Like a carousel tethered to the sun,
Like a dog possessed and chasing its tail,
Hurtling into the vast abyss
Where whirling, twirling motions preside,
This earth obliges none its favor
More than air to breathe and ground to stride.
So, what of loves beyond the lust
That fashion love the sire of greed?
This world suffers naught of pride,
For it fends with issues of its own.

Of all the myriad of loves,
More hurtful than to be forsaken
Ranks the one that’s unrequited
With less given than is taken.

To entice another’s favor
Are affected virtues shown.
But truest measure of affection -
Will you miss me when I’m gone?

                                  rlkilgore

Comment to   rloykilgore@gmail.com

 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

Comment to  rlkilgore@gmail.com

A distant siren’s faintest cry waifs
In surrogate voice for one about to die.
Is that an ambulance or just the wind?
Wait, there it is again, nearer,
Louder in crescendo piercing wail.

So mundane as to warrant idle notice,
Intrusive and annoying to calloused curiosity.

Flashing lights and lettered windows hide,
Impersonalize the pain that rides inside.
And who cares, a family or friend?
And might that feeling truly be of grief,
Or rather relief, a life soon may end?

Anguish knows its limit with the dead
But honors no such boundary otherwise
For release of those who might survive,
Where tragedy lurks like a latent virus
And waits to rage when least attended.

And so the siren’s plaintive cry pales
To dull and distant whimper, out of mind,
Allowing traffic to continue.

                  rlkilgore    ]]> http://www.rlkilgore.com/2011/04/07/a-sirens-plea/feed/ 1 http://www.rlkilgore.com/2011/02/27/thoughts-on-people/ http://www.rlkilgore.com/2011/02/27/thoughts-on-people/#comments Mon, 28 Feb 2011 01:49:08 +0000 Ron http://www.rlkilgore.com/?p=924 Talking about oneself rivals baseball as the nation’s pastime. Much of poetry is a prime example. If “I” and “me” were removed from vocabulary, many would have difficulty speaking.

 A child is given birth by the parents and has nothing to give in return except love. An obedient, loving child is a joy. A disobedient, disrespectful child to the obliging parents ranges from disappointment to burden to curse.

 Perhaps life on earth is Heaven and Hell, the reward or punishment side by side. Perhaps life on earth is only Heaven (or only Hell). Most likely it is neither.

 Jesus told his disciples,”………..do this in remembrance of me.” because he understood that was the ultimate they could do for him after his death. Remembrance of those we love after they are gone, and perpetuating that memory in future generations, is the ultimate gift we can give them.

 Life is a chess match and time is our opponent.

 I have observed, with a few exceptions, the less hair a man has on the top of his head the more he wants in other places.

 The savior of religions is that they are able to take any thought or event and twist it to their own ends.

 The main difference between standing in the shower and the rain is that rain doesn’t come in the right temperature.

  I always wanted to be recognized for my looks. I didn’t know it would come in the form of a senior citizen’s discount.

 I discovered today mayonnaise doesn’t readily spread on a slice of tomato.

 Have you noticed how dogs like to smell of each other’s rear ends but they don’t like for us to blow in their faces?

If we truly believe Heaven is as we say then why do we take medicines and treatments to avoid it and why do we punish murderers for sending us there?

I wonder who started the rumor Barack Obama is smart.

Capitalism is built on the backs of laborers and the laborers are better off for it.

The flaw of socialism – if the pie is divided equally no one will bake the pie.

The rich man may have more idle time but his air conditioner isn’t any cooler or his bed any softer.

The Republicans are not the party of “No”.  The party out of power is the party of “No”.

Prayer seems akin to having an imaginary friend.  There is nothing wrong with having someone to talk to, someone who will listen without interrupting.

The veracity of the deity is not as important as the strength of faith.  Faith is the reality.

The sarcasm and derision directed toward Christianity today by entertainers and the media, often disguised as humor or art, is actually a degree of persecution which Christianity has endured since its inception.

I suspect, no matter how obnoxious or offensive, every person considers himself or herself a misunderstood good guy.

                                                                   rlkilgore

comment to   rloykilgore@gmail.com

Oh, gentlewoman, how could you?

                          rlkilgore

Comment to    rloykilgore@gmail.com

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, 

        judgmental,
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.

                            rlkilgore

 comment to  rloykilgore@gmail.com

                              rlkilgore

                  (To Toressa – After 44 Years)

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.

rloykilgore@gmail.com

Inconvenient downpour interrupts

Play of the little fellow sitting

On the floor, pouting because

The swing outside hangs slack.

He sees through eyes of the moment,

Not knowing somewhere sits

Another boy whose father works

In the store where the handy man

Buys groceries with money

He earns mowing our lawn

Nourished by the rain.

                                   rlkilgore

comment at:   rlkilgore@chartertn.net