Come Casual

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, as 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.

Yet we remain, you and I. Perhaps
The language of an unknown tongue can answer why,
Or the sustained vibrato of a violin,
Or, perhaps, the silence of a falling snow.

                                                 rlkilgore

comment to    rlkilgore@chartertn.net

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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

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 want 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

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.

                                                                                                                             rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

                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

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.

                            rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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

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?

                rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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.

                                    rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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.

              rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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