Come Casual

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

In the span of eternity,

Sixty seconds, sixty years,

Mere specks of no consequence

But to those so fortunate

As to perceive their own demise.

                                 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

Uproarious laughter filled our lovely party,
An ongoing din with no discernible source
Except one’s own voice.  The dance was crowded
With like kind souls who, feeling the beat, twirled
In unison while wings of time seemed furled.

Faces changed, their passing hardly noticed.
A fortunate, chosen few flaunted their gifts
And unearned beauty on a gilded stage
Surrounded by the rest who, unsung,
joined in refrain, “The night still is young”.

A chair, left like a door ajar before
A solitary empty plate and crumpled
Napkin coarsely tossed, in memorial
Stands, a lonesome cemetery stone
For one who was, in the end, alone.

And the dance goes on.

                            rlkilgore@chartertn.net

If death were as peaceful slumber
Sailing on a gentle sea
With cooling warmth from summer breezes
And lying there were she with me
To fill love’s idyllic dreams,
Ambrosia for eternity,
Then hasten coming of that day.

Futility begs a minute glimpse,
By means worldly senses lack,
To dispel musings wary
Of conjecture’s wishfulness
Gauging immortality -
But certainty is today’s possession
And there reason enough to tarry.

                                      rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

       A pleasant seat of a sidewalk cafe
Over mocha coffee and a crème brulee
Amidst genteel ladies and white tablecloths
And, unobstructed, a view across
An elm studded park with closely mown grass
Nestled between urban concrete and glass -
Serenity in a turbulent sea.
Why then would young mothers draw their children near,
Not for cuddling but with presence of fear?

He shuffled up the walk with seemingly no mind
Of those around who avoided a sign
That would draw his attention and likely request
For money. (In order to lessen the chance,
Avoiding eye contact works the best).

    The Downtown Salvation Mission Retreat
    Serves those of his ilk just down the street.
    By day their throngs disperse like flies
    In summer heat to shadows and shade
    And reappear as evening tides
    Pull them as cattle to trough,
    Obliged to give their souls in trade
    With prayer for another meal.

Between stocking cap and jacket collar
His face stained brown from dirt on dirt
And deep lined crevices dark from squalor
Gouged by wind and cold,
He fumbled at his pocket for a lone cigarette,
Fingers shaking with the paper matchbook,
Searching which end to strike,
Oblivious to the time he took -
A three minute ordeal for a ten second task.
And quivering lips sunken from too few teeth
Sucked as discreetly as obvious would allow
From a brown paper bag, the poor man’s flask.

    Judge him and judge him harshly,
    Whatever loves he might have known
    Lie squandered in another life
    Through no fault but his own,
    And dread from fear of tomorrow
    And sorrow over times long now gone
    Extend no further than his hour.

He paused, unaware the blight he posed
obstructing the tranquil view of those
who sipped mocha coffee over white tablecloths
and spoke of coming weather              

                                           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

     Clouds drift by
    As on parade.
    Who knows where bound
    Or whence they’re made.

    Capricious winds
    Of an unseen place,
    Swirl, then leave
    Without a trace.

    Winds and clouds
    On whimsy pass
    As precious days
    Ordained may last.   

    Unknown fates
    Our lives compose,
    Just fleeting moments
    To strut and pose.

    Only memories
    Remain to hold
    The legacy
    To be told.
   
    One generation,
    At most two,
    Remembers clouds
    And winds that blew.

                  rlkilgore

 rlkilgore@chartertn.net

Sweetness of the morning, a breath of air
Drawn and hardly noticed, if at all,
By youthful haughtiness presuming its entitlement.
Of more concern, social events of the day -
Who’s going to be with whom and what to wear.

Tomorrow’s dawn brings just another day
When its beauty is made common by endless supply.
Mortality, when all vistas extend out of sight,
Is only a word, understood without true comprehension
From urgency induced by time’s forsaking way.

Passion of the loins grudgingly releases its grasp,
Not by choice, to passion of the heart and the mind
Where yearnings are compressed against the wall of finality.
Each minute, each second, relentlessly squeezed until,
Surely, most truly cherished are breaths drawn last.

                                        rlkilgore

rlkilgore@chartertn.net

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.

          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

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

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

                                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