Come Casual

    Capricious winds
    Present their face,
    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.

                  rlkilgore

Comment at:  rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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.

                                              rlkilgore

                                      rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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, complacency
grows 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.

                                                 rlkilgore@chartertn.net

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

You, leaf, lying wilted and wasted,
You, blissful child, too soon taken
From a life you never 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

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

In the span of eternity,

Sixty seconds, sixty years,

Mere specks of no consequence

But for consciousness of those

Who perceive their own demise.

                                 rlkilgore@chartertn.net

Talking about oneself rivals baseball as the nation’s pastime. Much of poetry is a prime example. If “I” and “me” were removed from vocabulary, many would have difficulty speaking.

 A child is given birth by the parents and has nothing to give in return except love. An obedient, loving child is a joy. A disobedient, disrespectful child to the obliging parents ranges from disappointment to burden to curse.

 Perhaps life on earth is Heaven and Hell, the reward or punishment side by side. Perhaps life on earth is only Heaven (or only Hell). Most likely it is neither.

 Jesus told his disciples,”………..do this in remembrance of me.” because he understood that was the ultimate they could do for him after his death. Remembrance of those we love after they are gone, and perpetuating that memory in future generations, is the ultimate gift we can give them.

 Life is a chess match and time is our opponent.

 I have observed, with a few exceptions, the less hair a man has on the top of his head the more he wants in other places.

 The savior of religions is that they are able to take any thought or event and twist it to their own ends.

 The main difference between standing in the shower and the rain is that rain doesn’t come in the right temperature.

 Each man has more than one life, some he lived before and one where he straddles the line between then and to be.

 I always wanted to be recognized for my looks. I didn’t know it would come in the form of a senior citizen’s discount.

 I discovered today mayonnaise doesn’t readily spread on a slice of tomato.

 Have you noticed how dogs like to smell of each other’s rear ends but they don’t like for us to blow in their faces?

If we truly believe Heaven is as we say then why do we take medicines and treatments to avoid it and why do we punish murderers for sending us there?

I wonder who started the rumor Barack Obama is smart.

Capitalism is built on the backs of laborers and the laborers are better off for it.

The flaw of socialism - if the pie is divided equally no one will bake the pie.

The rich man may have more idle time but his air conditioner isn’t any cooler or his bed any softer.

The Republicans are not the party of “No”.  The party out of power is the party of “No”.

Prayer seems akin to having an imaginary friend.  There is nothing wrong with having someone to talk to, someone who will listen without interrupting.

 The veracity of the deity is not as important as the strength of faith.  Faith is the reality.

                                                                          rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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.

                            rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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.

                                      rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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