R L Kilgore

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Jan 18
Saga Of Mt. LeConte
icon1 Ron | icon2 nature poetry, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 January 18, 2011 @ 9:54 pm| icon33 Comments »

         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, 

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.




 comment to  rloykilgore@gmail.com

Jul 10


                  (To Toressa – After 44 Years)

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, 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.







Apr 16
icon1 Ron | icon2 death, eulogy, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 April 16, 2010 @ 8:40 pm| icon3No Comments »
When one I love mourns a loss
Of one so beloved,
That of my own multiplies
For now I grieve for both.



Oct 20

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.


Oct 15

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.



Oct 15
Lady In White
icon1 Ron | icon2 happiness, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 October 15, 2009 @ 8:04 pm| icon3No Comments »

                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.


Sep 19
icon1 Ron | icon2 love poetry, Opinion, personal comment, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 September 19, 2009 @ 10:00 am| icon3No Comments »

The cautious woman window shopping
Pauses, then passes on,
Time is not a patient fool
To dally very long.

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.






Jul 24

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.





Jul 23
Ah, the satisfaction,
The gratifying pleasure
And delectable sport
Of disabusing, proving
Superiority of knowledge
Over the opponent -
A friend, acquaintance, bumbling
Dunce, avowed enemy,
Nemesis, no matter.
Ah, the satisfaction.

How dare the suffered fool
Assume the elitist’s pose
To judge my intent,
Presume my ignorance,
Disabuse a deft
Thought, slip of the tongue,
Momentary lapse
Of lucidity.
A ruse I’ll not forget
Pompous, arrogant fool.



Jul 9
To Toressa
icon1 Ron | icon2 love poetry, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 July 9, 2009 @ 9:51 pm| icon3No Comments »

Was ever a man more enticed
Or held so closely bound,
With no shackles evident
Or prison walls around?
Could ropes be drawn less securely,
And no attempt of a heart to flee?
And could a bird, born to fly
Free of any remand,
Find more desire but to remain
In your open hand?




Jul 2
Shades of Gray
icon1 Ron | icon2 nature poetry, personal poetry, Poems | icon4 July 2, 2009 @ 11:33 pm| icon3No Comments »

Standing by the water’s edge, I think
Of her and cinch my collar close to void
The chilling breeze.  She said ………..

    Mist, so fine it fails to fall but taunts
    My face to let me know it’s in the air,
    Veils the distant shore, a quarter mile
    Away or more, while ripples lap beneath
    My feet and roar in miniature relief.

                    …………..I had always
To be right, everything was black
And white.  I never thought myself that way.
I wonder why ………….

    Darkened trees on the opposite side present
    A belt separating skirt from blouse,
    Preventing water from touching clouds ashen
    In a canopy that folds low overhead.
    I never knew so many shades of gray.

          ………….. I was oblivious to see
That which now she finds repugnant in me.
Yesterday I felt so confident in myself.





May 29
icon1 Ron | icon2 personal poetry, Poems, poetry about age | icon4 May 29, 2009 @ 8:41 pm| icon3No Comments »

Rolling up the interstate,

Cruise control on seventy-eight,

North to Lexington, K. Y.

Dark enough for headlights on

And light enough for ashen sky

To outline billboards zipping by,

The chevy gobbles highway strips,

Spits them out of straight rear pipes,

And the radio pounds out sixties’ gold.


I was drinking, I believe,

The very night I proposed

Marriage on a New Year’s Eve,

A long time ago.

Spontaneous words at the time

Issued from a muddled mind,

Yet some innate internal guide

Recognized that by my side

Sat an angel.

Was she sent to serve a sentence

And I put here to be her penance?

I suppose I’ll never know.

Time as best I can tell

Is motion perceived as change

Relative of another to me

However still as I might be.

But what if both remain the same?

Then decay assumes the name.

So change is not to be deprived

Nor time denied.


Damn, I missed my exit.




Apr 15

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.



Mar 15
Final Gift
icon1 Ron | icon2 eulogy, personal poetry, Poems, poetry about age | icon4 March 15, 2009 @ 7:12 pm| icon3No Comments »



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.


Comment to rloykilgore@gmail.com

Mar 15
A Father’s Lament
icon1 Ron | icon2 love poetry, personal poetry | icon4 March 15, 2009 @ 5:37 pm| icon3No Comments »

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.



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