Come Casual

Beauty came in the guise of innocence
And wrapped her arms around our youthful days
Until the lust we recognized as love
Sang its final song and departed.

I remember it well.

The grass was smooth and soft under our feet
And the days were long enough that nights had only
Time enough to cool, and cover our passions.
And love came easily, as apples in a laden orchard,
Easily plucked and delicious but now indistinguishable
As birds flying in flock, flitting and sweeping,
So all blend together and become the whole.

Yet we remain, you and I. Perhaps
The language of an unknown tongue can answer why,
Or the sustained vibrato of a violin,
Or, perhaps, the silence of a falling snow.

                                                 rlkilgore

comment to    rlkilgore@chartertn.net

Inconvenient downpour interrupts

Play of the little fellow sitting

On the floor, pouting because

The swing outside hangs slack.

He sees through eyes of the moment,

Not knowing somewhere sits

Another boy whose father works

In the store where the handy man

Buys groceries with money

He earns mowing our lawn

Nourished by the rain.

                                   rlkilgore

comment at:   rlkilgore@chartertn.net

    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

      Vibrant rays of sun rain down,
      Splash and cover all around -
    Resplendent colors, yellow, green
  Of crocuses and mown grass sheen.

  Ah! Spring too long delayed beckons,
Calling with promise of warmth’s delight.

        Oh, No!  Was there ever
Fraud more blatant, deceit less latent
    As this haughty Northern Breeze
        Denying Winter’s demise
      And chasing me back inside
            To find my jacket?

                              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

We were best of friends, you and I.
Preoccupied, self-absorbed, I failed
To notice your insidious betrayal.
Oh, Sweet Time, what have I
Done to deserve your treachery?
You have stolen from me and
So continue. You took my youth,
And now want my vigor, leaving
Desperate yearnings. You have 
Abandoned me adrift on a river
With a precipice approaching 
Where I cannot see the edge
But I can hear the roar.

                              rlkilgore@chartertn.net

1.  A famous philosopher, Immanuel Kant, as an aside said, “Poetry without rhyme is prose gone mad”.  I think poetry without rhyme is cheating, taking the easy way out.  I cheat more than I would like.  Maybe this form of writing should have its own name, something like “Prosery”.

2.  The chance of an original thought in writing, one which has not been voiced before, is remote.  About the best we can hope to do is phrase it in a different way.

3.  I believe rhyme in poetry is like sugar in coffee which leaves a sweetness lingering on the tongue.

4.  A poem is the mood and feeling of a moment, not of a life.

5.  There is a difference between seeking critical reviews and fishing for compliments.  Your writings should be found and appreciated, or not, as the reader is inclined.  The other option is that they never be found at all.

6.  Writing allows you to discuss with yourself, uninterrupted, matters which are difficult to discuss with others.

                                                                                                                             rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

                Tall and slender,
                  In white pants
            Sprinkled with sequins
      That sparkled without gaudiness,
              And a top to match,
          She moved with her partner
                  To the parquet
                In front of the band.

                Black, cropped hair
        Accentuated the white ensemble,
              She passed under the arm
                    Of her partner.
                Then swayed in time
                  With the rhythm.

      The music began pounding, pulsing
                    And she danced -
                Oh, how she danced!
                No spotlight was needed
                    For she radiated.
        Others served merely as bit players,
            Supporting cast for the diva.

            Her back upright and straight,
                A music box ballerina,
                    Chin up-tilted in
              Aloofness and confidence,
                  Lower back arched
                To emphasize buttocks,
                      An arm freed
                Of her partner stretched
                  In graceful extension,
                      Wrist flexed
                  To extended fingers,
                Held in place a moment
                  For our appreciation,
                    Then withdrawn
                In sweeping movement
            To flow into continuous motion
                  Of turns and postures,
              Performed by her svelte figure
    With hips and legs and arms and shoulders -
                  Harmonized beauty -
                    This Lady in White.

    We knew, in comparison, we would appear
        As plowboys plodding with bare feet
                So we sat, intimidated.
                   
                                            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

For some tomorrow is a distant thunder
Whose storm they cannot see,
For some tomorrow is a candy store
Whose shelves may be empty.

Some in a life will never know
The taste of a lingering kiss,
The brush of fingers across their cheek,
A moment such as this.

                            rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net