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
Ron | 
Poems, death, happiness, immortality, nature poetry, personal poetry, poetry about age | 
February 26, 2010 @ 9:56 pm| 
No Comments »
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
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Then withdrawn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
Ron | Opinion, Poems, death, happiness, immortality, personal comment, religion | September 29, 2009 @ 10:53 pm| No Comments »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.
Ron | Opinion, Poems, happiness, personal comment, personal poetry | July 24, 2009 @ 10:48 am| No Comments »
They say love is sweeter
The second time around,
But that can’t be, you see.
Cause my ex-wife’s husband now knows why
He’s not a happier man than I.
rlkilgore
A few will understand this, many will think
they do and some will haven’t a clue.
Every man in a life
Should know the love of a woman,
A love with passion sustained beyond the night,
Each day a melody made sweet
With love more devoted than to its own breath,
That soars above the surface of self
And breaches the gates of heaven so any man,
Fool as he might be, may see within.
A love when lost, as in its time it shall,
Never to be again.
rlkilgore
This poem was written for an elderly lady, Haydee Cansada. She was born into position and wealth in Cuba, but had to leave when Castro came to power. She lived in a small apartment in our town to be near her brother, her closest remaining relative. I took Spanish lessons from her and the reference to an owl comes from a discussion we had about why the owl is a symbol of wisdom. She longed for the chance to see Cuba again but it never happened. I wrote this for her as a present while she was still alive.
Caribbean Blue
(a Haydee, una dama de Cuba)
Fog of morning rolls up from the ground,
Windless motion that carries no sound
Except the hoot of an owl.
Out past the porch where ought to be trees,
Hangs abstract forest without any leaves,
Shrouded in a misty cowl.
Down the front steps, grass, smooth and deep,
Soft, wet and messy, adheres to my feet
And bends temporarily prone.
The air had texture that rubs on my face.
My God, how have I come to this place
To be so all alone?
Symmetrical webs perspire in the light
Reflecting labors completed last night,
Designed not to hinder the view.
Beauties of Spring, their colors in array,
Just memories masked by this curtain of gray.
Vainly, I strain to see through.
At last through the mist an unfiltered ray
Of sunlight cleaves cleanly, announcing the day
With its welcoming light.
Slowly, above, the veil changes hue,
First lacy, then pastel, then Caribbean blue.
Again the beloved sight!
rlkilgore
Two old men together
In a small cafe downtown
Near the corner talked
About good old days.
They talked of being in the same
First grade and their competitions
Through the years of school,
Competitions for grades
Where one became salutatorian
And on the football field where
One starred as the receiver.
They talked of competition
Over girls, especially Sarah
Whom one eventually married
While the other remained a bachelor.
They talked of their businesses and
Accomplishments, each proud
In his own way of his.
Two old men in a cafe together,
One drinking coffee served by the other.
rlkilgore
Not so unlikely cousins, time and anguish,
One of which there’s not enough and the other
In abundance. If I could I would
Chose to hibernate, to sleep away
The pain and steal for life another day.
I would cling like the dew forming
Drops to fall from petals at my leisure,
Denying morning’s regimented haste
To press the scheme of day, and rather bask
Contentedly, defiant of the dawning’s task.
I would seek to lie in restful slumber
If it portrayed in glimpse eternal rapture
Free of tedium, binding the eagle’s flight
With constraints only the heavens endow,
Free to soar wherever dreams allow.
rlkilgore
I paused my walk of a hillside path
To catch the morning glow,
A distant crest with haloed sun
And valley spread below.
Close by flowers of yellow and red,
Dispersed in fields of grass,
Gently swayed belying the breeze
Stiffened by Springtime’s grasp.
My eye lulled first on those nearby
Then rose above the crowd
Where colors flowed and, blending as one,
Showed less bold and loud.
Contented, I left my mind at ease,
Unfocused eyes to stare,
With naught but feel the hand of God
Through my tousled hair.
Suddenly, in flurry of wings and wind
A covy of panicked quail
Exploding in flight from unseen peril
Startled me from my spell.
When next I looked the sun’s full bloom
So reigned in blinding splay,
The tranquil scene before now gone,
I turned and walked away.
rlkilgore
They say grass is greener
On the other side,
But that can’t be, you see.
Cause while I’m thinking that woman’s fine,
Her husband’s over there looking at mine.
They say never look
A gift horse in the mouth.
But that can’t be, you see.
Though her dad gave her away, I still
Think her mother’s not part of the deal.
They say love is sweeter
The second time around.
But that can’t be, you see.
Cause my ex-wife’s husband now knows why
He’s not a happier man than I.
rlkilgore
Love’s lofty ambition
And the measure of Heaven,
More sought than gold,
Though through golden means,
This wisp, Happiness -
Disguised to be
The siren’s caress.
No beckoning served
That demands a kiss,
Yet sweetly found
When love’s requited,
Elusive Happiness -
Pursued beyond
What we possess.
rlkilgore
