Come Casual

Attributes and foibles
Hold no uniqueness of their own,
But, rather, varied combinations
Allow us each to stand alone.

Of all the myriad of loves,
More hurtful than to be forsaken
Ranks the one that’s unrequited
With less given than is taken.

To entice another’s favor
Are affected virtues shown.
But truest measure of affection -
Will you miss me when I’m gone?

                                  rlkilgore

Comment to   rloykilgore@gmail.com

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

Have you ever seen a gentlewoman
Having sex with a man,
Flat on his back with a broken leg
In a cast, confined to bed,
Racked with pain and violently thrusting
And bucking like a brama bull,
Nostrils flaring, spittle flying,
To throw her off -
And she, spurring that cast with her heel,
Rides him like a cowboy?

Oh, gentlewoman, how could you?

                          rlkilgore

Comment to    rloykilgore@gmail.com

         Saga Of Mt. LeConte

Benign as a grandmother from

        distant sight,
White hair flowing to your waist,
Such a cruel and spiteful ploy
You played to mask your scowl

        etched face.

Miss Mt. LeConte, a spinster I

        would think
From your morose, unsociable posture,
Towering above, looking down, 

        judgmental,
Funeral garb draped to the ground.
Why would you need a man?
Even a backdrop of sun filled skies
Cannot disguise an anger you hold
Of encroachment, nor soften your

        virulent air.

How we mortals love the game,
Dominate, control, violate -
So began my quest to convert
Your insolence to lap cat purring,
An assault to you so pitiful as an ant
On a proven path, no leader,
No follower, just an ant.
Annoyed, you then, with the back

        of your hand
Of wind and snow and ice and rain, 
Reached to brush me from your skirt.

                            rlkilgore

 comment to  rloykilgore@gmail.com

Regardless of the church one attends,
    Or whether one attends at all,
Integrity and honor and all that is good
        Comes from a noble heart
              And not a religion.

                              rlkilgore

                  (To Toressa – After 44 Years)

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, like 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.

Still we remain, you and I, lovers
Regardless the accumulated years.
No evening finds its heaven filled with stars
More faithfully inclined – maybe the language
Of an unknown tongue can answer why, or,
Perhaps, the reason lies in the silence
Of a falling snow.

rloykilgore@gmail.com

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

    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.

Comment to:     rloykilgore@gmail.com

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.

                                                 rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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 seek 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