Come Casual

                                Whenever there I chance to see
                                Sails and gales,
                                In mystery,
                                I wonder where I might have been
                                If I had blown before the wind.

                                Perhaps a beggar on the street
                                Worn and torn
                                In stocking feet,
                                Wine imbibed, waiting to die
                                And cursing all that passes by.

                                Perhaps a president or king,
                                Bestowed with gold
                                And high esteem,
                                Adulation, fame, success
                                And fortune more than popes could bless.

                                Fair winds have borne me love’s caress
                                Hand in hand
                                With happiness,
                                Compassion, trust, fidelity,
                                No greater fortune could I see.

                                And what I am is what I’ll be,
                                Plain as Jane
                                In reality.
                                Though precious youth is robbed by time,
                                The child inside remains behind.

                                                                  rlkilgore

    Lift your eyes, modest lady.
    Reticent, sidelong
    glances faintly reflect
    the direction of your
    Concealed intent -
    to lure or reject.

    Raise your skirt, modest lady.
    Reveal your
    lovely milky thigh,
    not enough to show
    your secrets, just enough
    To tease my eye.

    Beneath your chaste mantle,
    what wasted beauty
    lies unseen, unshown?
    Behind your coy demeanor,
    what joy is lost
    we both might have known?

                              rlkilgore

Water on the moonlit lake is smooth.
So smooth, surface ripples swirl
In diverse directions from an invisible hand
Of the breeze which I neither hear nor feel.
I only see.

Tree frogs croak on this cool August
Night and are the predominate sound.
These I cannot see -
Nor the crickets or the outboard motor
Droning in the distance,
Nor the muted, far off shout of a man
Who for some reason chose
This moment to raise his voice.
These I only hear.

A search light, probably some advertising prop
From the town beyond the hills,
Faintly sweeps the clouds, punctuated
By a red period shining from the top
Of an invisible cell phone tower.
None of these I hear.

Incongruous sights unheard and sounds unseen
Search the senses
To find an interpreter.

                            rlkilgore

You, Profaneness, flung in blasphemy,
Reeking contempt with arrogant bravado
Of Hell’s abyss, you are a belief
Of disbelief whose consequences
Require no answer, for there is
No other, other than yourself.

But what of you, Pious Pride,
Ensconced so smugly in your convictions?
What influence you wield, what power
And wealth to proselytize by cajolement,
And if failing, bloodshed, regardless
Of your creed or your sect or culture.

Whether viewed as light to darkness
Or darkness passing into Light,
Passion holds no sway.
Which is the blinded fool
Is, perhaps, only he
Who presumes to know.

                       rlkilgore