Come Casual

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 given as her joy,
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

rloykilgore@gmail.com

rlkilgore@chartertn.net 

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.

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

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

The small boy brings a single flower,
A daffodil picked from the yard
And presents it to his mother,
And she weeps – she weeps because
She knows he has given her all he has,
All he has to offer and with no
Motive other than his love.

The mother’s eyes no longer have tears,
And I weep – I weep because the
Moment is gone when bouquets of roses
With the sweetest of fragrance can be
Presented for no other reason
Than the pleasure they bring.

Now my gift is all I have to offer.
Garlands so readily woven, yet carelessly
Denied when days were warm, now
Serve only to soften a lingering guilt.
Just know, my Mother, on this earth you
Are remembered – and shall by my children
And theirs and theirs to be.

                                                rlkilgore

Comment to rloykilgore@gmail.com

Today a love was consummated
with promises to honor and love
and possibly obey, I couldn’t say
exactly what the vows consisted of.

The reverend droned with relevant
admonitions for the lovely pair.
Oh, my little girl,
my little girl with the golden hair

Pulled back in a pony-tail,
shining laughter, knowing no shame
from missing front teeth – it seems
memories most vivid appear in a frame.

“Do you take this woman?”
Oh, little girl rest your head on my chest
for a perpetual moment,
for an infinite caress.

“Do you take this man?”
No! My heart jumped with a start
of desperation. “No,” I shouted,
but my lips betrayed me and failed to part.

Today a love was consummated.
Flushed with rapture, the lovely pair,
with wholesome intent, stood wrapped
in a legacy of love, unaware.

rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

A small, dusty Texas town where no trees grow
Without being watered was OK for a sixth grade boy
Who did not know any better. There was no link
To the outside world with television so I
Didn’t know much anyway.

Barracks type buildings from the closed, World War II
Army base had been moved and converted
Into class rooms on the grounds of the junior
High school – and that was OK too.

We six graders started band in one of those barracks
And I played the clarinet. I played clarinet
Because my mother had found a used one cheap.
The problem was mine was shiny metal and the other
Clarinet players had black ones.

A boy named Gene sat next to me
In the clarinet section. He sat one seat closer
To the front row because he played a little better
Than I did. Gene was not corpulent
But he was somewhat overweight, I would
Call him soft. He was not athletic
And walked with a shuffling, pigeon-toed gait. His hair
Was a lighter shade than blond but I don’t believe
It was white. However, his most remarkable
Feature was a silver metal cap on one of his front
Teeth. I now know caps like that are the most
Inexpensive way of fixing a broken tooth.
He smiled frequently and pushed his glasses up
With the backside of his index finger. He
Was not one of the in-crowd and I was.

Gene and I had a conflict, the cause
Of which I don’t recall – nor what happened
Afterward. Regardless, I was trying to prove
To him I was somehow better off
Than he was.

In our town movies changed three times a week,
One on Saturday, one on Sunday and one
(only your mother would go to) in between.
I told Gene I went to all three movies
Every week. (This was a lie – I only
Went on weekends). He told me he did too.
Desperate for something to one-up him with I
Said at least I did not live on the north
Side of the tracks. He probably had never thought
About where he lived. He just stood looking with a wide-eyed
Stare like someone who had been stabbed in the heart with a knife
And was still alive to feel It. I had won.

The memory of his face burns in my mind
And haunts my heart so I cannot forget.
Gene, I am sorry.

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

Why glamorize a shooting star
Stealing swiftly through the darkened night,
Fleet and silent as a craven thief
Streaking so to cheat the dawning light?

Flashing thunder booms its flaunted pride
To emphasize with aplomb and flair
The bolt harbors no timidity of the star,
Yet neither leaves sign of ever passing there.

                              rlkilgore

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

Dreamy river, which way you flow concealed,
Indiscernible with the stillness of the air,
And ripples chased by the lightest breath of breeze
Belie your intent.  Only below, beneath
Your quiet surface, is your true course revealed.

Far away, on a distant mountain crest
Or sage covered prairie, your birthplace where
A single drop of rain finds its destiny,
A drip, a puddle, a trickle, a stream exploring
Each hollow and crevice, seeking unattainable rest.

Disdaining decorous shape, your surging swell
Grows, rising, strengthening, rushing, supplements
Of each gully and ravine quickening
The current to marauding pitch, undeniable,
Unyielding, nimbly accommodating each travail.

Your torrent plummets in cascades where boulders impede
Orderly passage, here quickly, there slowly, each spilllway
And eddy swirling and gushing in anguished impatience,
Single-mindedly driven, plunging in headlong
Pursuit to satisfy an ocean’s insatiable need.

Dreamy river, your tumultuous race to the sea
Now adjourned, your waters, deep and settled, have earned
This peace. Rest by my shore and warm your body.
The glistening sheen of your placid surface sparkles
Where your seminal raindrop smiles – and winks at me.

                                              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

Growing up in Texas.  I’m on the right and my amigo is now mayor of Rockport, Texas.

My youth budded in a small town where I came 
To know the world, at least the world I saw.

In school I studied math and state capitals
But my core came from the people
Where words like wetback and nigger
Came as naturally out of the mouth as Mom
And Dad with no thought of discrimination.
I wrapped my arms around that world and held
On because it was what I had, it was mine.

That time is long since past and now I learn
From a larger world. My thoughts are about
Individuals and groups, not races.
However, some races have segments
More worthy of my contempt than others.
When this is mentioned the cry
Of racism is loud and shrill.

Decisions represent bias and discrimination -
From the person we marry to the route
We select to go to work each morning.
The self-righteous will say all are equal
And stand on this platform as pure nonracists.
But we are not all equal.  Oriental children
Come to America and in five years not only
Learn the language but win the spelling bees.
It is not an accident the fastest runners are black.

Those who attempt to suppress the realities of the world
Do a disservice of which I will not be a part.
So I am called a racist.

                                 rlkilgore