality, Life, Poems, poetry about age | icon4 April 7, 2011 @ 11:02 pm| icon31 Comment »

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.


Jun 25

    Clouds drift by
    As on parade.
    Who knows where bound
    Or whence they’re made.
    Capricious winds
    At frenzied pace,
    Swirl, then leave
    Without a trace.

    Winds and clouds
    On whimsy pass
    As precious days
    Ordained may last.   

    Unknown fates
    Their lives compose,
    Just fleeting moments
    To strut and pose.

    Only memories
    Remain to hold
    The legacy
    To be told.
    One generation,
    At most two,
    Remembers clouds
    And winds that blew.


Comment at:  rlkilgore@chartertn.net



Jun 21

Born naked and bleak in a cold north wind
To plunder gold from Autumn’s attire,
Winter comes with a skeleton-toothed grin
And icy minions on a ruthless hand.

Each Season finds itself, in order,
Victim of immutable fate,
But life struggles desperately to grasp,
Over nature’s will, another breath.

So Autumn leaps on back the wind
Like a rodeo cowboy rides.
Defiant spurs gouge bucking gusts
To wipe away the skeleton’s smirk
And let the interloper know
Leaves will fall when Autumn decides.

Comment to:     rloykilgore@gmail.com



May 29

What shadow slides across this earth
So randomly as to engulf
One soul but not another?
What cloud portends a destined storm
To hasten those unworldly throes
For one man but not his brother?


With each dawning, renewed light
Reveals the one, by chance, selected
To feel that day the shadow’s passing.
And with each evening, smug presumptions
grow more tempered by realization
Of time, after all, not everlasting.

Perhaps most fortunate are those
Who never feel the cold or rain
Or hear the thunder – for whom swift lightening,
When it strikes, inflicts no pain.


Apr 16
icon1 Ron | icon2 death, eulogy, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 April 16, 2010 @ 8:40 pm| icon3No Comments »
When one I love mourns a loss
Of one so beloved,
That of my own multiplies
For now I grieve for both.



Jan 3
We Know
icon1 Ron | icon2 death, immortality, Opinion, Poems, poetry about age | icon4 January 3, 2010 @ 2:02 pm| icon3No Comments »

In the span of eternity,

Sixty seconds, sixty years,

Mere specks of no consequence

But for consciousness of those

Who perceive their own demise.



Sep 19

Uproarious laughter filled our lovely party,
An ongoing din with no discernible source
Except one’s own voice.  The dance was crowded
With like kind souls who, feeling the beat, twirled
In unison while wings of time seemed furled.

Faces changed, their passing hardly noticed.
A fortunate, chosen few flaunted their gifts
And unearned beauty on a gilded stage
Surrounded by the rest who, unsung,
joined in refrain, “The night still is young”.

A chair, left like a door ajar before
A solitary empty plate and crumpled
Napkin coarsely tossed, as memorial
Stands, a lonesome cemetery stone
For one who was, in the end, alone.

And the dance goes on.




Aug 31

If death were as peaceful slumber
Sailing on a gentle sea
With cooling warmth from summer breezes
And lying there were she with me
To fill love’s idyllic dreams,
Ambrosia for eternity,
Then hasten coming of that day.


Futility begs a minute glimpse,
By means worldly senses lack,
To dispel musings wary
Of conjecture’s wishfulness
Gauging immortality -
But certainty is today’s possession
And there reason enough to tarry.




Feb 1

This was written for a friend who recently passed away.  I was able to visit him about three weeks before he died.

Eons stretching beyond belief
Now mean nothing but what we see,
With none more precious than this day
To him, knowing so few remained,
Poised at the edge of what’s to be.

A light-hearted spirit true to his nature,
Unaffected as one might assume
In his grievous condition, relieved
Me the task of feigned good cheer,
His buoyancy dispelling my dreaded gloom.

Instead we talked as a normal day
Of sports, of kids and elections, wise
In combination over one hundred years,
With catchall solutions uncontested
By those not there to see our eyes.

But far, far from a normal day
We tacitly knew – small jokes brought
Smiles but no belly laugh,
Mirth without twinkle and we paused,
Looking away, each to his thought.

Ensnared in a web of no one’s making,
Spun by blood cells out of control,
He bravely proclaimed his satisfaction
And readiness, but I thought better –
Valiant warrior, gentle soul.

I said I would see him in the Spring,
He hugged me with no uttered reply.
We knew only I would see the Spring
So I turned to go to my car,
Turned to hide my moistened eye.